We All Have Bad Days

“I haven't been able to make it up this since it rained last week – it's all washed out!”, I shouted, out of breath and pissed off. I stopped to watch my husband, Jason, as he effortlessly rolled to the top of the climb. So, I tried it again and bailed halfway up when my rear tire broke traction and I panicked. I stopped to compose myself and drink some water – it wasn't even 10 a.m. and the sun was searing hot – welcome to Arizona. I heard a cyclist behind me and turned around; he made it up and over, no problem at all. Whatever, he had a way nicer bike anyway. Then I noticed a girl coming up the hill, and it happened – I instantly wished she wouldn't clear the climb. Then it wouldn't just be me, right? Wrong. She owned it, and we happened to be riding the exact same bike. Shit. I halfheartedly attempted it a few more times before I gave up and called to Jason that I wanted to head back. I was mad at myself – for my lack of ability to conquer even the simplest obstacle, for my ruthless mental attack on a woman I've never met, and for my willingness to just say, “fuck it” and give up.

As we crossed under a set of power lines, my seat post zapped my thighs with each pedal stroke – awesome. Everything was infuriating – from the patch kit bouncing around in my seat bag to the sports drink that leaked out of my water bottle's cap and drizzled slowly down my calf. I needed something to wake me up, to punch me in the face and yell, “Hey, asshole! Just ride your bike and be happy!”. Then, like an ironic gift from the mountain bike gods, my front wheel came to a dead stop on a downhill section and I wasn't riding anymore. There was an eery moment of silence before I hit the ground, arms outstretched and bike following shortly behind. I opened my eyes, fairly certain that something on my body must be broken. I could feel the tiny rocks ingrained in my knees, and drops of blood peppered my bike's frame. I clumsily stood up and began walking my bike toward the direction of the trailhead, my heart was pounding and I was strangely smiling. Jason kept saying, “Andrea, just let me take the bike.”, but I wouldn't let go. I started walking up the next hill, but stopped on the edge of the trail to sit, or throw up – I wasn't sure. My left thumb was starting to swell and my forearms were covered in road rash but I was so full of adrenaline that it didn't really matter.

A short injury assessment in the shade

We walked together up the hill, and I decided to ride my bike back to the car since it would be faster. I coasted to the parking lot, barely holding on to the handlebar, having to use mostly my right hand. I was starting to shake as I took my front wheel off to load the bike into the car. A guy parked next to us loading his dogs into the back seat said, “Hey, how was your ri – oh, damn! You fell good!”. He proceeded to tell us a story about his most recent over the bars experience, which happened on a motor scooter in front of a crowd of people. I tried to listen, but put most of my efforts into not puking on his shoes. We got into the car, and I sat there, covered in drying blood and with a navy blue thumb; the first words out of my mouth were, “I'm glad that happened, I needed that”.

Smiling, yet also realizing I had to pick pea gravel out of my skin

"I Hate Climbing", and Other Excuses of A Mountain Biker

“Sorry.”, I said as my foot slipped off the pedal during a small hill climb. And again as I slowed to a halt on a switchback corner, “Sorry”. If you have ever been behind me on a group ride, chances are you've heard me say this word many times. I say it instinctively, as if to shield myself from criticism or condemnation, to ward off the attack that never comes. Newsflash: the person riding behind you probably doesn't care that you currently suck at climbing/descending/cornering. My husband, Jason, used to ride behind me on climbs; listening to my constant apologies really bothered him. Not because I was slow or had to stop a few times, but because I felt the need to keep telling him I was sorry. I believe, “Dude, I don't care.” was his exact sentiment. Now, he goes ahead on the climbs to avoid my self-defeating hill climb monologues. I still lead on the descents, which are my strength, but my mind is fixated on those sections of trail where I come undone. I'm tired of sucking at climbing, and also tired of invariably announcing it. 

Target Acquired

So, I've decided to take action; I am on a mission to turn myself into a great climber. The first step was figuring out why I hate climbing so much. The answer - because I suck at it. Why is that? Because I avoid it at all costs, in my head I have made hills out to be some unconquerable behemoth, something to never face. The second step – removing my clipless pedals from my bike and switching back to flats. Don't worry, I'm not moving over to the Flats or Die camp (yet), but clipless pedals were not helping me learn to climb. Any time I would slow down or approach a technical section, my right foot would unclip and be on the ground without me even realizing it – another bad habit. Going back to flat pedals is like learning to mountain bike all over again, the right way, relying on body position and smooth pedal stroke.

Taking a Break and Enjoying the View

Step 3 – hill repeats, several times per week at a small park. The hills are short and rocky and perfect for a short training session after work. If my foot hits the ground during a climb, I start all over again at the bottom. While challenging, and often frustrating, this has actually started to be fun. One day, I realized at the end of an hour and a half of riding that my bank card fell out of my pack somewhere on the trails. I retraced my entire ride trying to find it, and I made it up every climb on the first try. I thought, “Why can't I ride like this all of the time?”. It turns out, I can. I just have to focus on the crest of the climb, and not all of the rocks, which are just distractions along the way. So, what am I so sorry for? Sorry for showing up, trying my hardest, testing my limits, or facing my fears? These are not things to be sorry for; these are things to be celebrated. 

Yes, this is me smiling AFTER a climb!

Practice Makes Progress

That's right folks, we've been duped. Progress, not perfection, is what you get from hard work. And if you're new to something - you're most likely going to suck. Like a lot. But that's okay. Every person you see tearing it up on the trails or at the bike park also sucked at one point. Practice makes you better. Practice makes you faster. Practice makes you stronger. (Daft Punk knows what's up, why mess with a good thing?) Sure- you can buy a "better" bike, lighter parts - the list goes on. A new bike isn't going to make you suck less. I'm not saying it won't make a difference at all - it totally can. But before you run out and spend a ton of money on shit you don't even know if you  need yet, you should probably just ride your bike. Like a lot.

Putting in some work at the Desert Trails Bike Park in Mesa, AZ.

Blisters got you down? Ride more - get calluses.

What Cities Need

My new favorite place. Desert Trails Bike Park. Pump track, skills area, three flow/jump lines – even a toddler pump track. This is what cities need – kids on bikes. Opening weekend the park was packed. Not a single parking space available. Several weeks later, it's Wednesday afternoon around 4PM. Only a few cars are in the parking lot. A dad is teaching his son how to ride a bike, a few guys are practicing on the expert line. My heart sank a little. “Please don't let this place die”, I thought to myself.

I rode a few warm up laps on the beginner trail before heading up to the intermediate line. A few more cars pull into the park. My husband, who just finished running a few laps of the multi-use trail that runs around the park, gets some video of me practicing. I'm on the intermediate start hill, watching a typical breathtaking Arizona sunset when I notice.

Moms are shouting “pedal, pedal!” to their toddlers in the skills area; a dad, “hit the brakes – harder!”. The pump track is bustling with 6-10 year olds falling and getting back up. A child no older than 5 is bragging to a group of adults about a crazy crash he had last week. Pre-teens are riding in from the surrounding neighborhoods. It's Wednesday afternoon around 5:45PM and the parking lot is jammed. This is what cities need – kids on bikes.

Building Habits

At the beginning of December, I set some goals for myself for the 2015 season. But it's so hard to work toward a goal without an actual game plan, so I made one of those too. Writing it down made it real. Putting it on the refrigerator so I would see it everyday made it scary. So, I'm tackling this monster one month at a time. In December, I drank at least 8 glasses of water per day, averaged over 8 hours of sleep per night, did yoga/stretching at least 4x per week and did a 1 minute plank almost every day. I did not get to the bike park once a week. I did not do bike sprints even once. Lesson learned – I put too much shit on my “to do” list. Making goals is frightening, sharing them with other people makes me want to throw up. Too much vulnerability. But you know what? It's January, and I'm going to the bike park today.

Dawn to Dusk Mountain Bike Race Report

This is the desert. Trails are usually dusty and packed down like concrete or loose like a pool of quicksand. But not today, not this day. Rain is here, and it's fucking awesome. The start line is a sea of cheap waterproof shells, some people are wearing plastic bags. I am one of the few people with a hooded jacket - when a small crowd notices, jealousy ensues. The sun is rising, though you can't really tell because the sky is hazy and grey.

The promoter announces that the 15+ mile lap loop has been altered to a high water route, which skips the rocky descent and replaces it with smooth rollers. I am on a 4 person team and am the first to ride – the lap starts on pavement for a 2 mile uphill climb before turning right onto the trail. Shit. I hate climbing, even more so on the road. I start out at the middle of the pack, but I don't stay there for long. A guy on a singlespeed fat bike with his hands off the bars passes me and I figure I should just accept my place at the back of the line.

The rain stops by the time I get to the trail, so I ditch my jacket at the team tent and keep riding. The trails look like someone came through and covered the course with peanut butter. Climbs are slow (well, slower than normal) and drops are sketchy at best. Naturally, a shit eating grin appears on my face. Really though, there's mud in my teeth.

A few hours later it's time for lap 2. The trails are almost completely dry, but they are tacky as hell. The back half of the loop is slightly downward sloping and I keep pedaling. It's fast and scary and my eyes are watering so much I can barely see. I'm pumping the backside of rollers and finding a flow that is rare for me on race days. My bike has changed from green to clay, my hands are numb and my shorts are splattered in layers of dirt in varying degrees of dryness. This is the desert. Rain is here, and it's fucking awesome.

Tuesday Gear Review - Club Ride Mountain Surf Short

First things first - I am a HUGE product knowledge dork. I love reading gear reviews and manufacturer catalogs, specifically outdoor clothing related. I also work retail, so I'm used to picking apart apparel constantly. Here's the first Tuesday Gear Review!

Club Ride Mountain Surf Short

Photo Courtesy of http://dirtyjane.com

I've been riding exclusively with these shorts for about a month now and have logged 100+ miles. As a side note - I am using them with the My Alibi Clothing Bloomer Chamois Shorts which is a killer combo. Here's the breakdown on the good, the bad, and the plain old facts.

What I Like: 

• Shorter inseam than most baggy shorts. My husband affectionately refers to these as my "booty shorts" (note - for long climbs/high mileage this slowly turns into a negative, as they can ride up slightly causing my thighs to touch the saddle)
• Wicked lightweight fabric that dries suspiciously quickly, but in the meantime people may or may not think you've peed your pants
• Snap closure - Yay! I have a history of destroying regular buttons and their shitty thread
• 2 large hand pockets (considering the shorter inseam) and 1 zippered right/rear pocket. The zipper pocket is pretty much only good for a car key, energy gel, or that old Motorola Krzr in your junk drawer.

What I Can't Stand:

• Camel toe - let's be honest
• Shorter inseam (told you) won't accommodate all liner/chamois shorts, so be sure to look into this 
• I am a size 10 and take a size Large - which leaves me frustrated, yet again, with the outdoor industry for not offering larger sizes. Chicks who ride bikes have big thighs!

Techy Things:

• Gusseted crotch so you don't split your pants!
• Abrasion resistant and lightweight PowerWeaveTM material 
• 6" inseam

Thanks for stopping by! I would love to get some more feedback from other ladies on these shorts, feel free to comment below!

Don't Blow It!

The days were counting down before my first long mountain bike race. Marathon. Part of me couldn't actually believe I had signed up. For the past two seasons, I had been racing Women's Cat 3 – a short 10 mile loop. This time, I'd be riding a 33 mile loop, and if I made it back in less than 3.5 hrs, I could tack on as many 10 mile laps as possible before the time ran out.

Since I told anyone who would listen that I signed up for this race, naturally I was nervous. Everyone was wishing me good luck and telling me to just have fun. The well wishes were encouraging, but I couldn't shake the self doubt. That voice inside that practically screams, “Don't blow it!”. What if I was slow? What if I didn't finish? What if the judges took one look at me at the start and knew I couldn't hack it? What if the other racers knew it too?

The alarm woke me up in a panic at 4:30AM on Saturday. This thing was real and I was just going to have to dig deep and get it done. My hands were sweating as I packed my gear for the drive to the mountains. Marathon. I checked the registration website before I left the house. My jaw dropped as I read 19 ladies had signed up!

The next 4 hours were a blurred countdown until the 8:30AM start time. All of a sudden I was surrounded by over 70 other riders, men and women, in a sea of shaved legs, energy gels and co2 cartridges. 2 minutes until show time. The announcer was rambling on about his decision to line the men up first and the women behind, but I wasn't listening. I turned all my attention inward, mentally preparing myself for spending 3+ hours in the saddle with no music, no conversation – just me.

The cowbells started and the front rows of riders took off in a mad dash for the holeshot. I had a different strategy than most, I just wanted to finish the damn thing. I settled in at the very end of the pack, taking my time to warm up. Even at my slower pace, my breathing was out of control. I felt like I had swallowed a fist full of sand. It wasn't long before the next category of riders caught up to me – Pro Men. I was caught in a frenzy of lycra and testosterone as they passed me with ease.

Shortly after, the Marathon route broke away from the main competitive track. I was the last rider, and I didn't care. The sun was still coming up, I welcomed its warmth on my face. The only sounds were shifting gears, tires rolling over rocks, and water sloshing in my Camelbak. It was perfect. Marathon. 

Originally seen on Dirty Jane : http://www.dirtyjane.com/blogs/news/14034901-dont-blow-it