A Stalker On A Bicycle?

A couple of weeks ago I got to thinking about trust and the cycling community.

Why would I get into a truck with two men that I don't know, except that they had bikes in the back of their truck--and I was pretty much in a bind at the time.

Or,

What is it that would allow me to ride out into an unpopulated area with two strangers on bicycles?

A couple of years ago, riding back from Tijeras, a lightning storm erupted in front of me. I could see multiple strikes hitting the hills at the mouth of the canyon. I remember stopping the bike and feeling exposed and scared, almost naked on this piece of metal I was riding. Standing at the side of the road, I debated if I should knock on a strange door, or crawl down into a drainage ditch, when a truck, seeing my predicament, pulled up, bikes in the back, and offered a ride. Two of the nicest guys, and a whole boatload of relief.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a great ride up Tramway, caught up with a couple of guys, and asked them if they could take me through the large multi-lane intersection at Tramway and old Route 66, figuring that 3 bicycles were a whole lot safer than one lone, tiny female. I ended up meeting two of the nicest guys, Tony and Joseph, and we rode 20 miles out together. Both men had an extensive bicycle history. Tony used to do triathlons, Joseph was (obviously) a former bicycle racer (what a spin!).

When they invited me to continue with them, a part of me thought about riding so far out on these country roads with people I didn't know. I turned around because I was at my distance limit, but as they continued on, I returned alone, and thought about trust.

I wondered if cyclists are just a special breed of people,

or if having this same passion brings us all together,

or if everyone just seems nice on a bike, but some could really have another side to them that I don't see--

or if there are some really bad people out there on bikes, and I just haven't met them.

Knowing my naivete, I wondered if I could end up riding out with some really bad person and get myself into a bad situation.

Today, I was riding on Tramway, a slow, easy, spinning-the-pedals kind of ride, when a man rode up along side and told me that my seat was too high. I laughed and gave him some rationale. He then told me that I was not pedaling correctly. Again, I laughed, and gave him a rationale. He then made a comment about my hips not rocking on my seat, and I thought, "What? Was he riding behind me and checking me out? And, what's he doing talking about my hips!"

He asks me about a cycling event, and I tell him I don't do bicycle racing.
"Oh," he says, "You're a tri-ath-ah-lete."
It's an almost belittling comment, and I think about the ridiculous cyclist vs. triathlete perspective that some people have.

He keeps riding beside me and he never stops talking.
I hear a whole litany of medical woes.
I hear about his difficulties with weight gain.
I make a couple of gentle suggestions regarding habituation to exercise and the benefits of weight training to raise his basal metabolic rate. They are simple and effective, but he shrugs them off. At his age, and with the medical aspects that's he's enlightened me with, he can't afford to--but I don't push it.
He drops names and seems to know something about everyone we pass.
He used to ride with a local group.
He talks about endurance events.
He brings up some couple that rides tandems.
He talks and talks. He's a large man, with a big voice, and he talks until I can't hear myself think anymore.

He moved here a couple of years ago.
The altitude is still an issue.
He can't breath.
I hear about the places he used to live, and the break up of his marriage.
He asks me if I'm married.
He asks me my history of marriage.
He asks me if I'm a lesbian.
Questions that I find invasive and repulsive, and information that I generally don't impart within 6 miles of riding with someone I don't know (if at all).
But I continue trying to be polite.
Then he mentions how he met two lesbian riders a few weeks ago.
And then he starts talking about how it's easier for him to think about two women being together, than two men.
At this point, the repulsion factor has escalated about a hundred fold, and I just want to get away from him.
At the same time, he also seems like a sorry sort of fellow.

I don't really know how to tell him to go away, because I think about all the people who've let me ride with them, and I think turnabout is fair play--but by now he's impacting my riding line, and it's driving me a little crazy. He doesn't adjust his riding position based on road conditions, but just sticks right next to me. On one side of me is traffic, and on the other side is him. And, he's a BIG man. I feel hemmed in. I think about how the local boys, when I was younger, would never let me be the one closest to traffic. By this time we're on Old Route 66--and I want to be able to move away from traffic if I need to.

As we near Tijeras, I realize I don't want him riding with me up the hill. There's a lot of gravel and scree on the shoulder, and the way he rides feels unsafe. Plus my normal m.o is to ride up the initial hill in my big ring. So, I drop it in, and take off.
He sticks with me.
Coughing and struggling, but he makes every attempt to hold on.
At least he's not talking anymore.
Near the top I pull over at my usual rest stop. It's a small guard rail that I usually sit on to eat a bar and enjoy the view. I'm so worried about this guy, that I don't enjoy the view, and I realize my lone, meditative ride, which is so much my style, is anything but.
I root around in my pocket to pull out my cell phone--and realize I don't have it with me. Not good.
Meanwhile, I think he's gone, but then he circles around, goes back down the hill, comes back up and passes me. OH no.
I think he keeps on going, but that's just my own stupidity, because then I hear, "Are you going up or heading down?"
"What?" I look up startled and I don't know what to say. He's standing right there. This is the second time that he's asked me where I'm going. Why doesn't he have his own itinerary?
He repeats his question, and I find that I can't lie, and I tell him I'm continuing up after my break.
Fortunately, he continues without me.
I wait awhile, then get on my bike. I'm happy he's gone, but the thought crosses my mind that he might wait for me at the top of the hill. I can't believe that he would really do that, but obviously, in the back of my mind, I'm seeing another side of a cyclist.
As I head up, I see him riding down with someone else.
At the top, I continue out on South 14.
The road is broad and open and it's a relief to be alone again.
A few miles out, he pulls up alongside me from behind.
Where the heck did he come from?
Ohhhh.
I groan aloud.
I can't help myself.
I snap and tell him to leave me alone and go away.
And, I'm lucky that he does.

Back at the car, I call T in Tuscaloosa to find out how his race went.
I tell him about this man who was so determined to ride with me, and the things he said to me.
I'm remorseful for snapping at a stranger for an unconstructed reason.
I ask T "Was he a stalker or just socially disoriented?"
I can tell from T's response that I will probably never ride outside of town, alone, again.
T's radar is WAY better than mine.

Spring Break Training Camp

I went for a swim in an Albuquerque pool today and it was nothing like swimming in Arizona.

For one, the pool was a lot cooler, and it took me several laps to feel OK about the temperature of the water, instead of just plain feeling cold. The water felt "thinner" and I couldn't feel the catch and pull of the water as well--making for what seemed like a whole lot more effort for less result. I was also swimming indoors, at night, after a 10 hour work day, in a large, windowless enclosure, under bright, artificial lights.

In Arizona, we swam outdoors, during the day, in sun-warmed water. We were in a pool, with cement decks and a fence around us, but the sky was a brilliant blue above, the water sparkled, and there were palm trees and green grass nearby. During the week, we swam two to a lane, but on weekends, the pool was exceptionally crowded and there was movement, splashing, and color across the board.

What a difference.

Spring Break.

A pre-scheduled week off that T and I try to take advantage of, not nearly as often as we'd like, and in the past few years, somewhat hit and miss:

2001 I start new job. No vacation.

2002 We spend a week in Joshua Tree for warmer weather rock climbing, desert camping, running, and a brief foray into mountain biking.

2003 T is overseas

2004 We spend a week in Arizona for warm weather rock climbing at Cochise, Mt. Lemmon, and Queen's Creek. We did a little running and found an outdoor pool for lap swimming. Almost no tri-training to speak of, but lots of rest. Upon our return we participate in the Defined Fitness Duathlon, and put in a decent showing, despite the week off.

2005 T in the Czech Republic to visit family.

2006 T spends the week with his Dad who is ill.

2007 Vacation plans scuttled by my illness. T visits family instead.

2008 This year, we anticipate having a week off again. We toss around ideas for a while, knowing that we both want warmer weather.

Hmmm......

Mt. Lemmon.... outdoor lap pool.... camping in the desert....

I think what cinched it for us was an article noting that all new developments in Tucson were mandated to include bicycle lanes. We decided that spring break this year would include our home away from home (on the back of the truck) and a new large tent for camping, which would allow us to bring our bicycles, as well as running gear, swimsuits, goggles, and of course, loungy chairs, good books, and a DVD player.

Instead of the usual week, we shortened our vacation to 5 days (to allow us to do useful things with the remaining days--like homework, and me not using all of my vacation days near the start of the year).

On Wednesday morning, March 19th, we went out for a morning bike ride in Albuquerque, then packed up the truck and drove I-25 to I-10 to Tucson. T drove while I provided read aloud entertainment from "C.C.Pyle's Amazing Foot Race: The True Story of the 1928 Coast-to-Coast Run Across America," an event spawned during the era of endurance dance marathons and flagpole sitting, and which involved running average daily distances of about 40 miles (give or take 20), to cross the country in 84 days. This was before there were specific running shoes, and people would run all day without drinking water.

In Arizona, camping was first come, first serve, and it turned out that the camping area we had hoped for was booked solid--and had been for the previous six weeks. This turned out to be fortunate because we found that the campsite was at a lower elevation and consisted of flat grassland with naked, burnt-looking mesquite trees, little privacy and no imagination.

Instead we found another area located at about 3000' elevation in the middle of the Saguaro National Monument--a heterogeneous landscape of cacti (saguaro, ocotillo, prickly pear, barrel, cholla), desert flowers in all colors (poppies, lupine, daisies, penstemon, globemallow, primrose, heliotrope), bushes (mostly larrea tridentata), and stumpy trees (palo verde).

It was a full moon vacation.

Coyotes yipped every night.

We worried about snakes and small rodents, but didn't see either.

The bird calls were piercing and unique.

No insects to speak of.

We saw bicycles everywhere.

A large number of entrance/exits to the I-10 highway were closed due to a highway widening project, so we made our way using back roads, and discovered Gates Hill road, which is a beautiful, steep, curvy road through a pass between the Saguaros and old Tucson. We were concerned at the narrowness of the road with no shoulder, steep drops, and lots of cars due to the detour, but saw plenty of cyclists. Later, we found out that this is a favorite bike ride.

We saw numerous "Share the road with bicycles" signs, and "Tucson is a bicycle friendly city," and realized that the cars expected to see bikes on the road.


We loved our new campsite, surrounded by bushes, trees, and desert flowers.


On Thursday, March 20th, we decided to ride Oracle road for a 30 mile round trip of gentle uphill outbound with a tailwind, followed by a gentle downhill return into a headwind. We made the day into a brick by doing a short, hilly four mile trail run on Romero Springs trail in Catalina State Park. After lunch and a rest, we found the outdoor pool from our previous visit, and did 1500 yards in sun warmed water under a blue sky. We returned home to our campsite, happily sated, and tired.

Friday, we creaked out of bed, and stayed close to home to ride a loop road, with no traffic, smooth pavement, and fun, rolling hills. The landscape was green, with lots of new desert growth and flowers. The weather was warm. The sky a piercing blue. T raced and dropped a tri-guy, but was in turn dropped by a roadie. It was nice to see all the cyclists on the road, and nice to know that the cars were expecting cyclists. After lunch, T did homework, I siesta'd in the shade of the truck, then we returned to the pool for more outdoor laps.

Saturday, tired from our previous 3 days of riding, and not accustomed to hills, we woke up with sore legs, but opted to stick with our plan to ride up Mt. Lemmon. After several days of vacationing without a clock, and letting the days follow their own rhythm, we were pretty relaxed--to the point that we didn't plan well for the climb, but just (lackadaisically) grabbed a few gels and took off. We underestimated our fatigue as well as underestimated the sustained, unprotected climb. We started at the Safeway on Tanque Verde Rd, and headed out on a wide road with smooth pavement and a good bike shoulder. The road narrowed a bit, but there was always a nice shoulder, good pavement, stellar views, and plenty of cyclists--kitted and fast -looking. All the way up, we could see a black line of tar paralleling the painted lane line. Finally, we realized that the previous painted line denoting the edge of the original wider lane had been tarred over and re-painted as a narrower lane--in order to create a wider shoulder for cyclists.

18 miles into the ride (for me), I was bonkish, cooked by the sun, and my fear of heights was starting to kick in. The descent did not include a bicycle lane--probably because it wasn't necessary. All the way down, there were plenty of pull outs, signed well ahead of time, for a downhill wuss like me to pull over, pause and collect myself. The downhill wasn't nearly as bad as anticipated and I was actually able to let go of the brakes and enjoy myself (unlike during the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic in Colorado, where the un-guardrailed outside corners made me feel that I just might sail out into space). It was nice to recognize and pass by the climbing areas we had gone to in 2004 and see the road from a different perspective. T went further, but also turned around early, feeling bonkish. We didn't make it to the top this time, but we'd already been there. In 2004, we had driven up to the top on the paved road, "snuck" past the fire station (they didn't care), then descended the back side on an empty dirt road through broad, nearly uninhabited countryside.

Once again, after our descent, we opted for more outdoor laps in the pool. On this Saturday, the pool was filled to capacity, "there's a lot of triathletes here," was what they told us, but we managed to squeak in and circle swim--T in a lane with four remarkably large men, I with some fast tri-women. Back at home, we had dinner under the stars, then the full moon rose, and we retired to bed in what seemed like almost full daylight. We were tired and happy.


Sunday, we said good bye to our campsite and to Arizona by doing a 10 mile run in the desert, initially following a bushy, green arroyo, then branching off and further afield. As we descended the arroyo, a steadily escalating sound came from behind, momentarily making me wonder if a large wave was catching up with us. Mark had already stopped off the trail and I jumped sideways into some bushes, where we both ended up waving to the passing mountain bikers in partially hidden bush-gnome fashion. It was good for a laugh.

The drive was uneventful and we traveled on $3.05 per gallon gas to arrive in Albuquerque the same night.

We found out, after the trip, that Tucson is a prime winter tri and cycling camp area, and that we had hit a number of the popular bicycle routes. It just seemed like the perfect vacation for us. As with so many of our trips, we'd like to go back. We're hoping we can make Spring Break happen again next year.

P.S. Mark looking like he's having a great time after 5 days in the desert...

Yes, we definitely want to go back.

Dust storm in New Mexico.

Normally, New Mexico is "Big Sky" country.

Big, blue skies and grand vistas out to the horizon, distant mountains, volcanic formations, red and brown rocks and scrubby brush stretching as far as the eye can see.

Today, however, our visibility was reduced to the countryside just around us. At some points, we actually drove into a wall of dust and couldn't see the car in front of us.

The wind whipped sideways constantly. Tumble weeds were impelled sideways--they didn't roll and skitter, but flew--across the highway.

My eyes have been watering, nose plugged, lungs wheezing.

Right now, the wind is recorded at 28 mph with gusts up to 35 mph in Alamogordo, New Mexico.


Imagine riding 18 mph into 20 mph headwinds.

Pushing the biggest gear you can.

Trying to catch that one woman who runs better than you, and who seems to be slicing through the wind like butter (later you'll find your bike speeds were comparable).

Today, T and I participated in the Stealth Duathlon at Holloman Airforce Base, Alamogordo, New Mexico. 5k run, 30k bike, 35k-but-feels-like-70k winds. Dust, dust, and more dust.

T had an excellent race, despite a wrong turn and multiple episodes of emesis during the bike.

His legs felt good on the run. When I first saw him he was in 5th place on the return, while I was still making my way out. I was huffing and puffing and wheezing. It's unfortunate that I realized there was no one else in my age group--as this allowed me to ease up slightly. As I finished up my run, I saw T making a sudden, discombobulated turn on the bike. He had zipped past a silent volunteer who allowed him, and the man behind him, to turn in the wrong direction. It was the returning runners who yelled to alert him of his mistake, but he lost precious seconds, and in the end, it cost him the fastest bike split.

On the bike, feeling in my element, I surged and took advantage of the tailwind, short lived, which rapidly turned into a crosswind, and then, at the turn-around, became a relentless barrier to forward movement. I was chasing the young, blonde woman who was at least 3 minutes ahead of me after the run (no surprise). I saw T in 4th place, chasing Jason. He had forgotten his water bottle, and was vomiting repeatedly, a welcome moisture to his dehydrated, parched mouth. I don't know how he made up two places, but he did. As I approached the turn around, and spotted my competition, I realized I wasn't gaining ground, but as with every race, "it's not over 'til it's over," so I optimistically continued to bull-head my way through the wind in the biggest gear I could turn efficiently.

Both the run and bike course were slightly long (the run turn-around aid station was situated beyond the turn around for protection from the wind). I had a remarkably slow run with T telling me he could hear me wheezing, but was happy with an average 20.6 mph on the bike in the wind.

In the end, T finished second Overall to Jason (who looks even faster with his new haircut!) and I finished 2nd female overall to the blonde woman.

Lunch was fun with an Outlaw turnout in which each one of us medaled:

Carl: 1st 50-54 (wry, dry humor and the fastest helmet around)
Greg: 2nd 45-49 (nice to see the Candy man after last years break)
Cody: 3rd 30-34 (an impressive FIRST TIME racing as an Age Grouper and not Clydesdale)
Karen: 1st Athena (happy to pass 7 people on the bike)

The improvements to this race are measurable.

Passing through the entry checkpoint was rapid, with one guard checking our names against a list and refusing T's insurance card, saying he didn't need to see it. The bathrooms were unlocked at a decently early hour to allow us access while setting up transition (unlike previous years). At 7:00 am, the doors to the fitness center seemed to burst open as a legion of volunteers in yellow T-shirts exited to join us in the parking lot. The race started on time. There were 7 aid stations on the course. Volunteers were stationed at just about every intersection. A car was parked across one of the dubious "Y" intersections to prevent erroneous navigation. A complementary lunch was held in the Officer's Club, and the results were tabulated early. The race director is obviously dedicated to making improvements.

There was a small turnout today, probably due to the predicted high winds, but it's a good race, and appears to be overcoming past difficulties. I never thought I'd say this, but I actually had fun challenging the wind. Now, if they could only re-pave that road...

Sleep-Eat-Work-Train

Domestic diva

HARD-working full time employee,

and

...IN TRAINING.

There's not a lot of leftover time.

I try to fix good, healthy, recession economy, rising oil prices food every night.

Most recent dinner was a mixed greens and hearts-of-Romaine salad with sauteed Portobello mushrooms and zucchini, Roma tomatoes, diced celery and peas with home-made Balsamic vinegar-olive oil-lemon-dill and basil dressing.

This takes time.

I've gone from voracious reader, to dabbling a few pages here and a few pages there.

My current book is: "Whatever You Do Don't Run: True Tales of a Botswana Safari Guide."

It's written in short story format which works for me, right now. A few pages every night--complete with a laugh.

Most recent patient: global expressive and receptive aphasia (difficulty with communication) status post severe stroke, with mobility impairment.

Most recent training: Never ending swim-bike-run.

Plan to get back here when the creative bug hits me, but don't seem to have much time for that now.

Sleep-Eat-Work-Train.

Spring training is full speed ahead...

Human Cells are ~ 65-90% Water

Recently, I have been thirsty all the time.

I have a dry-sucking, bitter-tasting, gummy, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, inside cheeks stuck to my outside gums feeling that I can’t seem to get rid of.

I try to drink a lot, but I’m not getting enough. I can tell because no matter how much I think I am waterlogging myself, I keep peeing dark.

Part of this is being ill. My body doesn’t know how to regulate itself when it lies in bed for several days in a row.

Part of this could be the medicine I’m taking.

Part of this just might be a subtle loss of my brain’s ability to accurately determine how much water I need when I’m thirsty.

Now that I’m starting to feel better, we went for a run this morning. Instead of carrying water (like we knew we should) we opted to aim for the university campus and stop for a drink there.

Our mistake was running on Sunday.

The campus was locked up tight.

There wasn't an outdoor fountain to be found.

I didn’t feel too bad because the temperature was dropping and the wind was picking up--nice coolish temperatures which kept me from over heating—but I did start wondering if I would get an irregular heart beat from the stress to my system due to a lack of blood volume and lack of rehydration to my steadily shrinking cells.
Now, that’s a bit of insight into my hypochondriacal side.

Lucky for us, Taco Bell opens early.

At 6 miles, we stopped in and asked for a cup of water.

I have to give props for the attendant’s adherence to fast food service soft drink rules, attention to detail, and customer service. Instead of the little, flimsy plastic throw–away cup filled with tepid tap water that I expected to receive, she gave us a tall, sturdy, heavy-duty paper, filled-to-the-brim-with-ice cup, topped with a snap on lid.

Filled-to-the-brim-with-ice.

Not much water in there. A few sips and I got an ice cream headache. But that was OK, because those few sip used up all the water and there was no more ice water left to make the headache worse.

Plus, I immediately felt that I was going to live.

To top it off, it looked like snow over the Sandias—and the wind felt like snow on the street.
So, who wants ice water with that?

The rest of the run was finished in high form: T ran away from me (can you blame him?), I wondered how someone who’s been sick for as many days as I had been could think a nine mile run was feasible, the temperature kept dropping, and the return was all up hill--
but I knew that I was going to live.

It’s amazing what a little water can do.

I think I’ll try and drink more of it.

An Early Season Training Day

Today is one of those days when everything goes right.

The day dawns with heavy cloud cover from an overnight storm, but within hours the sky begins to clear, and pieces of bright blue New Mexican sky, so much the norm here, begin to show and bring promise of a perfect training day.

Its one of those days that leaves you feeling tired, but refreshed by your own accomplishments.

One of those days where you find yourself breathing in a little bit deeper--just so you can sense that worked-out, expanded lung feeling that comes with taking yourself further than your body is accustomed to.

One of those days where you persevere--
--and then you lay on the couch and eat ice cream


This morning we took a 9 mile run from the door step of our house. It was a somewhat early morning run. We bundled up against the winter-thin air and bright, cool sunlight in tights, thermal tops, gloves, and sun screen. The run was familiar--a route used during the winter for short runs squeezed in after work, hurriedly running out the door with the temperature dropping and the skin freezing on our faces.

Today we started on the same route, but kept on going, cornering smoothly on carless roads, picking the best line from the entire width of the street, ups and downs with brief rests at intersections, breathing hard, pounding a tempo to promote leg turnover.

"Go," I'd tell myself, "go."

"Pick up those legs."

"In a race, you can't go slow. Feel it."

Most of our long runs are done in other locations. We eat a good breakfast and drive. Once we get to where we're going, I can almost feel myself sinking into that long distance, tired legs torpor, even before we begin. When we start, I go slow, gasping for air while my body adjusts to oxygen debt and elevation, taking miles to warm up, barely moving uphill, unable to pick up speed on the downhill.

Today, however, we're running on familiar ground--familiar for running hard and quick--and our pace picks up from long slow distance to tempo, pounding rough, gray pavement underfoot, breathing hard, eating up the distance instead of barely slogging through. What we're doing here is modeling. In this place, we run fast. That's the model. So, today, even though it's a long run, fast it is. In the end, we're running a negative split. We finish happy, out of breath, and tired, flopping into the house for calories and the couch. Our lungs feel used and a little stretched out.

We take the break, gather ourselves, and head out for a long distance swim. It takes a little convincing to ourselves, but we end up at the pool. The water feels good, and it feels great to float prone, rather than standing on our feet. We start easy, feeling good in the water, but end (again) with a negative split. Midway through, after warming up for a good half mile, we feel strong enough to stretch out and pull hard--then hunger appears and our pace picks up for another reason. In the end, we're pulling hard and breathing hard, panting when we stop at the end of the pool. By the time we're done, we're ready for lunch, and more time on the couch.

Ice cream, it is.

As I said, today is one of those days when everything goes just right.

A Little Ingenuity

You've been doing race events for several years now.

After a 4 month break, it's time for the first race of a new season.

So you mark the date on your calendar, send in some money, and make a hotel reservation.

When the date arrives, you pull out your race kit from the previous year and pack up the truck.

You savor the familiar feel and routine of getting ready, while at the same time feeling the unfamiliar--it's been awhile.

Each year, the first race of the year is held at White Sands Missile Range. This year the race runs into some glitches. You end up leaving your truck outside of the base gate, and riding in with your race gear on your back. The delay at the gate means there is less time for pre-race prep.

So with minutes to spare you hurriedly rack your bike.

Then.

You pull out your racing flats.

As your shoe leaves the cloth storage bag that it's been in since the last race of last year, you suddenly get that sinking deja vu, "oh yeah, didn't I use that shoe lace for something?" feeling... and your left shoe makes it's appearance--naked and incomplete.

Then you remember: That sudden stop on the I-25 on-ramp when 3 dogs decided to cross just as you were starting to accelerate to merge onto the highway. You avoided hitting the dogs, but the person behind you made a remarkable dent in your rear bumper (fortunately, no injuries), and you tied on your broken and bent license plate with... your shoe lace.

Now, the race is about to start.

So you dig out two plastic zip ties (one white and one black) and attempt to close the shoe gap.

Then, your girlfriend donates the shoe-string-like lanyard from her key ring.

The result looks like this:

The system is adequate, but loose.

So, you dig one more time into your race bag.

And you end up with this:

The race goes as well as can be expected after a 4 month hiatus.

You don't even notice the duct tape and plastic on your left shoe.

It's your RIGHT shoe that becomes untied, which requires a stop to re-tie.

Still, you enjoy the competition and finish 5th place overall.

There's something to be said for a roll of duct tape

and

a little ingenuity.

...in which I receive THE Wave...

Waving during a cycling ride, that sometimes imperceptable acknowledgment, meted through the nod of a head, the lift of a finger, or an actual wave of the wrist, has sometimes been a question mark for me. In Hawaii, I waved at just about everyone I saw--and knew just about everyone I saw. It was small town cycling on limited roads in limited time frames. The sun set at almost the same time year round, and in order to get that 20-miler in after work, everyone had to leave at the same time. There just wasn't much leeway. The main body of cyclists in the part of town where I lived started from the same point, rode the same road, and we all waved hello--even across 4 or 6 lanes of traffic.

Waving in Albuquerque has been a little different. Here, I'm waving at strangers. There's a larger variety of cyclists. On the bike path I see families, recreational cyclists, mountain bikers, commuters, and dedicated racers. A lot of people don't wave back. Instead of the larger hand-off-the-handle-bar wave, I've recently settled into a flick of my fingers, an acknowledgment of the "we're all in this together," without the actual commitment of a true wave--which, on some days, can be ignored a lot.

On this morning, a beautiful, sunny, leisurely day, perfect for the bike path, I resolved to wave to everybody, rain or shine so to speak, regardless of make, model, or apparent creed. The wave, of course, would be the 4-finger flick--acknowledgment without commitment. Perfect for me.

The ride started slow. New Mexico wind gusts and riding into a head wind made spinning difficult. I couldn't get moving. After what seemed like a long warm up, I gave up on feeling good about my ride performance, and settled into a slightly less than acceptable pace--only to be taken over by a tandem pair, singing "hello-o-o" as they went by. The pass went like this: female voice first, pause as I see the woman pull up along side, than the baritone of a man singing out, pause as I realize it's a tandem, then the man passes by.
For some reason, it seemed like a long pass.
And for some reason,
probably the length of the pass,
it got under my skin.

Even though I was supposed to be riding light--
Even though I knew that a 2-person engine is stronger than my single pair of winter legs--
Even though 1/2 of the pair on the bike was a solid looking male with strong leg muscles--
I subtly turned up the pace a notch--almost trying to hide it even from myself--for a steady, gradual chase.
Easy.
The tandem blocked the wind, and I came up from behind in no time.
Then I noticed the male, the stoker in the back, turning his head form side to side, ostensibly sightseeing, but I guessed that he was checking me out.
And he was.
The pace increased.
I actually stayed several bike lengths back, and off to the side, knowing that the 2-person engine in front of me had the advantage.
But at one point, unintentionally, I pulled up to the man's rear left. I stayed out to the side, but probably closer than he wanted me to be. In fact, he probably didn't want me to be close at all. But I stayed there--choosing not to pass, because I didn't want to play leapfrog--but not dropping back either.
And I waited.
To see if I'd hear it.
And I did.
The "click" of the shift as he moved into another gear.

Now it gets harder.
We've been going for several miles like this
I haven't been able to breath well, ever since we went to sea level on vacation, and I can really feel it.
But I keep trying to hang on and minimize the "damage" which, as defined by me, is not letting him get too far away.
I've been riding the hoods the entire time, but now decide to get to business, and drop down into a TT position. I'm feeling on pace, getting aero, breathing hard. The tandem has opened up a gap, but it's not too far out, although I'm essentially on my own. I'm as low as I can go and feel like a little gnat trying to mimic a racer.

Throughout all of this, I've forgotten to wave.

Coming towards me is a man in a blue kit.
He's lean and pale.
I don't see much except for paleness.
He looks at me.
And he waves.
He takes his hand off the handle bars and gives me a wave. A real one. Hand in the air. It's the biggest gesture I've seen all day.
He see's what I'm doing, and he gets it.
From one cyclist to another.

I don't catch up with the tandem, partially because a family shows up in front of me, and I slow down to keep the kids safe.

Mark catches up with me on the return trip.
"Did you see Levi?"
"Huh? What color was he wearing?"
"Blue"
"Baby blue and white?"
"Yup"
"Clear glasses?"
"Yup"
"Pale and white?"
"Yup. He has that red headed complexion."
"Are you sure it was Levi?"
"Yup"
"HE WAVED AT ME!
HE TOOK HIS HAND OFF THE HANDLE BARS AND HE WAVED AT ME!"
(pause)
Then I ask him, "Did he wave at you, too?"
"Nope"
"You sure?"
"Nope. He just rode by, and I recognized him"

I wallow in it.
Levi Leipheimer waved at me.
America's other Tour de France rider and last year's third place finisher, winner of last year's Tour of California, now training to defend his title, and the U.S. national road race champion, all rolled into one, waving at me.

Now, he could have waved at me because I was riding so demonically fast.
Or, because I looked cool in my best TT position and he thought I was a fellow pro.
But then I remember the silly, purple bandana I have tied around my neck, and I realize that Levi was probably just acknowledging the odd juxtaposition of a southwest accent on a cycling kit. The wave could just as easily have been a "what the heck is that" gesture.
Still.
He waved at me.
And, regardless of the reason, like all good fans, I've suddenly fallen in love.

Markee in more carefree times....clamming at sunset in Baja just after the New Year.

Back-to-law-school-man has been a bit absent minded lately.

Yesterday we couldn't find the large tub of french vanilla yogurt used to make a homemade kefir drink the night before.

After a fairly involved search including his study desk and the bathroom (don't ask me why--we were just going room to room), it turned up in the dish cabinet, with the glasses and mugs.

Understandable. Large tub of yogurt, large coffee mug--it could happen to anyone.

Today I found a toothbrush in the utensil holder.

And utensils in the toothbrush holder.

I'm seeing a theme here.

I'm getting ready.

We have two and a half more years to go.

Baja, Diego, Catalina , 2 viajeros, and a trusty truck

3000 miles of driving

10 nights of camping, 2 hotels, 4 restaurant meals, one ferry express ride, and a midnight hike

5 whales + a calf, 2 dolphin schools, 7 clams, a few sting rays and legless starfish, uncountable seals sunning and jumping, plovers, sandpipers, herons, pelicans, frigatebirds, cormorants, and ospreys

a blue bay and empty beach

sand and seashells

wind and sun gentle on our skin

the coolness (shocking) and clarity of the water

the sound of the incoming tide lapping at the sand

a million, billion stars.

2 weeks of...
bottled water, watchless days, velvet nights, clothing re-runs,
rural roads, grand vistas, wandering cattle, and cultural eye openers.

Living on the beach and in the best way possible.

Baja California, Santa Catalina Island, and San Diego.

We're home now. Just got in the door after an all day push from California to New Mexico. Our first meal is green chile stew from the Frontier restaurant. Crazy Baja Driver Man has finished wading through his email--140 messages from UNM alone--and has moved on to Cyclocross scores (very important!).

I'm happily organizing entropy--and delighted at the state of our house. Our kitchen jungle plants didn't die, the furnace turned on (after a breathtaking delay), we didn't leave dirty dishes in the sink, nothing moldy is growing in the fridge, and the car started on the first try.

Happy, happy New Year.