When I was in high school, I first saw David's painting The Death of Marat with the murdered revolutionary in a bathtub. I recall reading that Marat spent so much time in the bath because of a skin condition. In the painting, Marat is holding a letter and a pen and alongside his tub is a makeshift writing desk.
We'd been studying the French Revolution and had seen far gorier art - I guess that's my excuse for focusing not on the poor dead man but instead on the fact that he'd been writing in the bathtub. I instantly coveted his tub desk and when I got home from school that day, I went hunting for the Amazon.com of the 80's - our Sears & Roebuck catalogue. I'd certainly spent more time than my family appreciated reading books in the bathtub, but now I could write? Heck ya.
Before I could find where the catalogue had gone to rest after the five of us kids had abused it circling our desired Christmas presents (using different-colored markers, of course), I realized I could just drag one of the kitchen stools into the bathroom and have a little tubside desk, not unlike the unfortunate Marat. Few and far between were the times I could claim the bathroom to myself long enough to enjoy reading -- and writing -- in the bathtub. Somehow this is STILL far too rare!
That painting of Marat was the first thing to mind as I grabbed the laptop, a few books, my journal, and a TV tray and dragged them into the bathroom along with Gu Roctane electrolyte mix (Strawberry lemonade! nothing red, blue, or purple!) AND, dun dun dun, the GaviLyte prep for tomorrow's colonoscopy. Ahh, yes, the title, the references... all coming together. As I come apart! Just when I started to worry the stuff wouldn't work, my tummy made a rumble. Don't worry. It works.
Why am I writing about colonoscopy prep? Because getting screened for cancer is important and we should normalize it. Yes, a colonoscopy involves something going up your butt. Yes, the prep involves systemic diarrhea. For hours. And? Prostate exams involve penis-handling, mammograms involve boob-smashing, none of this is particularly fun. You know what's less fun? Yeah, you do.
A few years ago, my insurance company reduced the age at which they pay for screening colonoscopies from 50 to 45. I'm 48 and thought, why wait to get in on the fun? I'm kidding. Both my primary doc and my OBGYN recommended I have one and both said if it were up to them, everyone would start at 45.
I think in years past, the process was quite a bit more unpleasant. (Because this is not a big deal, what I'm - umm, experiencing right now? It's just like peeing. Except from the butt. And without any warning. Not a good time to go anywhere at all. Channeling Marat.)
I've never been particularly nervous about it. For one, I've heard Bill Engvall's comedy bit about his first colonoscopy and if you haven't? DO. It's very funny. More important --more influential -- is my friend C* who has been getting them since she was younger due to family history. She was very frank and shared all the details that she was awake to report. She said she considers it like "a spa day," because it's recommended you just go home afterwards and rest. Her husband waits on her the afternoon / evening after she has hers and she does the same for him when he has his. Probably not something they put on the family holiday card, but still.... awwww.
I'm going to take a moment to assure you that the hands typing on the laptop have not been anywhere near the toilet, other than an occasional mercy flush, followed by a quick shot of hand sanitizer. I will stop typing before I start any cleanup process. Which is probably pointless to begin anytime soon. I just really needed to say that because um... gross.
The CaringBridge blog was always candid and I hope I always write that way, especially about medical stuff, but also about feelings stuff. Yes, you got "peeing from the butt," and you also get **YAY BONUS NERVES ** because it's that time of year - irregular mammogram anniversary. End of June through the first 10 days of July is the time frame around a doctor's appointment for what ended up being a heart murmur diagnosis. That appointment ended with a nurse noting my file that showed it had been 3 years since my last mammogram, so "Let's get that scheduled, shall we?"
I have been back to that doctor and the nurse on duty helped me figure out which nurse it was. She was there that day and I got to say thank you. THERE WERE TEARS.
From that mammogram was another, then an ultrasound, then a needle biopsy, and on 7/7 I think, lucky 7, the cancer diagnosis. So in my head it's this time of year these things get diagnosed (I know, that's stupid) and breast cancer is one thing but colon cancer is totally different. Not so many success stories. A few years ago, colon cancer took my dear colleague Nancy Rase at 35, and a healthier, more vibrant, more lovely person you'd be hard-pressed to find.
Because there wasn't cancer in my family, I never worried about screenings before. A mammogram was just a boob-smash. Now I am the cancer in my family. I'm a box everyone close to me has to check on every medical form, forever. And even though having one kind of cancer doesn't mean I'm more likely to get any other kind of cancer, well, I don't know, it feels that way anyway. Having something inside you that wants to kill you is scary. That it might be there without you knowing it... terrifying.
So that's why we screen, to know. It's a privilege, to have insurance that pays for this procedure, for this knowledge. This chance for me to say, at least once every 5 years, that I am totally, truly, not full of shit.
XO go schedule yours.
Tuesday, July 2, 2019
Sunday, June 16, 2019
Race Report - DK Kanza 100
Spoiler alert: I finished and am currently not dead. Yay!
My first gravel century -- 104.6 miles to be precise -- and while "riding time" was 10mph, that's not what counts in a gravel race. Total time is the key measure and mine averaged, ulp, over 12mph. Sheesh, though, I ain't mad. I have the data, including splits; I know what I need to improve.
The DK offers chipped timing -- a chip is imbedded in the bike tag -- so a rider's time doesn't start until that bike rolls over a pad at the starting line. This is especially appreciated in a race with 3,000 participants -- it hardly matters that I started about 15 minutes late! Nerves!
I've realized my first 5-10 miles I remain a bundle of nerves. It takes me awhile to calm down and get into a groove. Once I did, I was feeling pretty good. I stopped a few times early on to check on some solo riders who were stopped at the side of the road. I knew I was at the very back of the pack and I hadn't yet seen a support vehicle. Once I'd been riding awhile I came across the sweep Jeep loading up some riders who were calling it quits, I felt better just calling to a "you OK?" to riders on the side of the road, and I kept rolling. You don't get on the podium stopping to help people in a race, but I was many hours behind anyone who was going to be on that podium, and some of the people stopped really looked like they might need help. But I admit, even early on I started to worry about that midpoint time DQ. (My line was going to be "you don't get on the podium stopping to help people, but you don't get into Heaven ignoring people who need help" which I think is cute but not really what I'm trying to say.)
When I checked in at mile 54, the halfway point at Council Grove, I was happy to learn the checkpoint wouldn't close for another 25 minutes -- I'd made it! There were kids at the entrance with their hands out for high fives and this 5 or 6-year old little dude said "GOOD JOB" to each one of us. I had all of that 25 minutes, if I wanted, to rest, refuel, and relieve myself -- the last in a flushing toilet, a luxury on an endurance ride.
I hadn't even dismounted when a volunteer appeared to take my bike and offer to refill my water bottles and bring me a PB & J, a banana, a pickle, and a Payday bar. YES PLEASE. I sat at a picnic table in the shade and put my feet up on the bench. Dirty legs but I didn't see any swelling or other alarms. It was delightful to be handed water bottles & hydration pack freshly filled with delicious cool water. I was glad I'd packed an extra water bottle in my drop bag, because I'd run out about 10 miles before the checkpoint. It was turning into a much warmer day than anything I'd trained in, because we simply hadn't had more than a few warm days yet this year.
Drop bags can come in many forms, but in general, it's a small bag you pack yourself and leave at registration for use at a checkpoint. Checkpoints may or may not have anything other than water - NEVER ASSUME! so the drop bags are a way you can have snacks, electrolyte powder, extra chamois butter, fresh socks, a Rick Springfield poster -- whatever you think you might need at that point. For the DK 100, there's one checkpoint, for longer rides, there are usually more, and you designate bags for that particular point in your ride. Checkpoints are the only place a support person can help you. Any help out on the course that's not "neutral," i.e., available for all riders, like the AMAZING FARMER WHO HAD CHAIRS & SHADE SET UP BY HER COLD WELL WATER PUMP AND THE SIGN "FREE WATER FOR RIDERS" oh yeah I'm still so grateful for that - anything not at a checkpoint that's not offered to all will get a rider disqualified.
As the checkpoint announced, "FIVE MINUTE WARNING!" I filled up my bottle again and prepared to mount up. A woman rolled in and learned she had 5 minutes to roll back out over that checkpoint pad or she'd be DQ'd. Her face just absolutely fell and she looked so beat - but only for a moment, because she was instantly swarmed with volunteers who pulled the pack from her shoulders and the bottles from her cages; they were an Indy 500 pit crew, efficient and supportive, handing her a banana and tucking Payday bars and squares of PB & J sandwich into the feed bag on her handlebars and telling her gently but firmly she'd be better off peeing out on the course somewhere than risking DQ trying to get out and back into sweaty bike clothes in the bathroom. As I rolled out she was back on her bike and getting a hug as the bottles were stuck back in their cages and the freshly-filled hydration pack was ready for her to grab - the checkpoint volunteers cheered as she rode back over the pad with a minute to spare. (Another spoiler: her name is Jennifer, I had a chance to chat with her a few other times on the course AND I saw her the next morning -- she finished too!)
The reader pads are not only at the start and finish, but also at a point a few miles from the finish, which alerts the finish line team to the race order coming into the chute. They always like knowing the order for the lead riders, right? They get the crowd pumped up and the people get excited hearing who is in front and which riders are right on their tails. When riders enter the chute, Jim announces name, event (200, 100, 50) and home town (and the crowd goes wild!)
The chute is this amazing corridor protecting the riders as we barrel to the finish, and it's lined on both sides with the whole town standing and cheering like crazy, banging away on cowbells with adults and kids alike holding out hands for high fives from incoming riders. I mean, I was HOURS after the first place group and the cheers and welcomes and high fives were still there for me.
Food trucks and other booths are in the streets and the whole town comes out for the party. Dirty, sweaty riders mingle in the crowd, proudly sporting "finisher" tags and hang over the chute, chugging water or chocolate milk or beer and stuffing their (our) faces with walking tacos while cheering in other riders. It's a good idea to keep moving, to keep legs from getting stiff, but at some point it's time to head back to the motel for a shower and sleep. It's a big giant party for DK and as tired as we are, it's hard to leave.
I'd like to share my gear & clothing notes in a separate post but will include here a few things I learned. First: I'm a goddamned rock star, Haha, who wrote that? In all seriousness, I found the pain and then I found the strength and will to push past it. I simply wasn't going to give in. A great bike in top form saved me. Cold well water saved me. Finding Salsa's "Chase the Chaise" chaise / photo op at mile 80 inspired me out of a very low point. Remembering words of encouragement and support from coaches and friends buoyed me.
I found that my bike geometry isn't quite right, because my lower back & triceps were hurting more than anything else by the end, along with my feet. My right tricep just totally gave up and would not support my upper body weight - this with 6 tough miles left in the race. Because I'm missing important abdominal muscles, I need those arms to hold me up. So those last 6 miles took me over an hour because I tried to ride flat sections one-handed and stopped multiple times to rest and stretch and massage my arms.
I may need to use different shoes for my next century. I love my snazzy teal Specialized kicks, but my feet went from sore to painful to numb toward the end. There's a tradeoff between power (super rigid soles that transfer leg power to pedal power) and comfort. And... I think I have plantar fasciitis.
The biggest thing I learned was how to push through discomfort, pain, and the voice in my head that whispers I have no business being there. Two things in particular were those pushers: 1 - my absolute unwillingness to disappoint my Camp DK coaches and 2 - Wendi Shearer's parting words as I reluctantly rolled away from her.
Wendi is an incredibly strong rider and a very nice person. She'd had a catastrophic mechanical failure that was unfixable on course. Her race, a second year attempting the DK 200, for which she'd trained, prepped, and planned for a year, was over. She knew I'd also attempted the 200 in 2018, and she knew that on good advice, I'd reduced my sights to the 100 this year. We talked and offered each other snacks for a few minutes before she encouraged me to go on, saying, "Finish for both of us."
I did, Wendi. Thanks to you and Kristi and Kristen and Nick and Curt, to Aaron and Treva and Brigit and Sarah, to Jim and Lelan and all the organizers, coaches, volunteers fo Dirty Kanza and to the welcoming citizens of Emporia, especially Emmy E and also the guy I talked to at the bar who just moved there and was like, "WTF dude this shit is crazy," I did, I finished. I motherfucking did.
My first gravel century -- 104.6 miles to be precise -- and while "riding time" was 10mph, that's not what counts in a gravel race. Total time is the key measure and mine averaged, ulp, over 12mph. Sheesh, though, I ain't mad. I have the data, including splits; I know what I need to improve.
The DK offers chipped timing -- a chip is imbedded in the bike tag -- so a rider's time doesn't start until that bike rolls over a pad at the starting line. This is especially appreciated in a race with 3,000 participants -- it hardly matters that I started about 15 minutes late! Nerves!
I've realized my first 5-10 miles I remain a bundle of nerves. It takes me awhile to calm down and get into a groove. Once I did, I was feeling pretty good. I stopped a few times early on to check on some solo riders who were stopped at the side of the road. I knew I was at the very back of the pack and I hadn't yet seen a support vehicle. Once I'd been riding awhile I came across the sweep Jeep loading up some riders who were calling it quits, I felt better just calling to a "you OK?" to riders on the side of the road, and I kept rolling. You don't get on the podium stopping to help people in a race, but I was many hours behind anyone who was going to be on that podium, and some of the people stopped really looked like they might need help. But I admit, even early on I started to worry about that midpoint time DQ. (My line was going to be "you don't get on the podium stopping to help people, but you don't get into Heaven ignoring people who need help" which I think is cute but not really what I'm trying to say.)
When I checked in at mile 54, the halfway point at Council Grove, I was happy to learn the checkpoint wouldn't close for another 25 minutes -- I'd made it! There were kids at the entrance with their hands out for high fives and this 5 or 6-year old little dude said "GOOD JOB" to each one of us. I had all of that 25 minutes, if I wanted, to rest, refuel, and relieve myself -- the last in a flushing toilet, a luxury on an endurance ride.
I hadn't even dismounted when a volunteer appeared to take my bike and offer to refill my water bottles and bring me a PB & J, a banana, a pickle, and a Payday bar. YES PLEASE. I sat at a picnic table in the shade and put my feet up on the bench. Dirty legs but I didn't see any swelling or other alarms. It was delightful to be handed water bottles & hydration pack freshly filled with delicious cool water. I was glad I'd packed an extra water bottle in my drop bag, because I'd run out about 10 miles before the checkpoint. It was turning into a much warmer day than anything I'd trained in, because we simply hadn't had more than a few warm days yet this year.
Drop bags can come in many forms, but in general, it's a small bag you pack yourself and leave at registration for use at a checkpoint. Checkpoints may or may not have anything other than water - NEVER ASSUME! so the drop bags are a way you can have snacks, electrolyte powder, extra chamois butter, fresh socks, a Rick Springfield poster -- whatever you think you might need at that point. For the DK 100, there's one checkpoint, for longer rides, there are usually more, and you designate bags for that particular point in your ride. Checkpoints are the only place a support person can help you. Any help out on the course that's not "neutral," i.e., available for all riders, like the AMAZING FARMER WHO HAD CHAIRS & SHADE SET UP BY HER COLD WELL WATER PUMP AND THE SIGN "FREE WATER FOR RIDERS" oh yeah I'm still so grateful for that - anything not at a checkpoint that's not offered to all will get a rider disqualified.
As the checkpoint announced, "FIVE MINUTE WARNING!" I filled up my bottle again and prepared to mount up. A woman rolled in and learned she had 5 minutes to roll back out over that checkpoint pad or she'd be DQ'd. Her face just absolutely fell and she looked so beat - but only for a moment, because she was instantly swarmed with volunteers who pulled the pack from her shoulders and the bottles from her cages; they were an Indy 500 pit crew, efficient and supportive, handing her a banana and tucking Payday bars and squares of PB & J sandwich into the feed bag on her handlebars and telling her gently but firmly she'd be better off peeing out on the course somewhere than risking DQ trying to get out and back into sweaty bike clothes in the bathroom. As I rolled out she was back on her bike and getting a hug as the bottles were stuck back in their cages and the freshly-filled hydration pack was ready for her to grab - the checkpoint volunteers cheered as she rode back over the pad with a minute to spare. (Another spoiler: her name is Jennifer, I had a chance to chat with her a few other times on the course AND I saw her the next morning -- she finished too!)
The reader pads are not only at the start and finish, but also at a point a few miles from the finish, which alerts the finish line team to the race order coming into the chute. They always like knowing the order for the lead riders, right? They get the crowd pumped up and the people get excited hearing who is in front and which riders are right on their tails. When riders enter the chute, Jim announces name, event (200, 100, 50) and home town (and the crowd goes wild!)
The chute is this amazing corridor protecting the riders as we barrel to the finish, and it's lined on both sides with the whole town standing and cheering like crazy, banging away on cowbells with adults and kids alike holding out hands for high fives from incoming riders. I mean, I was HOURS after the first place group and the cheers and welcomes and high fives were still there for me.
Food trucks and other booths are in the streets and the whole town comes out for the party. Dirty, sweaty riders mingle in the crowd, proudly sporting "finisher" tags and hang over the chute, chugging water or chocolate milk or beer and stuffing their (our) faces with walking tacos while cheering in other riders. It's a good idea to keep moving, to keep legs from getting stiff, but at some point it's time to head back to the motel for a shower and sleep. It's a big giant party for DK and as tired as we are, it's hard to leave.
I'd like to share my gear & clothing notes in a separate post but will include here a few things I learned. First: I'm a goddamned rock star, Haha, who wrote that? In all seriousness, I found the pain and then I found the strength and will to push past it. I simply wasn't going to give in. A great bike in top form saved me. Cold well water saved me. Finding Salsa's "Chase the Chaise" chaise / photo op at mile 80 inspired me out of a very low point. Remembering words of encouragement and support from coaches and friends buoyed me.
I found that my bike geometry isn't quite right, because my lower back & triceps were hurting more than anything else by the end, along with my feet. My right tricep just totally gave up and would not support my upper body weight - this with 6 tough miles left in the race. Because I'm missing important abdominal muscles, I need those arms to hold me up. So those last 6 miles took me over an hour because I tried to ride flat sections one-handed and stopped multiple times to rest and stretch and massage my arms.
I may need to use different shoes for my next century. I love my snazzy teal Specialized kicks, but my feet went from sore to painful to numb toward the end. There's a tradeoff between power (super rigid soles that transfer leg power to pedal power) and comfort. And... I think I have plantar fasciitis.
The biggest thing I learned was how to push through discomfort, pain, and the voice in my head that whispers I have no business being there. Two things in particular were those pushers: 1 - my absolute unwillingness to disappoint my Camp DK coaches and 2 - Wendi Shearer's parting words as I reluctantly rolled away from her.
Wendi is an incredibly strong rider and a very nice person. She'd had a catastrophic mechanical failure that was unfixable on course. Her race, a second year attempting the DK 200, for which she'd trained, prepped, and planned for a year, was over. She knew I'd also attempted the 200 in 2018, and she knew that on good advice, I'd reduced my sights to the 100 this year. We talked and offered each other snacks for a few minutes before she encouraged me to go on, saying, "Finish for both of us."
I did, Wendi. Thanks to you and Kristi and Kristen and Nick and Curt, to Aaron and Treva and Brigit and Sarah, to Jim and Lelan and all the organizers, coaches, volunteers fo Dirty Kanza and to the welcoming citizens of Emporia, especially Emmy E and also the guy I talked to at the bar who just moved there and was like, "WTF dude this shit is crazy," I did, I finished. I motherfucking did.
Friday, May 31, 2019
Skin
Grief, loss, and scary illness make holes in you and I don't think some of them ever close up. They get smaller, maybe, if you're lucky.
I think I've been expecting and waiting for healing and wow, it's slow. Maybe when there are too many holes all at once, it just takes longer. Or I try to work on closing one hole while another, neglected, hangs gaping, leaking.
If you injure yourself badly enough, a surgeon may call for a graft to cover up that opening and let it heal beneath. I think I've done that to a fault - covering up. I say to a fault like it's a bad thing, but maybe it's not?
So I lay a sheet of skin over this hole and then stretch it a little thinner to cover that hole. Maybe the skin is just getting up and going to work. Maybe it's smiling when I only want to cry. Fixing grilled salmon for supper when I want to wallow in frozen pizza rolls and mashed potatoes. Maybe it's deciding to be happy for someone else - just... deciding until sincerity takes hold. A happiness graft.
I have to be in a safe place for these grafts to work and those holes to heal. I frequently don't feel strong enough to face others in my current reality. I back out of classes and commitments more than I did before I got sick. When I was sick, I backed out of EVERYTHING with zero guilt. Now... I'm feeling some guilt.
Riding my bike is the best thing for me, hands down, all around, short-term, long-term, mental and physical health, and competition inspires me to Get After It ! But training takes time, time away from kids and others I care about, time away from speaking & writing gigs, from helping Dad at the cabin, time away from studying and making art and housework and the yard and and and AND AND!
Just this moment I got a passive aggressive text from Noah's dad. It says "he is fine." You know why I got that? Because I didn't call Noah yesterday. He's with his Dad while I've been on a 1-day work trip to Texas (home at midnight but yes, of course I could have called from a Texas or Illinois airport) and will be with him this weekend as I head south for the Dirty Kanza. "He is fine" is his dad's little jibe; we both know it. I'm sure Noah is fine. School got out less than a week ago. If he's even up out of bed, he's happily eating cereal and playing the latest PSwhatever game system and probably doesn't remember he has a mother right now.
Sigh.
Biking is my safe place, though I suffer more than ever from imposter syndrome these days. I'm slow, I'm fat, I quit when it hurts too much, I'm scared of loose gravel and descents, I don't deserve to be here! Other people feel this way, right?
Funny, I was thinking recently that I don't need to feel like such a LLOOOOOOSERRRR because I am pretty damn good at something else, that I have this other place where I belong because I have some success at speechwriting and public speaking. I knew at Camp DK I had speech competitions coming up and would be, once again, with Toastmasters, among people I admire and respect who respect me too, a place I feel welcome and safe. Yes, there were a few individuals, one shiny bitch in particular, who seemed actively dedicated to doing me ill, but they were the exception, not the rule. But sometimes the communities that seem the most benign hide crocodiles under the water. I'm going to call it PTSD because a therapist did, though I shudder to compare myself to a combat soldier. PTSD for me means I find myself no longer emotionally safe and I freeze and panic and sweat, I lose sleep and cry and my mind goes blank. I was shocked and shaken to learn that's become true in Toastmasters.
Listen, I know I'm not the person I used to be. I have lost too much, opened too many holes, and as I'm slapping skin over them and stuffing distractions or martinis and pizza rolls into them, you can raise your eyebrows all you want about "emotionally safe" and whether you think that's a real thing. But I am telling you, I am trying to survive here. It's terrible that a few people or a person ruins an experience that should be an open and welcoming place for all, but I am just not strong enough to take it. I'll stay on with the club for awhile, but no way am I ripping open holes to return to district level anything. So there you go, I'm calling it: I won't be competing for the World Championship in Paris in 2020. Y'all go get it.
So, biking it is. Biking gravel, where I've literally left skin in the game, er, on the ground. And speaking of that, I'm late for Emporia where I am more welcome and loved crossing that finish line DFL - Dead Fucking Last - than I am holding a first place trophy in Toastmasters.
And I can freaking call my kid on the drive.
I think I've been expecting and waiting for healing and wow, it's slow. Maybe when there are too many holes all at once, it just takes longer. Or I try to work on closing one hole while another, neglected, hangs gaping, leaking.
If you injure yourself badly enough, a surgeon may call for a graft to cover up that opening and let it heal beneath. I think I've done that to a fault - covering up. I say to a fault like it's a bad thing, but maybe it's not?
So I lay a sheet of skin over this hole and then stretch it a little thinner to cover that hole. Maybe the skin is just getting up and going to work. Maybe it's smiling when I only want to cry. Fixing grilled salmon for supper when I want to wallow in frozen pizza rolls and mashed potatoes. Maybe it's deciding to be happy for someone else - just... deciding until sincerity takes hold. A happiness graft.
I have to be in a safe place for these grafts to work and those holes to heal. I frequently don't feel strong enough to face others in my current reality. I back out of classes and commitments more than I did before I got sick. When I was sick, I backed out of EVERYTHING with zero guilt. Now... I'm feeling some guilt.
Riding my bike is the best thing for me, hands down, all around, short-term, long-term, mental and physical health, and competition inspires me to Get After It ! But training takes time, time away from kids and others I care about, time away from speaking & writing gigs, from helping Dad at the cabin, time away from studying and making art and housework and the yard and and and AND AND!
Just this moment I got a passive aggressive text from Noah's dad. It says "he is fine." You know why I got that? Because I didn't call Noah yesterday. He's with his Dad while I've been on a 1-day work trip to Texas (home at midnight but yes, of course I could have called from a Texas or Illinois airport) and will be with him this weekend as I head south for the Dirty Kanza. "He is fine" is his dad's little jibe; we both know it. I'm sure Noah is fine. School got out less than a week ago. If he's even up out of bed, he's happily eating cereal and playing the latest PSwhatever game system and probably doesn't remember he has a mother right now.
Sigh.
Biking is my safe place, though I suffer more than ever from imposter syndrome these days. I'm slow, I'm fat, I quit when it hurts too much, I'm scared of loose gravel and descents, I don't deserve to be here! Other people feel this way, right?
Funny, I was thinking recently that I don't need to feel like such a LLOOOOOOSERRRR because I am pretty damn good at something else, that I have this other place where I belong because I have some success at speechwriting and public speaking. I knew at Camp DK I had speech competitions coming up and would be, once again, with Toastmasters, among people I admire and respect who respect me too, a place I feel welcome and safe. Yes, there were a few individuals, one shiny bitch in particular, who seemed actively dedicated to doing me ill, but they were the exception, not the rule. But sometimes the communities that seem the most benign hide crocodiles under the water. I'm going to call it PTSD because a therapist did, though I shudder to compare myself to a combat soldier. PTSD for me means I find myself no longer emotionally safe and I freeze and panic and sweat, I lose sleep and cry and my mind goes blank. I was shocked and shaken to learn that's become true in Toastmasters.
Listen, I know I'm not the person I used to be. I have lost too much, opened too many holes, and as I'm slapping skin over them and stuffing distractions or martinis and pizza rolls into them, you can raise your eyebrows all you want about "emotionally safe" and whether you think that's a real thing. But I am telling you, I am trying to survive here. It's terrible that a few people or a person ruins an experience that should be an open and welcoming place for all, but I am just not strong enough to take it. I'll stay on with the club for awhile, but no way am I ripping open holes to return to district level anything. So there you go, I'm calling it: I won't be competing for the World Championship in Paris in 2020. Y'all go get it.
So, biking it is. Biking gravel, where I've literally left skin in the game, er, on the ground. And speaking of that, I'm late for Emporia where I am more welcome and loved crossing that finish line DFL - Dead Fucking Last - than I am holding a first place trophy in Toastmasters.
And I can freaking call my kid on the drive.
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Life as a Daring Adventure
"Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable." Helen Keller
Sometimes just turning my face is all the bravery I can muster.
But sometimes I have a little more in the tank. I do know how to dig in and hang on, and sometimes I can push and do. I am inordinately proud to report I have stuck to my Kanza 100 training plan since I started it last Wednesday.
Oh yeah, the, uh, 100. I'm not done feeling ashamed - and you can say what you like about how I ought or ought not feel - for dropping from the 200 to the 100-mile gravel race in June.
I know, I know it's the right thing to do, and yeah, I do want to actually finish a freaking race for ONCE since 2015's Half-Jackrabbit (in which I was not DFL thank you very much, thanks to riding partner TS who saw the cowbells and photogs lined up at the finish and tucked in behind me, thechicken gentleman. Because they weren't there to cheer the DFL, the Dead Fucking Last, oh no. We were such slow riders, they thought we were the first finishers from the full course, rather than the last finishers on the half course.)
A photograph from the Half-Rabbit has been my iPhone background screen since 2015. It was my first gravel race; I had no idea it would be the only I'd ever finish for YEARS. I'm not changing it until I finish another race. Kanza 100 could be it.
Trying to be pumped, I am, I am. I AM. I rode my training hours last week on the trainer in front of days of a Game of Thrones marathon, but I rode them ALL, including the intervals (short higher-paced segments with shorter prescribed rest segments in between).
I modified the training plan since I jumped into a 12-week plan with 8 weeks before the race. (Admitting that to the race director last week was the final straw she needed to encourage me to switch from 200 to 100. AND SHE WAS RIGHT. BUT I GET TO BE SAD ANYWAY. BECAUSEI SUCK MY BODY SUCKS IS FREQUENTLY UNCOOPERATIVE.)
The training plan is set up in hours and pace according to perceived effort, not in miles or miles per hour - and it's so much better for me, a very slow rider, this way. My speed will improve with the interval training. I'm not racing against anyone but myself this year, yes, for this whole YEAR. This isn't training for a podium finish, people, just for a finish. And a new background photo on my flippin' iPhone. That might just be taken in Emporia.
Sometimes just turning my face is all the bravery I can muster.
But sometimes I have a little more in the tank. I do know how to dig in and hang on, and sometimes I can push and do. I am inordinately proud to report I have stuck to my Kanza 100 training plan since I started it last Wednesday.
Oh yeah, the, uh, 100. I'm not done feeling ashamed - and you can say what you like about how I ought or ought not feel - for dropping from the 200 to the 100-mile gravel race in June.
I know, I know it's the right thing to do, and yeah, I do want to actually finish a freaking race for ONCE since 2015's Half-Jackrabbit (in which I was not DFL thank you very much, thanks to riding partner TS who saw the cowbells and photogs lined up at the finish and tucked in behind me, the
A photograph from the Half-Rabbit has been my iPhone background screen since 2015. It was my first gravel race; I had no idea it would be the only I'd ever finish for YEARS. I'm not changing it until I finish another race. Kanza 100 could be it.
Trying to be pumped, I am, I am. I AM. I rode my training hours last week on the trainer in front of days of a Game of Thrones marathon, but I rode them ALL, including the intervals (short higher-paced segments with shorter prescribed rest segments in between).
I modified the training plan since I jumped into a 12-week plan with 8 weeks before the race. (Admitting that to the race director last week was the final straw she needed to encourage me to switch from 200 to 100. AND SHE WAS RIGHT. BUT I GET TO BE SAD ANYWAY. BECAUSE
The training plan is set up in hours and pace according to perceived effort, not in miles or miles per hour - and it's so much better for me, a very slow rider, this way. My speed will improve with the interval training. I'm not racing against anyone but myself this year, yes, for this whole YEAR. This isn't training for a podium finish, people, just for a finish. And a new background photo on my flippin' iPhone. That might just be taken in Emporia.
Sunday, April 14, 2019
"It's All Mental"
For once, I'll get right to the lede: if it's all mental, then we're bigger failures than we thought. And I'm saying "we" when I mean "I" because it seems gentler I guess?
If succeeding, if finishing a very challenging physical task like a gravel century is more mental then physical, if it's, as many say, "all mental," and I [don't choose to]* finish, then it's not because my body can't do it, oh no, it's because I'm a mental weakling, or lazy, or just not dedicated or determined enough.
*[because another thing they say is there's no such thing as "can't"]
As if dealing with the physical shortcomings weren't overwhelming in itself, we're going to tell people they just didn't try hard enough? Can we not?
The "truth" coming from any elite athlete about what it takes to finish 200 miles and 6,000' of gravel in 22 hours or less isn't Truth -- it's an anecdote, a personal truth from an elite athlete. The people who finish that kind of race are a subset of the general population and they are a physically healthy subset who has physically trained for that race. So I don't care if 99% of the finishers tell you the same thing - that finishing Dirty Kanza -- or finishing a Death Valley marathon, or climbing Denali, or hey, how about beating fucking cancer? -- is all mental. You are hearing from the winners, those who were physically strong or fit enough to survive, and their opinions are skewed.
I don't know what I'm so mad about except that I feel ashamed with no one to blame but myself. I knew or should have known that attending the gravel camp in my current state would be an exercise in humiliation. It was a long winter with minimal riding, I'm still trying to manage this tremendous weight gain, and wow was that extremely unfortunate timing with the labial tear/abscess.
Not only did I drive 6 hours and spend vacation time and hotel money to attend, what I left behind while gallivanting about the Flint Hills with the celebrities of gravel was a weekend helping address flood damage at the cabin - a place I was needed and would have been appreciated instead of embarrassing myself -- the fat girl at camp, watching her portion sizes at the buffet because everyone else is.
Maybe it won't sound like I mean it, but the camp is truly top-notch, excellent as long as you're in physical shape to keep up. I wasn't, and that's on me and not the camp. I guess I'll save my glowing recommendation for another post; it may fall flat in this one.
I acknowledge the self-flagellation here. I rode almost 100 miles of tough Kansas gravel over the 3 days, I worked hard. But the schedule was 200. And once again I was miles behind the group with the camp assigning me essentially my own ride guide because I am so fucking slow, taking that guide from the group.
Those who finished their century on Saturday were celebrated, no matter how late they came in (as well they should be !) One man crashed at the bottom of a tricky descent, splitting his helmet and knocking himself out about mile 50. He was taken to the ER, checked out, and returned, at his request, to the halfway point to finish his ride in a borrowed helmet. Which he did. He's 60 years old, by the way, but with the calves of a climber. You know that insurance commercial with the cyclist who's insured his legs? Like that.
I am down. Well, I WAS down, but something has grown from rumination over it and this post over these past several days since returning home.
I realize more than ever that I am the right person to write the blog I want to write, this very one about a regular human trying hard, getting knocked down, and then trying again just to get on her bike and make the wheels go 'round. And I mean a real regular human, not an athlete or a celebrity or a pretty, clever thing. Just me.
Well shit, I guess I buried the lede after all.
If succeeding, if finishing a very challenging physical task like a gravel century is more mental then physical, if it's, as many say, "all mental," and I [don't choose to]* finish, then it's not because my body can't do it, oh no, it's because I'm a mental weakling, or lazy, or just not dedicated or determined enough.
*[because another thing they say is there's no such thing as "can't"]
As if dealing with the physical shortcomings weren't overwhelming in itself, we're going to tell people they just didn't try hard enough? Can we not?
The "truth" coming from any elite athlete about what it takes to finish 200 miles and 6,000' of gravel in 22 hours or less isn't Truth -- it's an anecdote, a personal truth from an elite athlete. The people who finish that kind of race are a subset of the general population and they are a physically healthy subset who has physically trained for that race. So I don't care if 99% of the finishers tell you the same thing - that finishing Dirty Kanza -- or finishing a Death Valley marathon, or climbing Denali, or hey, how about beating fucking cancer? -- is all mental. You are hearing from the winners, those who were physically strong or fit enough to survive, and their opinions are skewed.
I don't know what I'm so mad about except that I feel ashamed with no one to blame but myself. I knew or should have known that attending the gravel camp in my current state would be an exercise in humiliation. It was a long winter with minimal riding, I'm still trying to manage this tremendous weight gain, and wow was that extremely unfortunate timing with the labial tear/abscess.
Not only did I drive 6 hours and spend vacation time and hotel money to attend, what I left behind while gallivanting about the Flint Hills with the celebrities of gravel was a weekend helping address flood damage at the cabin - a place I was needed and would have been appreciated instead of embarrassing myself -- the fat girl at camp, watching her portion sizes at the buffet because everyone else is.
Maybe it won't sound like I mean it, but the camp is truly top-notch, excellent as long as you're in physical shape to keep up. I wasn't, and that's on me and not the camp. I guess I'll save my glowing recommendation for another post; it may fall flat in this one.
I acknowledge the self-flagellation here. I rode almost 100 miles of tough Kansas gravel over the 3 days, I worked hard. But the schedule was 200. And once again I was miles behind the group with the camp assigning me essentially my own ride guide because I am so fucking slow, taking that guide from the group.
Those who finished their century on Saturday were celebrated, no matter how late they came in (as well they should be !) One man crashed at the bottom of a tricky descent, splitting his helmet and knocking himself out about mile 50. He was taken to the ER, checked out, and returned, at his request, to the halfway point to finish his ride in a borrowed helmet. Which he did. He's 60 years old, by the way, but with the calves of a climber. You know that insurance commercial with the cyclist who's insured his legs? Like that.
I am down. Well, I WAS down, but something has grown from rumination over it and this post over these past several days since returning home.
I realize more than ever that I am the right person to write the blog I want to write, this very one about a regular human trying hard, getting knocked down, and then trying again just to get on her bike and make the wheels go 'round. And I mean a real regular human, not an athlete or a celebrity or a pretty, clever thing. Just me.
Well shit, I guess I buried the lede after all.
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
It's April ! You know what that means?
April is. . . the Official Month of Missed Deadlines?
No! (or at least, Not Only That!) 30 Days of Biking has begun!
I've already missed my potential April 1st bike ride and my planned April 1st blog post, so... right on schedule, I'm late.
I have a FABULOUS excuse for not riding in that I'm technically not cleared to? Though Dr. G acknowledged it wasn't her area of expertise, she still tossed off a "2 weeks off the bike" recommendation for healing; tomorrow just makes one week. Close enough! I am going to try - *try* - a few minutes on the trainer this evening and we'll see how it goes. TBH, I'm nervous because what's coming this weekend with Camp DK (200 miles of Kansas Flint Hills gravel over 3 days, 50/100/50) is no joke.
Let's talk about 30 Days of Biking, because I think this is a truly wonderful program with benefits to riders of all levels.
This is a program started by a couple of dudes in Minneapolis who wanted to spread the joy of biking. Simple as that. Along the way, they raise money for charity and this year it's World Bicycle Relief, which provides sturdy bicycles AND bicycle repair training for young people and adults in developing countries. (Google "buffalo bicycle" or check out WBR 's site - good stuff.)
www.30DaysofBiking.com is the site when you're ready to "make the pledge." What does that mean? You enter your name and maybe your e-mail address and pledge to ride your bike every day in April. That's it. If you're willing to make a few social media posts about it, more's the better, but it's not required. It just makes it more fun. The pledge is FREE, a donation to World Bicycle Relief is completely voluntary. Also free (if you explore the site a little bit) is a template for you to make your own spoke cards. I had 100 made a few years ago to leave at bike shops & share with others. I had them printed on card stock & laminated & I get a kick out of people noticing them in my spokes & asking about them. I probably get a bigger kick out of noticing them in other peoples' spokes.
No ride too big or small, indoor or outdoor, and if you miss a day, well, it's on the honor system - just tack on a ride after the end of the month. Like I'm going to do !
I like it because it helps build a habit and it fosters a supportive community of riders all over the world. I love that following the hashtag #30DaysofBiking or #30DoB on any of the usual social media sites will reveal posts in multiple languages. Note on Facebook the page is "Joyful Riders Worldwide," changed from a "30 Days of Biking" page because it turns out the friends we make all over the world during April are people we still enjoy chatting with in May... or July... or January.
There's no mandatory tracking or reporting, but a fun app to use in April is "Ride." It asks of you only your e-mail address, it tracks rides automatically, and it rewards you with fun daily "trophies" after rides. The trophies are little emojis that bounce into a screen and accumulate - I'm a total dork so I know if you shake your phone, the trophies will all bounce around and I find this hugely entertaining. (I live a sheltered life.)
Okay, I'm stopping! (This is the Ann version of a "short blog post, apparently.) Go pledge !
(This is a favorite, though not recent, photo of me in my 30 Days of Biking jersey. World-class photographer Henry Gentle snagged this shot at the bike park on the Katy Trail near Columbia, Missouri. In the background you can see the SCARY TEETER TOTTER that I finally mastered right before this shot. I could post that video here but it might damage my cred as a tough bad ass as you can clearly hear the tiny "ohhh shiiiiiit" as I barely survive the teeter.)
No! (or at least, Not Only That!) 30 Days of Biking has begun!
I've already missed my potential April 1st bike ride and my planned April 1st blog post, so... right on schedule, I'm late.
I have a FABULOUS excuse for not riding in that I'm technically not cleared to? Though Dr. G acknowledged it wasn't her area of expertise, she still tossed off a "2 weeks off the bike" recommendation for healing; tomorrow just makes one week. Close enough! I am going to try - *try* - a few minutes on the trainer this evening and we'll see how it goes. TBH, I'm nervous because what's coming this weekend with Camp DK (200 miles of Kansas Flint Hills gravel over 3 days, 50/100/50) is no joke.
Let's talk about 30 Days of Biking, because I think this is a truly wonderful program with benefits to riders of all levels.
This is a program started by a couple of dudes in Minneapolis who wanted to spread the joy of biking. Simple as that. Along the way, they raise money for charity and this year it's World Bicycle Relief, which provides sturdy bicycles AND bicycle repair training for young people and adults in developing countries. (Google "buffalo bicycle" or check out WBR 's site - good stuff.)
www.30DaysofBiking.com is the site when you're ready to "make the pledge." What does that mean? You enter your name and maybe your e-mail address and pledge to ride your bike every day in April. That's it. If you're willing to make a few social media posts about it, more's the better, but it's not required. It just makes it more fun. The pledge is FREE, a donation to World Bicycle Relief is completely voluntary. Also free (if you explore the site a little bit) is a template for you to make your own spoke cards. I had 100 made a few years ago to leave at bike shops & share with others. I had them printed on card stock & laminated & I get a kick out of people noticing them in my spokes & asking about them. I probably get a bigger kick out of noticing them in other peoples' spokes.
No ride too big or small, indoor or outdoor, and if you miss a day, well, it's on the honor system - just tack on a ride after the end of the month. Like I'm going to do !
I like it because it helps build a habit and it fosters a supportive community of riders all over the world. I love that following the hashtag #30DaysofBiking or #30DoB on any of the usual social media sites will reveal posts in multiple languages. Note on Facebook the page is "Joyful Riders Worldwide," changed from a "30 Days of Biking" page because it turns out the friends we make all over the world during April are people we still enjoy chatting with in May... or July... or January.
There's no mandatory tracking or reporting, but a fun app to use in April is "Ride." It asks of you only your e-mail address, it tracks rides automatically, and it rewards you with fun daily "trophies" after rides. The trophies are little emojis that bounce into a screen and accumulate - I'm a total dork so I know if you shake your phone, the trophies will all bounce around and I find this hugely entertaining. (I live a sheltered life.)
Okay, I'm stopping! (This is the Ann version of a "short blog post, apparently.) Go pledge !
Friday, March 29, 2019
Nuts!
Wow, first post of the year? I've been holding things in a WHILE.
I made the cardinal sin of cross-posting on another blog site but referring to this one when I didn't have a current essay, OH MY.
Let's get this party started.
"Nuts!" is the title because the last post was called "Nats!" and "soup to nuts" is the kind of stuff I write about and because if I were biologically male, we'd be talking about testicles. HOLY COW, you say, is this THAT KIND OF BLOG TODAY?
Well this is not a delicate place, mis amigos. It's gritty. I am La Grinta (it says so on my T-shirt) and we are going to get dirty.
Starting from ground zero -- from the cellar of the sub-sub-basement of the lowest building at ground zero, I am going to finish a 200 mile gravel race and you are coming along with me.
I won't shy away from uncomfortable subjects, like surgical procedures on female genitalia or sock height.
I will promise to encourage all comers, to address legitimate, on-topic questions, and if I don't know something I promise I won't pretend that I do.
Because Blogger is so cumbersome, I've been leaning hard to move to WordPress, but I am the least technological person you know, unless you also know my dad. To be fair, he once rebuilt a carburetor with only a few parts left over, so I think we're even. If and when that move happens, hopefully it will be the last move for awhile.
Some of you are joining me from CaringBridge - welcome! And some wander across various sites and land here by happenstance and some will be arriving from other links dropped in various places. Welcome.
I've not promoted the blog at all, so it's low on traffic and we probably all know each other. Just letting you know that going forward, folks reading & commenting might not all be folks we know personally. If you ever read something in the comment section that is abusive, threatening, or offensive to any protected or vulnerable person, let me know and I will remove it and follow up immediately. I don't monitor things 24/7 so please don't assume that because I haven't removed something that I condone it. Let me know.
TO BEGIN - well to begin, I think I'll investigate why my perfect bike ride fuel - 1/2 toasted everything bagel + schmear + scrambled egg, red onion, red bell pepper smells and tastes like old fish. It really shouldn't. I'm eating it anyway? I probably oughtn't.
CHEERS
I made the cardinal sin of cross-posting on another blog site but referring to this one when I didn't have a current essay, OH MY.
Let's get this party started.
"Nuts!" is the title because the last post was called "Nats!" and "soup to nuts" is the kind of stuff I write about and because if I were biologically male, we'd be talking about testicles. HOLY COW, you say, is this THAT KIND OF BLOG TODAY?
Well this is not a delicate place, mis amigos. It's gritty. I am La Grinta (it says so on my T-shirt) and we are going to get dirty.
Starting from ground zero -- from the cellar of the sub-sub-basement of the lowest building at ground zero, I am going to finish a 200 mile gravel race and you are coming along with me.
I won't shy away from uncomfortable subjects, like surgical procedures on female genitalia or sock height.
I will promise to encourage all comers, to address legitimate, on-topic questions, and if I don't know something I promise I won't pretend that I do.
Because Blogger is so cumbersome, I've been leaning hard to move to WordPress, but I am the least technological person you know, unless you also know my dad. To be fair, he once rebuilt a carburetor with only a few parts left over, so I think we're even. If and when that move happens, hopefully it will be the last move for awhile.
Some of you are joining me from CaringBridge - welcome! And some wander across various sites and land here by happenstance and some will be arriving from other links dropped in various places. Welcome.
I've not promoted the blog at all, so it's low on traffic and we probably all know each other. Just letting you know that going forward, folks reading & commenting might not all be folks we know personally. If you ever read something in the comment section that is abusive, threatening, or offensive to any protected or vulnerable person, let me know and I will remove it and follow up immediately. I don't monitor things 24/7 so please don't assume that because I haven't removed something that I condone it. Let me know.
TO BEGIN - well to begin, I think I'll investigate why my perfect bike ride fuel - 1/2 toasted everything bagel + schmear + scrambled egg, red onion, red bell pepper smells and tastes like old fish. It really shouldn't. I'm eating it anyway? I probably oughtn't.
CHEERS
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