Well, that was... wait for it... Hotter 'n Hell!

We spent the first evening at the HH100 Expo.  I've never seen so many bike vendors in one place before.  Lots of neat stuff, some of it really cheap, and it was just exciting to be surrounded by so much cycling culture.

Outside we found some dinner, Carribean chicken with veggies and rice, and sat down to watch the criterium race zoom past.  Those men and women are fast!  We were sitting a few meters from a really sharp 90 degree turn and so there were lots of crashes too!  I needed some more food so we got some home cooked potato chips with a kimchi/bacon/mayo sauce from the Gypsy Kit.  Awesome!

Yes, I'm feeding my face while the crit racers are riding in 100+ degree heat.

The next morning we were up at 4am and on the road for the hour long drive to Wichita Falls.  For the first time all summer I made it to the start line with plenty of time to spare.  There were thousands of riders and I tried to place myself near the back of my start gate.  That should have put me with riders that expected to finish in about 6 hours.

A local high school choir sang the National Anthem, a gun went off and there was a flyover by some small stunt planes.  It was another couple minutes before I made it to the start line and then things got interesting.

You never know what's going to happen with such a motley collection of riders, some with plenty of experience and some that look like they just bought their bike and kit from the expo the night before.

Here it goes:

Mile 5 - Someone crashed, again.  A few riders bumped together deep inside a group, and one lady started ping-ponging around before going down hard, with two or three riders behind her also eating pavement.

Smartest thing I've ever done, each
water point listed on my top tube.

In the first few miles I saw more flats and wrecks than in my entire last year of riding.  I didn't know what was going on but it seemed like everyone was crashing or flatting out everywhere I looked.  Lots of dropped water bottles for everyone to dodge or run over didn't help.

Mile 10 - There's a big turn to the left, across the railroad tracks.  Just before I got there I could hear bells ringing and saw a police officer waving his arms to stop riders but I was already too far into the tracks.  I looked up and saw the arm dropping and I ducked my head just in time to slide under.  I'm pretty sure someone behind me hit the arm.  Someone next to me breathed a sigh of relief, loudly, and started talking about how long the trains are down here and how lucky we were to have made it through.

Mile 15-ish - Someone just crashed right in front of me.  There was a group of riders that decided it was a good place to answer the call of nature and had stopped off to the side.  So a bunch of riders decided to join them, throwing everybody behind them into panic.  And of course, a couple went down.

Mile 17 - I saw a wicked three-person tandem bike.  Dad in front, mom is second, with a little girl in third spinning away.

Mile 20 - First water break!  I hit the latrine, then grabbed a cupful of watermelon and pineapple.  A shot of pickle juice?  Why not?

Somewhere in the next ten miles the course turns out of the wind and I started flying along, relaxed, just cruising at about 20 mph.  I kept trying to remember my promise to Char, not to break myself and to enjoy the ride so I held a little back but still kept passing people left and right.  I started to realize that I should have started much closer to the front of the pack to avoid some of the riders in front of me.

Mile 40 - Another stop.  I didn't have to pee again, which worried me.  Some wonderfully nice lady held my bike while I snagged some watermelon and a handful of baked goods.  Someone was teaching line dancing on a stage next to the water point and I found the whole thing hilarious.

Mile 50 - My heart rate monitor read my pulse as 30 bpm.  I'm pretty sure that either it was broken or that I was having a heart attack.

Mile 58 - Riding through the town of Burk Burnett was like being in a real race.  People were lining the streets cheering and I was flying along feeling quite full of myself.  Unfortunately, just outside of town, the course finally turned back into the wind and the pain really began.

Mile 60 - Gut check.  There's a shortcut towards the finish (75 miles total) or a turn left to Hell's Gate and the full 100 miles.  I was feeling horrible and stopped to stock up on anything I thought I could get into my stomach without throwing up.  Then I turned left.

False motivation all over my face.

Mile 69 -  Hell's Gate.  I was really starting to feel awful but the occasional tailwind (or at least lack of headwind) was helping me along.  More pickle juice shots, some oranges, and a pee break.  Definitely not hydrated but I was drinking non-stop and emptying my bottles quickly.

Mile 78 and 79 - Back into the wind with a vengeance.  Horrible.  Everything hurt and I could barely keep moving.  I was passing other riders, but it hurt to keep my cadence up.

Mile 84 - Last water point for me.  I could hardly walk, and the scorching sun was blazing hot.  I forced some orange slices into my mouth, finished an entire bottle of water and grabbed a cup of some green gatorade with ice.  Unfortunately, some jerk replaced the gatorade with pickle juice and I forced it down with a horrible twisted look on my face.  It tasted terrible but probably saved my life.  I followed it up with a cup of Fritos that was surprisingly awesome.

With no respite from the headwind, I picked up another rider and we managed to take turns pulling each other through the scorching blast of hot air for about ten miles.  Misery mounted in both my legs and seat.  SAG wagons and pickup trucks were passing me with riders sitting in the back.  I told myself that I wasn't going to be one of them.

Mile 96 - My riding partner (I never got his name, we were both too out of breath to talk) pulled off at the last water point before the finish and I decided that I needed to keep going.  Acid was pumping through my veins and my head was a little iffy, but it was such a short hop to the finish that I had to chance it.

Mile 98.5 - Heading down into town, the wind was starting to be blocked by buildings and trees offered some shade when I heard the telltale wump wump wump of a flat tire.  I had just put a new tire on my back wheel earlier in the week but this time it was my front tire.  There was still some pressure and I couldn't hear the leak so I hit it with a CO2 cartridge and took off to try and make the finish line before it deflated again.

Mile 102 - After curving through town I finally reached the finish line.  I had hoped to finish with a grin and super victory pose, arms raised high in exultation of a wonderful ride, but there was a group of riders from the 100km in my way, the chip timing mats made me nervous, and I just wanted to find Char in the crowd.  I coasted across the line, barely unclipped before almost falling over and was done.  Physically and mentally done.

Smiling before I collapse on the ground in a sweaty, crying heap.

I'm not sure if I've ever felt so bad after a ride.  I have had long rides, hard rides, and hard long rides.  But today, the heat and wind together was enough to completely zap me of any remaining sense of humanity.  Char could barely keep me moving and force a little food in me.  I couldn't drink enough, and some Gypsy Kit chips (with no sauce this time) are the only thing I could stomach without wanting to heave.  (3,907 calories burned and no appetite, go figure)

My final time was just over six and a half hours with a moving time of 5 hours and 44 minutes.  Not my fastest 100 miles ever, but I'll take it.

It was, after all, Hotter 'n Hell out there!

The Dehydrator

It was my third organized bike ride in three months and I almost blew the start, again.

The first two rides (Tour de Meers and Tour of the Wichitas) I had been busy fiddling with my Strava, setting my music, adjusting my glasses and helmet, and wasn't ready for the "Go" from the ride director.  Both times I found myself foundering, struggling to clip in without falling over, and getting stuck behind riders that blocked me from jumping into the lead group.

My excuse this time?  A surprise trip to the bathroom from an overwhelmed bladder and my over-enthusiastic hydration plan.

Lucky for me there was no line for the urinals and I was back outside and on my bike in a flash.  I weaved through the crowd to the middle of the front, no need to be too ambitious, and waited for the start.

Almost late for the start, but first, let me take a selfie!

The lead group, about 30-40 riders, took it easy enough for the first few miles that I settled right in and started wondering how long I would be able to hold on.  80 miles is a long ways and it was going to be a hot day, topping out at over 100 degrees.  They didn't call it The Dehydrator for nothing.

There were plenty of rolling hills, a few awkward riders that struggled to keep a straight line without bringing us all down with them, and a deer running across the road.  I kept waiting for something to happen.  I had latched onto the wheel of a rider I recognized from previous rides.  A local Cat II racer who's whole family was known for dropping the hammer regularly.

At mile 25 someone started singing, "Can you feel the love tonight?"  This was going to be a long ride.

At mile 27 there was a little acceleration and the group seemed to come apart, I spun around the riders that had fallen off the front and latched back onto the lead train of 5 riders.  Everyone calmed down and I decided that it was safe to grab a peanut butter bar from my jersey and try to get some calories in while things were steady.

Bad timing.

No sooner had I taken a bite than the front riders chose to light their afterburners, activate the hyperdrive, engage the warp engines, and leave me back in Kansas on the wrong side of the rainbow. A line of riders blew past me in chase while I choked on and coughed up peanut butter bits.  Tears ran down my face (and sweat, too) as I churned my pedals trying with all my poor weak little heart to catch up.

At mile 29 I was part of the lead pack easily cruising along the smooth asphalt.  At mile 30, I was all alone.

I soon realized that most of those that had dropped me so badly had stopped at the water point a mile ahead.  Stupidly, I decided to pass the rest stop and keep pedaling to the next water point at mile 40, hoping to get enough distance that they might pick me up along the way.

At mile 34 someone slowly crept up behind and began chatting with me.  The voice belonged to Garrin Bratcher, together we had ridden most of the Tour de Meers together a couple months ago.  His knee was bothering him and my heart was broken so we spun along together into a bitter headwind looking for the next water point.  As the speedy groups left the previous water point began catching up to us, I tried in vain to jump onto their trains.  No luck.

First time I've ever been ran off the road by an angry ecehlon of riders in the wind.

At the 40 mile waterpoint, we stopped to breathe and I pee'd for the last time.  There were fig newtons.

Rewatered and refueled, we turned up the tempo and proceeded to "lay down the scunion" across the course making the most out of the new tailwind.

After mile 50 we began catching both the trail of tears (dropped riders) of the lead packs and converged onto the 100km course.  There's nothing better for your self esteem than speeding around riders that you know are easily 20 miles to the finish closer.

Soon, the heat began catching up with us and we stopped every 10 miles to refill bottles.  More fig newtons.  I've never finished my bottles so fast on a ride before.  The air heated up, burning my throat, the sun cooking my skull and I began to realize why they called it the Dehydrator.

The final two miles we eased off the gas, still cruising along pretty quick but also struggling in each crosswind and every climb along the rolling countryside.

We crossed the corner to see the finish line, leaned back and congratulated each other on our ride.  Char was there waiting and cheering and a race volunteer gave me a high five as I rode by.

80 miles, done.

Dehydrated.

Once off the bike Char helped me to stagger inside where the shock of air conditioning almost make me throw up.  After a short rest I was able to eat, drink, and stagger back to the Jeep for the ride home.  Almost four and a half hours in the sun and raging heat had taken their toll.

By far, some of the best ride support I've experienced.  There was a full pasta or baked potato lunch with dessert cakes, massage tables and bike maintenance folks on hand.  Each water point we'd passed or paused at had a full compliment of volunteers keeping the watermelon, bananas, gatorade, snacks and fig newtons flowing.

Everything you need to stay motivated in the Oklahoma summer heat!

A Long Time Ago (5 years) in a Galaxy Far Away (sort of)

5 years.

That's how long Char and I have lived in El Paso.  And now it's time to leave.

About leaving El Paso behind I have mixed emotions.  I have developed my physical prowess and athletic endeavors so much in this town.  At the same time, it can be a rough place to train and play.

The desert pretty much wants to kill you.  So do the drivers.  (See here for details on the drivers or the animals)

But the weather can sometimes be beneficial to training year-round.  You just have to find creative ways to work around the windy season (which only lasts about 11 1/2 months).

When Char and I first moved to El Paso in February 2009, I had only run my first half-marathon the previous April, and Char hadn't run a day in her life.  Neither of us was a cyclist, had ever raced in a triathlon, and I was still a terrible swimmer.  (Picture a bag of rocks sealed in a concrete box and a little propeller trying to push it along the water)

Since then, we've both ran multiple half marathons, completed metric century rides, blasted through triathlons and placed in our age groups in several races.  Just in the last year, I've completed separate standard century (100 mile) rides and then ran two marathons back to back with Char.

Celebrating the finish at the 100 mile Chile
Pepper Challenge.  Almost falling on my face.

1st Place in the women's 30-39 age group for the
Iron Soldier Sprint Triathlon, 29 September 2013.

We've planned whole vacations around athletic events, using them as excuses to visit places like Washington, D.C., Hawaii, and Colorado.

I've learned that I will run for beer (hoholo na pia), Char will run for wine, and that we'll both ride hard to earn the right to eat like this:

The Irishman's Cure at the Irish Embassy in Durango, CO: traditional Irish breakfast with rashers,  sausage, black and white pudding, eggs, grilled tomato, and irish potatoes in cream sauce.  Picture does not do it justice.  I burned 4,992 calories on a ride that day to eat this.

Somehow, most of our picutres while we're traveling for athletic events involve some kind of food.

I've learned to relax, too.  That not everything requires that I push myself beyond my limits.  Sometimes it's nice to throttle back and enjoy the scenery.

Humpback breeching along the Maui coast.  

I've decided that if there's no coffee or beer after a ride, then something is wrong.  But if there's a burrito waiting, it can make everything alright again.

Public bathrooms are awesome, and a well placed bush or tree is priceless.















                         Yes, another food picture.


There's nothing quite like an insurmountable challenge to push you beyond your limits.  I've learned to not be afraid of daring to do something that I'm pretty sure will be impossible for me to accomplish.

Likewise, there's nothing better than eating more than you can stomach knowing you've burned more calories than you'll be able to replace no matter how hard you try.  (There's a fat kid deep inside of me smiling when I'm riding.)


I don't respect the limitations of my body, and I have suffered the consequences regularly.

I've been hit by cars, almost eaten by bears, killed by bees and rabid dogs, nearly torn my IT band, and developed amazing bruises on my feet.  My toenails are permanently altered.  Char's taken face dives on concrete, done weird things to her joints and toenails, strained ankles and fought through horrifying shin-splints.

And we keep going because we're not right in the head.

The giddy sensation of completing something that you had thought was monumental and impossible can wash away the pain and suffering tied to the accomplishment.  Carbs and beer help, too.

Descending from 10,910 foot Molas
Pass into Silverton, Colorado.

Any amount of pain is worth the view from the top.

10,000 feet up Haleakala Volcano in Maui.

Setting a goal for a ride or run can make all the difference, even if it's frivolous.  Fish tacos, anyone?

Char and I both have grown so much in the last 5 years.  Sometimes it's hard to imagine what life was like before we started down this journey.  Our lives are much richer and more exciting with all the adventures we experience now.

With barely a month left, it's time to say goodbye to El Paso and all the adventures we've had.  Then it's time to look forward to new ones.  What will we look like in another 5 years?

How do we say goodbye?  Do something crazy?  Sure.

Char is doing the Bataan Memorial Death March at the end of the month.  26.2 miles of foot/leg torture.  I'll watch and cheer and eat and wait.  Twice was enough for me.

We're both running the St. Paddy's Day 10K (yes, I'll do it in my kilt) and then the World's Fastest 10K.  The latter should be interesting as that was one of the first events we both used to guage our running and fitness progress.

And then it's off to new adventures together.

What will those be?  Maybe some rides, maybe some runs, maybe we'll find something totally new to experience and push ourselves.  Kite surfing?  Stand Up Paddleboarding (SUP'ing)?  Equestrian jumping?  No clue, but I'm sure it'll be slightly dangerous, a little painful, and very rewarding.

The point is, as I've learned over the last half decade, that you don't have to move fast so long as you are moving.

And not being eaten by an enraged mother bear.

 

The Grande Finale

I have good months, and then I have bad months.

October was a bad month for cycling, at least, in so far as I didn't get to very often.  Also, note the complete lack of posts for the entire month.  Let's just say that, well, work has not been kind.

The final event of the year for cycling was this last weekend.  The Tour de Tolerance (look it up on Facebook) was the first organized ride that Charla and I rode together three years ago.  We had purchased our first road bikes the year before and I had knocked out a couple 60 milers with some friends the summer before.  Since then, no dice.  I was on an extended vacation in the desert last year and missed out, while Charla was having a blast on her own.

After noodling my way through the 60 mile Oryx Challenge and then crushing the 100 mile Chili Pepper Challenge I was eager to see just how fast I could ride a 100 km.  This year's Tour de Tolerance would be my litmus test for all the cycling I've done since coming home in the spring.

The morning was crisp, almost frigid, but promised to warm up with the sun rising.  The dreaded wind from the east hadn't appeared yet (nor would it the remainer of the day).  I'd thown on my Death Ride kit, wanting to sport something unique for the last ride of the year.  The course was a rolling 10 miles to a single climb out of the Rio Grande Valley up to the mesa, then 16 miles out along a straight stretch of smooth pavement to the turnaround.  16 miles back, drop down the long hill, and cruise to the finish line.  Too easy.

I slid into the front half of the pack at the starting line hoping that I could find a group fast enough to challenge me, and not so slow that I felt like I was cheating myself.  What I ended up with was a group that would push my body well past my worst nightmares.

When the horn sounded the entire peloton took off and stuck together for the first 5 miles at a light 18-20 mph.  I was frustrated.  I thought we should be moving much faster at this point, but I held my line and my pace waiting for someone to start pushing away from the group. 

And push they did.

Just before the climb someone midway in the pack must have been sleeping, because about 15 riders suddenly surged away from us.  I realized it was too late to make the jump with them, I was too far inside the second half.  Coming around the turn that leads into the climb up to the mesa, I found myself riding away from my pack with ease.  I started thinking about what it would take to make the rest of the jump to the lead group.  Once I crested, though, I saw just how fast they were pulling away and realized I was going to need some help.  Soon enough, I was tag teaming with another rider and we tried for a solid mile to cover the distance but were steadily falling away from them.  I glanced at my heart rate monitor once to see that I was redlining against my maximum heart rate.  Just as I was thinking that there was no way to keep up this pace, a train of orange kits cruised along side and I jumped into their draft just as the last rider passed.

For the next 40 miles we worked together, never gaining on the lead group, but making good time anyways.  The pace setter would cruise comfortably at 23-24 mph, then suddenly surge up to 27 mph, leaving me behind so I had to fight to catch up.  We hit the turnaround point, slowing almost to a stop to make the tight u-turn in the middle of the closed highway, then someone stepped on the accelerator for the return trip.  They continued to surge randomly, throwing me off the back end, forcing me to scramble back into their draft.  I pulled twice, but otherwise struggled just to stay with them.  Every single time they dropped me was a heartwrenching, gut-churning moment.  I pushed so hard to catch back up that I thought I might pass out.  Each time I was sure that I wouldn't be able to catch them.  And when I did catch up, it was a struggle just to keep in their draft.  I was afraid of taking a drink of water, or grabbing a gel, afraid I would miss another surge and be left alone.  The last thing I wanted was to be left alone on this ride, 20 miles from the finish with no one to share the burden with.  I quit looking at my heart rate monitor, it was too depressing and was beginning to scare me.  At some point, I saw Charla riding the other direction.  She saw me and smiled and waved.  I tried to smile, lifted my hand and reached out towards her, my voice was gone and I couldn't cough out more than a whisper in her direction.  Less than a blink of an eye later, she was gone, and all that remained was the steady pumping of legs, the burning in my lungs, a dull ache in my thighs.

We made it all the way back to the turn leading to the descent when I fell off for the last time.  It was a half mile shy of the hill and I realized that they'd dropped me (and several others) for good.  I started to bridge the gap on the descent, but I just couldn't spin the gears fast enough.  My gears are great for climbing, but aren't so hot on the flats or the descents.  I couldn't get more than 35 mph out of them.  My heart began to sink as I watched them sail away down the hill without me.  10 miles to go. 

Someone fought up into my draft but fell off after only two miles.  I checked behind me to see if anyone was closing, hoping that I could pull together a little train, something big enough to make the last few miles a little easier and faster.  But every time I turned to look, there was nothing but empty pavement as far as I could see and I realized that I was truly on my own.

The finish lies on a short steep hill, no more than 200 meters in length.  When I hit the final turn I tried to stand up out of the saddle to get the little extra kick through the finish line.  There was nothing left in my legs though and I almost fell over.  I squeaked through the finish, rolled to a stop and stood straddling my bike and shaking for several minutes.

When I finally checked my Strava record, and then the posted results, I couldn't believe just how fast we were riding.  Then I remember my throbbing legs, shaking arms, gasping lungs, and it all makes sense.  For the final major ride of the year for me, I'd call this one a success.

19th out of 154 riders.  Not too shabby.

Check here for everyone's results, including Charla who rode like a mad demon girl, or a crazed honey badger.
 

One Tough Weekend; Chapter Two

Chapter Two:  The Chile Pepper Challenge (ain't that spicy after all)

I have wanted to ride in the Chile Pepper Challenge ever since I bought a bike over three years ago, but something always comes up.  Work, deployment, field training, meteor showers, evil undead walking the earth, you name it.  I thought this was the year.  Which, it kind of had to be since we're leaving El Paso in April.

I signed up for the whole enchilada, the full monty, the entire 100 mile ride.  I figured that if you're going to do it, well, do it all the way.

What I hadn't expected was that a major event at work would try to intervene.  And it didn't help matters that the Iron Soldier Sprint Tri was the day prior.  No one has ever accused me of suffering from an abundance of good decision making.  They have, however, called me masochistic and a little bit crazy.

After finishing the triathlon on Saturday, we hydrated and tried to eat healthy.  Okay, so maybe the Taco Bell for lunch wasn't a good idea.

Earlier in the summer, I rode my first standard century ride in the middle of the Death Ride Tour.  Day Two of the Tour and I found myself on a 111 mile ride that started at over 7,000 feet elevation and topped out at over 10,000 feet in the first 5 miles.  I figured that a 100 mile ride, with a lot less climbing, lower elevation, and not following a 73 mile ride the day prior, would be much simpler.  To make sure, though, I kept increasing my mileage on the weekends until I finished an 86 mile ride the Sunday before the Chile Pepper.  I thought I had prepared as best I could with the limited amount of days I could ride each week.

29 September was the first day of fall.  And nature decided to show it by dropping the temperature down into the 50s for the start of the bike ride.  I'd been training all summer for warm weather, learning how to keep my body hydrated in 90+ degree temps.  Didn't do me much good today.  It was 20 miles before I started to get feeling back into my hands and feet.

Almost too cold to smile.

I took off with a quick group that seemed to be averaging about 22mph.  I figured that was a speed I could manage without bonking out of the ride, and it would get me to the finish line with just enough time to change for work and take off.  There was a group of EP Cyclists (local club) that were driving the train and not letting anyone else near the front to pull the double paceline we had going.  I would normally have been just fine with that, but their pace was a little erratic and they imploded on every hill and tight turn.  We stuck together over the first two major climbs until the water point at mile 40.  That's when I found another group that was about as fast, and could stay together much better.

And that's also when I started to realize what a bad mistake it was to try and juggle both a major work event and major athletic event on the same day.

Mile 40 - boss calls to make sure everything is still good for the afternoon.  Yes boss, everything is still on track.

Mile 47 - text message about afternoon timeline.  Yes, everything is still on track.

Mile 62 - deputy to my boss's boss calls.  Mouthful of peanut butter bar and breathing heavy.  Yes, everything is still on track.

Mile 73 - chaplain calls.  Panting and keeping a 23mph paceline going.  Yes, everything is still on track.

We hit the 2-mile sign post when the guy that had just taken lead pulled out to the side.  Apparently, he'd had enough and couldn't pull anymore, which was too bad since he and I had done most of the work over the past 30 miles.  I took the lead and dug deep inside to find enough strength.  I'm not the strongest cyclist, but with a mile to go I started to surprise myself.  Maybe it was the proximity of the finish line, or maybe there was a magical tailwind that I hadn't noticed before.  I started to kick up the pace from 21 to 22mph, then 23mph, then 24 mph, and then I looked down to see 25mph flashing on my cyclocomputer.  We raced around the last long curve to the finish line where I skidded across, both hands tight on the brakes to keep from ramming full speed into the back of a pick up truck.  Not the greatest traffic control at the finish line.

Not the smartest move on gravel, but I was pretty excited.

Post ride, waiting for a burrito and some horchata when my boss's adjutant calls.  Yes, everything is still on... wait... everything just moved up an hour.

Drink water, beg Charla to drive like a crazy person (easier than it sounds), drink water, get home, drink water, shower, drink more water and show up just in time to major work event.

Chile Pepper Challenge 100 mile ride, done!

The Old Man and Me

I met a character this morning during my training ride.

He came out of nowhere when I was at mile 32 of an 86 mile ride.  I was sure there was no one around when I took off for a second lap of my favorite hill run.  But just like that, he rolled up behind me at a stoplight and then pulled along side like magic.  Without a word we fell into line like we'd been riding together for years.  We took turns pulling along the rollers that parallel the mountain, each pulling about half a hill and downslope before switching off.  We moved along pretty fast, pumping up the hills and blasting down the other side.

He was hispanic, older, maybe 50-ish.  His skin was the color and texture of well worn leather.  His mustache was peppered with gray.  He was taught, no beer belly on this guy.  His kit was worn, peppered with snags in the fabric, not dirty, but used so many times it never really looked clean anymore.  He was sporting an older blue aluminum Motobecane that seemed tiny next to my 58cm frame.  (It's not a short Mexican joke, I just ride a really tall bike and he seemed really tiny next to me)

While I was puffing up the hills, he was lightly dancing out of his saddle, hardly breaking a sweat.  Maybe he'd been riding all morning, maybe he'd just left his house and pulled up beside me.  I didn't know and didn't ask.

The climb up Scenic Drive can be a pleasant, easy going jaunt.  That's when he started talking.

He asked me about my bike, about how long I'd been riding.  He been riding for 35 years, he told me.  He had his racing wheels on his bike.  We talked about our bikes, about riding and about climbing.  He laughed easily and never sounded out of breath, though we were climbing at a pretty demanding pace.  When we passed other riders, he seemed to know them all by name and he jovially called out to them in both English and Spanish, easily switching back and forth.

At the top he found more friends, and pulled off to talk with them.  And that was the last I saw of him.

I never got his name, part of me didn't really want to ask and spoil the mystery of riding with him.  Instead, he's the stranger that rode with me for 10 miles and helped make what should have been a long and tedious ride into something more.  He's not a real person now, he's a legendary character that I'll refer to in stories about riding, that I'll remember when I'm tired or bored.

He's the old man that let me ride with him for a piece down the road.

Oryx Challenged

A week ago Char and I completed the Oryx Challenge Bike Tour.

The Challenge you think you will face is not always what you think it will be.

I think this time I learned a little patience and more about what it means to be a part of a team.

The Oryx Challenge is an annual non-competitive bicycle ride in El Paso with a maximum route that covers almost a full 100km (62 miles).  I've ridden it for the past 2 years and this would be my third and final opportunity.

It was also the main event for which our little bicycle club had been training for over 3 months.  (That would be the "Imperial Bicycle Club", aka "Biking with the Brigade Commander", aka "I don't wanna do regular PT and I own a bike")

The Imperial Biking Team ready to go!

When I came back from the Death Ride in June, this was the next adventure in cycling.  It's what our group had been focused on during our multiple weekly rides.  We'd been cycling together, practising our pace lines and talking about nutrition on the bike trying to prepare ourselves for a 60 mile, out and back, scorcher of a ride.  Some of us were new to cycling, some were very experienced and some were right in the middle.

The Oryx Challenge course is one of my favorites.  There's not much room to get lost on the 100km route.  Ride off the installation, go east until you hit the turn around, then ride back to the start.  Sherriffs are stationed at every intersection to try and keep you alive, water and peanut butter await you on top of the hill that marks the turn around point, and even the climb up to the turn around really isn't that daunting if you've been in the mountains before.  It might be a Cat 4 climb near the top. 

Maybe.


Ok, so it's a 10 mile long climb to the turnaround point.

I had been doubtful at first when Char told me that she wanted to ride the whole 100km.  I wasn't sure she could really keep up with the group we'd put together.  But over three months of riding, she'd become quite the beast on a bike.  She could hold a paceline at 16mph in equal headwinds, pull her fair share on the flats and not cry about the hills, and had just completed a 62 mile ride the previous weekend without too much complaining. 

60 miles in and things got out of control.

Good enough for me.

But what we hadn't taken into account was just how much another decision was going to affect her ability to ride.

Yom Kippur is the Jewish holiday of atonement.  It involves a 24 hour period of fasting.  And it was the day before the Oryx Challenge this year.  We'd talked about skipping one of the two, for safety reasons, but Char was feeling strong and decided she would be fine if we made sure to plan good meals, get lots of rest and focus on our pre- and mid-ride nutrition. 

And I'm just insane enough to agree with her.

We gorged Friday evening, just prior to sunset.  Then we prepared what we thought was an extremely nutritious and sensible meal after sunset on Saturday.  Baked chicken, quinoa and a fresh veggie salad.  We did splurge on a brownie and ice cream dessert.  But then, you don't want to accidentally die one ice cream short, now do you?

Sunday morning I fixed a simple power breakfast.  Leftover rice and hamburger, scrambled with eggs and some fruit on the side.  We had our pre-ride snacks and drinks at the course.  When the "gun" went off, I felt pretty confident in our group's fortunes for the ride.

For the first 10 miles, we managed a solid 18mph pace.  It was a little tricky with all the wheel suckers trying to break into our pace group, but we managed to stick together enough to keep our newer riders sheltered on the lee side and out of traffic.

At about 15 miles in, the machine started to break down.  That's about where you notice the definite rise in grade as the hill draws near.  Then it's a solid 10 miles of climbing with about a 1,000 foot gain.

First off the back was Chelsey, next was Char.  I decided not to leave them behind to fend for themselves, afterall, this was a group effort and we'd spent too many hours working together not to finish together.  Joe, the ride leader, came back to check and I asked him to take the lead group and I'd stick back with these two. 

I will admit, it was painful to make that 10 mile climb at a fraction of the pace I could have.  I've really learned to enjoy the struggle and pain involved in a solid climb like that.  Watching the other riders, many that I recognized,  descending while we were still plugging along was both a little humbling and frustrating.

10 miles of straight climbing definitely took its toll on the whole group.

We stuck it out all the way to the turn around where I took a much needed latrine break and grabbed a snack.  The girls recharged and we headed back down the hill together.  There were two fun-sized riders coming into the turn around point as we pulled out.  There was nobody behind them.  In fact, there was nobody left coming up the hill.  That's when I realized how close to last place we were.  I know it wasn't a competitive event, but I still feel the competitive edge that drives me to try and push myself faster than the riders around me.  And this was a sharp lesson in humility for me.

On the return trip, at first we were flying, and I was a little worried about dropping them on the descent, but they stuck right on my wheel the whole time.  I was impressed with the time we were making together, but as soon as we hit a few spots with a slight gradient, or the headwind picked up, I felt Char falling off the back end again.  I tried to keep her tucked into my draft, to keep them both out of the wind and spinning comfortably.  It became obviously painful for them just to keep moving.  Even I was becoming weary, struggling to keep them both moving, to keep the three of us together enough to draft and save energy. 

After 4 hours of riding we crossed the finish line together.  By then the raffle prizes were all handed out, there was no beer to be found and most riders had already taken off.  But we were still together.  We finished the same way we'd started that morning and that was my most important lesson of the day.  That no matter how fast I want to go,  it's more rewarding to stay with my team.

I had to ask myself, what if I'd been the one struggling to keep up with the group?  Who would have come back to pull me along?  Although it was a lot slower than I'd wanted to ride that day, I was happier for staying with my teammates (especially 'cause I'm married to one) and seeing the whole ordeal overcome with them.

Next up is the Iron Soldier Sprint Triathlon followed the very next day by the 100 mile Chile Pepper Challenge.  This time I might be the one falling off the back. 

Car vs Bike. Who Wins?

This ride could be my last.

It's something we cyclists and runners pretend won't happen to us, something we ignore so as not to take away from the joy we find while out there pushing our limits.

But running and cycling are dangerous pastimes, and each time we leave our door it could be the last.

Truth is, out there on the roads, with the cars, trucks and vans flying past, there's not much between us and the brutal honest truth to be found in a 1,000 lbs plus automobile with zero feelings.  Sure, there's a driver behind each steering wheel, but what they don't see or notice, the car won't care about.

Yesterday morning, a car and I disagreed on how best to navigate a roundabout, and I lost the argument.

I woke up early feeling a little sluggish but otherwise very healthy after a week of fighting off a cold.  I took off on my bike into a delightfully cool, cloudy morning with only the hint of a headwind.  12 miles into my ride, I came to a roundabout that signals the return trip to my house.  There was a car to my rear left so I signaled to make sure he understood I was continuing through the roundabout until the next exit.  Apparently he didn't see me, as he kept going straight to the exit, and that's when we collided.

I immediately lost my balance along the side of his ugly orange Charger and rolled to the left as I hit the ground.  The bike came up above me and I slid along the pavement for quite a few feet.  The driver hit his brakes right away and we both stopped next to each other.

I have no memory of what I was thinking about during the accident.  Other than a few swear words there was nothing intelligible in my speech or thoughts.  Once I skidded to a stop, my first thought was a prayer of thanks for being able to see cloudy sky and not the undercarriage of a car.  The driver was already out of his car and asking me if I was alright.

Chronic cynic and sarcast, I answered very honestly, "No, I'm not alright.  You just hit me with your car, dude."

He helped me up and the driver that had been following behind him called the medics.

I expected a lonely Soldier in a van with a trauma bag.  Instead, a full caravan of at least four MPs, one fire truck, one ambulance and the post police chief arrived with sirens and lights blazing.

So embarrassing.

By then I'd had time to check out my bike.  There were scratches on the left side pedal, rear quick release and handlebar tape, plus the brake horn needed to be twisted back into place (which explained the bruising on my hands).  I'd also been walking around and drinking water to both calm down and take stock of my injuries.

Blood soaked bandage for trophy?

After much ado, including an epic mooning of passing traffic while the paramedic dressed the road rash down my entire hip and thigh, I was left alone to finish the police report before pedaling home.

Road rash extended from my hip to upper thigh, and the bruising started in today.  Very pretty.  And it hurts a lot worse than it looks, trust me.

Most people were shocked, both at the incident scene and later on during the day, that I finished my ride home on the bike.  But, honestly, I couldn't imagine doing anything different.  Can't explain it; it was just natural to get back on the bike and head home.  And I made good time, with some PRs for a couple Strava Segments.

When I got home, Char was waiting for me, upset but relieved that things hadn't turned out worse.

Most of the damage was bandaged up or underneath my bike kit.  

The baselayer I was wearing under my jersey kept my skin from getting tore up more, though the bruises still hurt.

Char helped me clean up the scrapes and road rash and get ready for work.  My knee and hip were swollen and bruised, so walking, standing and sitting were each equally challenging.

Most of the impact was absorbed by my hip, elbow and back.  I shudder to think what bones would have been broken had I not rolled and then skidded along the ground on impact.

The best part was getting served a traffic ticket later that morning at work.  After a long discussion with the traffic investigator I learned that both the driver and I had been "in the wrong."  We both received tickets for "failure to maintain" our lanes.

Points deducted off my on post driving privileges, otherwise nothing to worry about.

The roundabout where the collision occurred seems to have been designed by dyslexic monkeys.  In a normal roundabout, you can stay in the right lane (and should as a cyclist) and remain in the roundabout until you arrive at your chosen exit.  You can never exit from the left lane (as the driver that hit me tried to do) but have to pull into the right lane to do so.  At the exit where we came together violently, you must exit if you're in the right lane, there's no continuing in the roundabout even though there is a lane that continues around on the right side.

To navigate this roundabout, you have to pull into the left lane and then immediately dart back into the right when your exit comes up.  Sound safe for a cyclist mixing it up with much faster and heavier traffic?  Yeah, I didn't think so.

Here's an easy and short description on how best to navigate a roundabout as a cyclist.

http://bicycles.stackexchange.com/questions/6613/rules-for-rotary-roundabout

Every time I leave on a ride from now on, my first thought will be about how each ride could be my last.  I've come face to face with the potential consequences of riding with traffic and will never again take for granted the costs of my passion.


But honestly, if you're going to go, let it be doing something you love.

Fellowship of the Diaphoresis. Huh?

I've almost always trained alone.

Running, swimming (sort of) and cycling are really individual events.  You can't depend on another runner to physically carry you along the course.  No other swimmer is going to drag you through the water.  No cyclist is going to push you along the road (not in a race anyways).

Oh, folks can cheer you on, and that provides quite the motivational boost.  But, in the end, success or failure is completely dependent upon your ability to finish under your own power.

For most of the significant challenges I've undertaken in the last couple of years, I've trained mostly alone.

I really enjoy my time out on a road or in the pool.  I can quiet my brain and just relax into the steady rhythms of whichever endurance activity I'm enjoying.  It's a time of reflection, of calmness and introspection.  Some of my greatest ideas (and my worst) come when I'm running or cycling out on a lonely road by myself.

Alone on a mountain, there's no one else to depend on.  You're free from any obligations to anyone but yourself.

Occasionally, I have trained with a partner(s).

In the early days of my new swimming career (last summer), I had my wife nearby (who swims like a fish) to make sure I didn't drown and to point out how horribly I was doing.  I also have friends that I cycle with when there's time.  And, of course, when you're doing PT in the Army, you're never alone.

But mostly it's just me, by my lonesome, out on some desolate road or trail, mile after mile, sweating and running or cycling.

What's really ironic is that my love for these activities really came from experiences when I wasn't alone.

I loved the hours long group runs in high school cross country when we'd all stick together and tell stories and jokes the entire run.  Later on, I ran several road races and it was awesome just to be around other people that shared my passion for running.

Learning to swim (or drown gracefully) with Char was a special time for us to be together in our hectic schedules without distractions.  I rarely wanted to swim alone in the beginning; I needed her presence to calm me down and give me the confidence to make it to the other side of the pool without panicking.

So not drowning, really.

Then Char and I bought bikes so that we'd have another hobby to share together while getting fit.  My first long ride was a 50-miler with some friends (thanks Larry and Alanna) and was the crucial ride that sold me on becoming more serious about cycling.  It also coincided with the summer that I first watched the Tour de France, something that I'm sure Char wishes had never happened.

Le Tour de France?  How about, Le Getoutofmyface!

Over the past year I've learned just how important it can be to have someone else there beside you.  Not just for the race itself, but during training events, too.  They can push you to keep your pace steady or pull you back from overexerting.  Their conversation can help the miles pass by easier on a rough day, or enhance the satisfaction of a really good one.

While I was on my extended vacation overseas, I had two really great runners to train with.  My boss and his boss are both accomplished distance runners and provided me with great training runs before the big half marathon in March.

When I kicked off the last two months of training before the Death Ride Tour, I was invited to join another friend for a couple rides.  My cycling guru, Joe, took me out into the mountains and was probably one the other reasons I was able to complete the Death Ride without actually dying and while retaining some dignity (not much dignity, just enough to sleep at night).

No shame, whatsoever.

What I have learned is that sharing your passion with others, not just suffering out on some lonely road alone, can make you stronger in both your sport and your life.  Although we may race or compete alone, training together really can be the difference between igniting a passionate enthusiasm for your sport and just enduring suffering until the end of the ride/race.

I definitely pushed my body to its limits in May and in June.  Now it's time to relax a little and enjoy my activities not just as another training session building towards some penultimate goal, but also as a time to be with other people that share my passions.  I can still push my body, but I'll try to feed my soul a little, too.

Taking on the 9,000 ft plus mountains of Cloudcroft, NM, with a group was more rewarding than tackling it alone.

So, here's looking forward to more really great group rides with the Team Army Fort Bliss crew, the Imperial Cycling Club, some El Paso Bicycle Club and some special (although painful) training rides with Char.

Hopefully, they can help me stay in shape, get stronger and faster, and stay motivated right up until my legs turn to jelly, my lungs start burning and the tears mix with the sweat running down my face.