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Well, I'm hoping to do a marathon one day, but it sure as hell won't be the Nike.
Click ------> Nike.
Hey! Did you read about the Nike marathon yet?
Not that I could ever do one in even close to 3 hours, but still! Punishing the underdog?! The trophies are supposed to mean something! What good is a stupid first place trophy to a finisher who finished second? Kinda like having a crappy shoe just for the swoosh on it. Take them back, you morons, and distribute them justly!
Losers.
So...I've gotten cards (OK, "card"), visitors (Parents! Friends! Puppies!) (OK, "puppy"), home-made mac 'n cheese, all of which was so great and healing, and - bonus! - a paraffin wax spa hand treatment (I asked my fabulous physical therapist if I could get my hands dipped in the therapeutic wax dippy thing while I was there even though there's nothing wrong with my hands, and she was all "why not," and then my hands were silky smooth like butter), and my arm's getting better! And I got through my less-unbearably-silly-then-I-thought required spinning instructor training course, and I picked grapes in Healdsburg with a bunch of other people, to help out a friend with a winery! And my parents discovered a library down the street from my house, so I finally read T is for Trespass.
AND, my previous employer sent me a letter, saying they'd reconsidered the stoppage of benefits so soon after the layoff, so my health insurance is covered through the end of the year.
AND, turns out I'm not the only one beside myself about the construction craziness that's been going on in my building since July: my upstairs neighbor contacted all of us in the building to form a coalition to end it. He's an architect and he just informed me that the landlord had refused his help! Power to the people!
And that's my report.
I did the San Jose Rock and Roll half-marathon today! Yay!
My time was super slow (2:10 ish); my goal while training was under 2 hours, but I've developed a heel spur, so I was really happy to finish. And lucky: my support team included a doctor, who diagnosed me, taped me, and brainstormed with me to come up with what ultimately worked: A strategically placed hole that we cut into the ineffective heel cup I'd bought, so that my weight didn't come down so hard on the bone spur. A bone spur doughnut! Effective combo with Judy's awesome (!!) taping job, it turned out, because I was able to run 13.1 miles, when I'd been unable to strike my heel against the ground without intense pain the night before.
Plus, a little help from Wendy, who cut my black toenail completely out of the same foot with a pair of clippers (ewww!). I've got some photos of that operation, but my camera was accidentally left with Wendy, so the visuals will have to wait. I know! I'm disappointed too!
So, I've been ordered to take 800 miligrams of ibuprofen for at least 3 days and stay off of it, and the timing's great because I'm having elbow surgery tomorrow morning (it's now or never - my health insurance coverage only lasts through October), and won't be allowed to work out for a week after that. And I'm sure I'll be taking some anti-inflammatories for the elbow. AND...I could ask for a cortisone shot in the heel while I'm out! But I doubt the hand surgeon would do it, and one invasive procedure at a time please! But maybe I'll mention it....
So not the Year of Laura!
Laid off. One of over 100 positions eliminated.
*poof*
My set list for this morning's spin class was nothing short of brilliant. I had to come up with music for the following:
10-minute warm-up
12 minutes medium endurance (approx 80-85% of HR max if you haven't had your lactate threshold test)
3-minute recovery
12 minutes medium endurance
3-minute recovery
5 x 30-second-all-out-sprints followed by 30-second recovery (OUCH!!!)
12 minutes medium endurance (what? no 3-minute recovery???)
3-minute cool-down
So I decided to make the first ME set all Tower of Power, all the time. Bring it back to Oaktown, baby. Then -
(and here's the brilliant part)
Then, for the first 3-minute recovery, I played this funkified version of the Sanford and Son theme song that had somehow ended up in my iTunes, not sure how, but I liked the transition, because it was still funk/horns and it happened to be the perfect length (3 minutes). And more to the point -
(and here's where I focus on the true brilliance without all the pre-brilliance build-up, or yapping, depending on how you look at it)
And more to the point, the next ME set, the one to which Sanford and Son was transitioning, was a set of Garbage. (The band "Garbage," that is. e.g. Stupid Girl. A great workout song, if you haven't already noticed).
Get it?!?!?!
Only one other person in my class did. Or maybe the rest of them were just preoccupied with the 5-minute sprint set to come, which was barfy indeed, especially the last 2 sprints. The sprint set was inspired by this past weekend's ride with Mel, who'd traded 30-second pulls with me until I thought I was going to die (in an intersection, too busy going into cardiac arrest to stop at a red light), and who then said what we'd just done would be great in a spin class.
This is all very timely (finding my true calling as a spin jockey, hullo?), because something HUGE is going down at work tomorrow, following a budget crisis meeting yesterday. All I know is that they're being very mysterious, and I have a meeting about who-knows-what with my supervisor at 11 am, which I was told I don't need to prepare for. I guess I'll find out then if I still have a job.
My kitchen looks like this:
My bathroom now looks better than this, but there is only 8 inches of space between the new low-flow toilet and the fancy not-quite-functional-yet sink. It's been 2 weeks now without a functional bathroom sink.....or door....
So anyway, as you can tell from the photo, that's not much space. You're touching the toilet bowl with your legs as you bend (theoretically, so far) to wash your face. Which would necessitate a shower, because that's just gross.
Fortunately, I wasn't home much this weekend, so not much time to dwell on my dwelling. Spent Saturday morning cycling 53-ish miles to Danville Peets (where I just noticed an historical photo in the bathroom on this trip; apparently Peets is really old! I thought it was a fairly recent Starbucks offshoot!) and back with Mel on Saturday, including alternating 30-second sprint pulls to warm me up since the sun never came out. I came back and took a shower. Then, as I was heading out to crush grapes at Bobby's winery with some other grape-crushing civilians, I threw my towel over the curtain rod (the only place to hang things these days). I heard a loud pop, and experienced excruciating pain in my bad elbow, which I suddenly was unable to straighten too much without more excruciating pain. So I threw on an ice pack and gingerly drove my stick-shift over there all bent-elbowed, wondering whether I'd even be able to help much at the winery. When I got there, Bobby just had me pushing a button on the crusher dealio! And drinking wine! 
So it all worked out. And Mark gave me an elbow massage, which didn't solve the problem, but sure felt good.
And then, after Bobby treated us all to dinner at Fellini's, some of us headed to a party of a friend of one of the grape crushers. There was karaoke! Here I am doing a Janis impersonation. You can't see the open bottle of whiskey in this shot.
Lots of musician-types were there, it turns out. I found out later in the evening that I had just sung back-up (99 Red Balloons) for a professional operah singer. She was young, and not at all fat! But there wasn't much vibrato going on there, so she must have been holding back.
Then Sunday, I had to do a long run on a wine headache. I got out later than I'd hoped, and it was a flat run instead of Chabot as I'd planned. But I got 'er done, all 10 miles, just in the nick of time (I saw a really bloody/violent miniature dog fight en route - it was one of the owners who was actually the bloody one, a Paris-type in a bikini who'd tried to separate the 2 locked dog jaws). Quick shower, and then took off with Aaron, who'd invited me to see the Chihuly blown glass exhibit at the de Young. Amazing eye candy. You've never seen anything like this. You'd better hurry up and get there, because next weekend is this exhibit's last. Buy tickets ahead; it sells out.
The most interesting thing about Chihuly? Saw a photo of him in the lobby. He's got an eye patch. An eye patch!
"Who better to fashion himself a glass eye?" you might wonder. And yet.
I got my first cell phone in January, 1997. I'd just moved to Israel, and there was a waiting list for a land line. Cell carriers there only charged you for airtime on outgoing calls, not incoming calls (but man, did they charge you for outgoing calls...). When texting became available, probably within about a year or so, I discovered it was much cheaper than calling out (about 5 cents per, if that, and only for outgoing texts); within a short time, I was texting like a fiend. Everyone else was too. It made sense.
In the US, texts are often charged both at the sender and at the destination, but, unlike phone calls, texts cannot be rejected or dismissed. And when I signed up for cell service (with Cingular) here, I was getting lots of gibberish texts. And I was annoyed at the fact that I was paying for them (in principle!). So I had texting disabled. And they said, really? And I said, yeah really. And then I got more texts. So I called and said, no really disable it this time. And they said really? And I said yeah, really, and credit me my 20 cents, or whatever it was. And then I got some more texts. And I called and said, no, really really disable it this time. And they said, it's disabled. And I said, no it's not. And they said yes it is. And I said I just now got a text from the number blahblahblah. Can you see it? And they said no. And I said, well superduper disable it, and credit me for my however many cents. And they said they couldn't because there was no text. And so, when I got my bill (with a text message charge on it), I called them, and said, now do you see it? And they said yes, and credited me. And I told them to make sure there were detailed notes of all these conversations on my account. And then I got another text message some time later and another charge, and I called, and it was invisible, and then of course they billed me for it. And I called, and said to credit me $5 right this very minute for my trouble, because I'm tired of calling and I might switch to Verizon. So they did. And now it's been several months, text-free.
But I was recently dating someone, and somehow texting came up, and I mentioned that I didn't get texts and he said, Oh. I've texted you several times, and you never responded. And I was all, Oh! And you didn't think I was a total bitch for ignoring you? And he said, well I just figured you didn't feel like responding. And of course I started wondering who else thought I was ignoring them. I hate to think there's someone out there who'd see me as a "nonresponder," which I'm not! I hate people like that! And I mentioned my angst to my teammate Mel, who then told me she'd almost texted me the other day when she remembered that I didn't have text messaging from that time she texted me and I never responded and then she had to call me, and so she said, wouldn't it be funny if you could retroactively get all your texts and see what you've missed? And I was all, yeah after like the 20th text, they probably sent some really nasty ones.
I'm not ignoring you. And I implore you to join me. Boycott texts, dammit! Do you know what popularized them in the US?? American freaking Idol! Your cell carrier is totally sticking it to you.
From Washingtonpost.com, 9/9/08:
A key lawmaker and a consumer group are pressuring wireless carriers to explain why prices for text messages have doubled in the last three years as the technology has surged in popularity over the same period.
Sen. Herb Kohl (D-Wis.), chairman of the Judiciary Subcommittee, sent a letter earlier this week to the largest wireless carriers demanding answers for why they've raised their prices for individual text messages outside of flat-rate monthly data plans to 20 cents from 10 cents since 2005. The increases aren't justified, he said, given the lower operational costs to the carrier to send the short code messages.
"It appears that each of (the) companies has changed the price for text messaging at nearly the same time, with identical price increases," Kohl wrote in the letter. "This conduct is hardly consistent with the vigorous price competition we hope to see in a competitive marketplace."
Consumers Union sent letters to heads of the Senate Commerce Committee and Judiciary Subcommittee to investigate the texting price increases and whether they are the result of a consolidating industry and less competition.
The group said that 600 text messages contain less data than a 1 minute phone call. It said that at 20 cents a text message, wireless carriers would collect $120 for 600 messages.
"Does $120 for the equivalent of one minute of voice seem reasonable?" the group wrote in the letters. "Or do these usurious rates evidence an extraordinary amount of market power?"
Just how popular has texting become? CTIA released a study this week that showed the number of texts sent in June rose 10-fold to 75 billion messages from the same month three years ago.
I spent this past Labor Day on a group ride. I figured it would be warm, and I was hungover from way too much Pinot at Frecky's wedding the day/night before, so I brought out the big guns for this one:
Two 24 oz. insulated Polar water bottles.
I got them at the start of summer, because they were on sale at pretty much every bike shop I entered. And because they now had all kinds of nifty colors. And mainly because of a haunting memory: I'd gone on a sweltering July 4 ride last summer (my first summer on a bike) with some other folks, and when we got to the top of Pinehurst, the guy with the insulated bottles still had an ice-cold beverage in his bottle cage. The rest of us had hot water. Except me. I had nothing left at all. And so he shared his ice-cold beverage with me. Yeah!
Before you go out and buy yourself an insulated Polar water bottle, I feel compelled to warn you about the "Insulated Bottle Jealousy" phenomenon. It's very real.
People will look you in the eye and ask you doubtfully whether they work. Then, when you tell them they do, the look of skepticism will deepen, and they will inform you that they are taking your brand new Black Sheep water bottle, the one with your name on it that you got for your Black Sheep Adventures trip, the one you were going to use to replace your "so 2007" Black Sheep water bottle from last year's trip, and they'll say it's because they lost theirs, and then they'll guck it all up and say the bottle cage did it and never give it back to you.
And some people will say, as they did on the ride this past Labor Day (after you killed both bottles in about 5 seconds because you were so dehydrated and asked the group oh so vulnerably for a re-fuelling stop at the next opportunity):
You know, it doesn't really hold 24 oz.
And you'll be alarmed, dismayed, and appalled.
It says 24 oz. right on the bottle! you'll shout. I'm alarmed! Dismayed! Appalled! They wouldn't lie right on the bottle!
There will be snickers. Some smartass will mention Atlanta (never mind). No one will believe in the fabulousness of your bottles.
And then you'll be glad you happened upon this post after your AA meeting, because you'll just send them this video:
*pause for "clean room" laboratory preparations, perfectly legal music download, and professional studio-editing of video production*
Would you like to see my beautiful bathroom with no walls, sink, shower, or door?
I'm showering at the gym these days (which is fine, except that sometimes I work out twice a day, and sometimes I don't want to run near my gym).
Kitchen demolition is next. I don't think there's a kitchen at the gym, and anyway, kitchening at the gym wouldn't work. So this is all great for my self-pity party, except that both my apartment room-by-room demolitions (ongoing since about July 1) and my self-pity party are getting a little old. I only really have control over one of those. So I have a bike date on Saturday, and we'll see.
Funny that the Wizard of Oz came up recently (thank you Beth). Here's a picture of my Dorothy shoes. 
I bought them in June at a yard sale, and I've been hiding them away so all the contractors and subcontractors and plumbers and electricians and sheetrock workers stomping all over my apartment won't think I'm a total freak (my other shoes sit in my hallway, in plain sight, and they keep getting moved around to make way for more holes in walls and whatnot). They're brand new! I thought they'd be great for Halloween. Hopefully I'll get invited to some sort of Halloween dealio and I won't have to walk far, because these things hurt.
There's been a tragic accident, involving a tall building and a piano.
And so I'm single again still.
Bring it.
Tropic Thunder: The funniest movie I've seen in a long time. And one of my spin songs from this past week was playing during the credits! Weird.
I had a great ride with Marty yesterday. I'd asked him if we could start late and do a chill ride, because I was feeling weak, and because the day was shaping up to be a scorcher.
Scorcher 6. This time it's different.
He said, "sure." So we met up at 10, cruised over to Cal Berkeley to watch the last of the tree sitters' shifts up in the last occupied tree, which was one of several that were finally being bulldozed right then and there, with the police out in force, after months and months of anti-tree-killing tree-sitting demonstrations (I can't believe I didn't bring my camera). And then we made a few false starts up into the hills (we were halfway up when we were turned around by the gatekeepers of some lab, where they were probably doing top-secret brain experiments on newly-flatlander-former-treesitters) and then tooled around a pretty seminary up in Tilden that Marty showed me, and then did the 3 Bears (hot!!!) and El Toyonal-Lomas Cantadas [El Toyonal, from Camino Pablo to Lomas Cantadas, 192 meters climbing in 2.3km distance. Lomas Cantadas from El Toyonal to Grizzly Peak, 152 meters climbing in 1.2km distance (total 344 meters climbing in 4.5 km). Steepest section, 15% consistent grade for about 1km], for a total of 50 miles. I've only done the El Toyonal route 3 times, each time on a different bike. First, as a brand newbie on Wendy's old steel too-big Marinoni in March or early April 2007 (Marty's a twisted, twisted man), then on my first bike a couple months later, and then on my new crash replacement bike over a year after that. My new bike seems to have liked it the least. My front wheel kept jumping off the road on the steepest portions, I'm sure because of the upright positioning (though I'd thought it was lower than my first bike). Got my already redlining heartrate going faster, just contemplating a wheelie up a steep hill, while clipped in.
And chill? Hm. Everything's relative. But truth be told, neither of us would have done it alone, and it was great to get a nice hard workout, we agreed. Plus, I'd gotten to sleep in a bit!
So during the ride, Marty reminded me of the time we'd first met. We'd all gone out for pizza at Lanesplitters after Mark's spin class. This was before I'd started cycling; Marty said I was super quiet in those days, kept to myself with my baseball cap covering 3/4 of my face at spin class, and he couldn't decide if that meant I was shy or stupid, and then he ultimately decided that it didn't really matter because I was pretty.
Does this guy know how to compliment a gal, or what?! And what depth of character! Joking aside, it did kinda scare me that shyness could be mistaken for stupidity, though I know outgoing people make a better first impression. Wait...we did agree it was shyness...?
Marty strongly recommended Tropic Thunder; he'd just seen it the night before. Scott was kind enough to indulge me. And now I must recommend it to you. Absolute, pure brilliance.
And now, an official 2008 Team Oakland photo, taken this morning, courtesy of Lauren's camera (I'd only managed to capture the gals with the green machine; it was early.):
said the checkout girl at Trader Joe's.
I'd made it there at 8:45 pm, just in the nick of time, after spinning 910 calories out of my body. It was my only chance to go. I was trying to be good, you know, get things done.
Immediate salivation surge. "No" I said, rapt as she bagged my two boxes of mochi. I had just spun 910 calories out of my body, after all. I really did try my best. I knew I had lettuce and an heirloom tomato in the fridge, so I'd gotten the rest of the makings for salad! I got low fat yogurt!**
"Oh. What are you going to have?"
How could she be so cruel? "Whatever's closest to my mouth when I get home."
But then I thought about what I was trying to accomplish here, and, once home, I set about making a salad.
Is there anything in the world more tragic than an unopened bag of soupy, once premium baby greens, and a once-succulent $5 heirloom tomato from Whole Foods now rotting in a plastic baggie, after you've just gone salad accessory shopping?
It wasn't at all fabulous. But at least I didn't eat the mochi*.
*Update: I had some mochi. Stay away from the Green Tea flavor. I know it seems like a good idea. But just trust me.
**Update #2: So...turns out it's high fat yogurt. Oops.
---
My BFF finally made it to spin tonight, after a long hiatus. Yay!!! He made things interesting, like when he asked me conversationally if I was hydrating, while I was at threshold and trying to force out instructions without hurling. And like when we were about 8 minutes through our second hill drill (this one was 18 minutes long) and I let on that we still had about 10 minutes left, and he yelled
"WHAT?!"
in a knee-jerk reaction kind of way, like I was completely insane. And everyone looked up, like maybe they should re-consider the drill. I sensed a mutiny. Classic Larry. Don't know why I thought it was Dave who'd said it, but I was at threshold again, and trying really hard to remember what minute we were on and not hurl.
The jury's out on Cuban hip-hop for Slow Frequency Revolutions, but I had to try it.
Ran a 9-mile trail race yesterday. I got 5th out of 13 in my age group. Well it was really 6th, because Courtenay would have easily won our age group if she hadn't been so far off the front that she'd gotten lost, tacking on an additional 2.5 miles.
Solidly mediocre. That's OK, I'm still in the beginning stages of my running training plan, such as it is (I have no running training plan). Not that I'd be any better over time, but I did notice that if I'd been a year older, I'd have won the 40-49 age group. Heehee.
I stretched during the awards ceremony/raffles (I had my camera at the ready, but they didn't pronounce Courtenay the winner of her 11.5 mile race, because there wasn't supposed to be an 11.5 mile race, but I think they should have made one, retroactively), thinking how brilliant I was to do so, because I wouldn't be sore the next day. Then, I realized I was right near Target, so I decided to go pick up some stuff. I stopped at B Cubed* (next door) first, and sat on all 4 floor models of their massage chairs, rotating through for about an hour, staring into space and holding a pillow that I ended up not buying because I was way too relaxed to stand in line, and did I really need a stupid pillow? And then I ultimately decided to skip Target because did I really need to go to stupid Target?
I was terribly sore this morning when I hobbled out of bed (My quads! No fair, I stretched! My heel! My heel?? That's a new one.) to prepare for a ride arranged with Mel when she'd called me at midnight, after a drink-filled evening. But it turns out, you use different muscles to ride, so it was actually OK. You do use the same electrolytes though; my thirst was insatiable.
*Bed, Bath, and Beyond
When I got home from work today, I was irritated to see a postcard stuck in my driver's side window. I hate it when people do that. I yanked it off the rubber dealio and headed for the trashcan, just inches away from me, and as I got ready to toss it in, I read it. DoneRight Auto Spa.
Looked around.
My car had been the only one accosted.
My headlights are quite yellow. Kinda like a blackish yellow, really. I actually thought the bulbs needed replacing the other day, but then I realized they're just that dirty.
I kept the card. Free pick up and delivery. I'm going to call them tomorrow (card says "call today" but they are not the boss of me).
Listed in the DSM (Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders V -- currently in consultation, and not yet published, which is why you've never heard of it, doubters, and you know who you are!), it stands for Intervallic Black Sheep Adventurer Depressive Disorder. IBSADD is characterized by pervasive low mood, loss of interest/pleasure in the usual pleasurable activities, and an insatiable desire for powdered recovery drink stirred with a Nutter Butter ("Butter Nutter" if you're German), other people's french fries, and floppy hats. "Intervallic" because it persists strongly only in the period of time between two events:
1. The last Epic Black Sheep Adventure, which took place during the first week of August; and2. The next Epic Black Sheep Adventure, to take place the first week of next August.The interval stretches before me now at its longest. Too long to contemplate. Woe is me! I am consoled only by the fact that it will be shorter tomorrow, and even shorter the day after that. The pain will subside to a dull ache (assuming I don't asphyxiate on a Butter Nutter or that I haven't somehow misread the signs for a ruptured Appendix and end up dying on the way to the hospital or something). Anyway, this debilitating disorder is my excuse for not having posted about my trip until now.Some Highlights
On the plane to Vegas, we got the Southwest flight attendant to do the safety demo with Courtenay's helmet on:
Bryce was pretty damn cool...
Riding through Zion National Park blew my mind...
Hiking near sheer cliffs on the rest day, when I could hardly walk a straight line, was totally worth it...
...until I made it up past the switchbacks and got to the you'llneedtoholdontothesechainsforthispart section...
At which point I was one of a very small number of the group who turned around.
I was not made to happily look over ledges. I get dizzy. Which is not good on ledges and such. Not good.
So anyway, there were spectacular storms with thunder and lightning, beautiful rainbows -- at one point leaving Marble Canyon, it was raining, yet sunny, so I said, "that means there must be a rainbow somewhere!' and Mark told us to turn around, and there it was. An entire rainbow. End to end. But of course my camera battery had died early that morning, so here:
And we drank lots of beer! In Utah! (Can't believe you were worried there'd be no beer.)
..hung out at the Grand Canyon's north rim on scary ledges and such, and then watched a storm roll in (afternoon storms are common this time of year, and they kept the unbearable heat out, which was great)...
And took turns getting our Floppy Hat portraits taken by esteemed photojournalist C. Redis (and whoever took her photo...maybe the bear?), who appears suggestively below in pink:
And I won all the week's races except for one (of which I won the first stage, it must be noted), excluding all the people who didn't count on any particular day, and including all the other people who didn't know/care that we were racing.
And then I got home and (depressedly) ran 10.5 miles the other day like it was nothing. Because we'd been cycling, hiking, and sleeping at 10,000 feet!
Well, actually Utah. Vi(v)a Las Vegas.
I'll be riding my bike to Bryce, Zion, and the north rim of the Grand Canyon with Black Sheep Adventures for a week! We were supposed to bike up to Oregon, but the California wildfires threw a pedal wrench into that plan. Anyway, it's like the bike. Something goes wrong, and somehow you end up with something better.
I've been wanting to see the canyons of Utah since Thelma and Louise came out, all those years ago....
It is going to be hot, hot, hot.
Pictures to come!
*updated with a liger and some video on 7/25/08*
Back when I was 18 or something, I got a summer job selling Cutco cutlery. Yeah, I was hot stuff. I had to fight for this job. I remember there was some Vector Marketing "seminar" to be a Cutco salesperson, and my brother was going, so I went too. At the "seminar," they give the whole group the "spiel" with all the amazing knives and accessories, and then they tell you about all the self-made knife millionaires who've come through there, and then they call each of you into the manager's office for a one-on-one interview, where the manager asks you why you want the job and then tells you whether or not you've got "the stuff " needed to sell knives. So my brother goes in, and emerges later with a job offer. And I go in, and I'm told I'm not right for the position. Buh-bye.
Later, we're debriefing, and Bryan's all, "Yeah, he said I was in, but I told him I wasn't going to take it; I just couldn't see telling people they need knives to complete them." And I'm all, "Oh. Well I didn't get the job." So he says,"What happened? What did you say when he asked you why you wanted the job??" "I told him I needed the money." Bryan found this really funny. Way too funny for my taste anyway. Then he told me to go back to another seminar, and to say anything but that. So I went back, and made up some crap about how a sharp knife is the answer to the world's problems, blahblahblah, and I got the job.
So then I had to buy the demo set, to demo the stuff, and hopefully sell it, to everyone I knew. Which was, like, my parents (they actually bought the demo set and let me use it), my parents' friends, relatives, former teachers, my dentist's wife, my boyfriend's parents, their friends, etc. Talk about awkward. But I have to say, it was amazing how many people were sweet enough to sit through a demo. Though, I think I stood up my dentist's wife during a scheduled demo, and got a "talking to." I guess I wasn't used to making (and keeping) appointments at that age. A good life lesson. Now when I miss appointments, I make sure my mom doesn't find out about it.
During one demo, I was showing a neighborhood mom, whose daughter I'd babysat a few years before, how the slotted cutlery storage box could be turned upside down without the knives falling out (safety feature! This part of the demo comes right before the big finale, where you cut the penny in half with the Cutco scissors!). Well, of course all of the knives fell out, one right onto my foot, gashing the top of it nicely. As I bled on neighborhoodmom's living room floor, she called my mom to come get me. Then she examined it while we were waiting (she knew my mom because both were nurses at the same hospital): "Hm, looks like you need sutures." Hey, they were sharp knives, so it really was a successful demo, if you think about it. But she didn't buy anything. And I stopped flipping the holder thingy upside down after that.
Why do nurses always say "sutures" instead of "stitches?" Sounds so serious.
Waaaaaay back then I was with Steve. His poor mom sat through the demo and then bought some stuff. She was very nice to me. Well, Steve and I were actually together for over 5 years. One year, Steve's mom gave me the biggest Christmas present (Steve's brother was miffed). He and his wife Pam now live in Miami, FL (makes Baltimore feel less humid??), and just had a baby. Her name's Raina, and she's tres cute, and I'd like to bite her cheeks off.
I digress! Steve and Pam are back in Baltimore right now, visiting the folks like couples with new kids do, and I just got an email from him, entitled "20 year old cutco knives". Just this photo,
and the phrase "they still work pretty well!" I guess my legacy lives on. Yeah, that's right.
Did you know the handles are made from bowling ball material? Won't warp like wood. And the rivets are flush, so food won't get caught in the handle. Because how totally unsanitary would that be?!
In other news, my parents just went to Artscape (A Baltimore art festival) and sent me this figurine, made of railroad ties, that a local artist had made ("Roland Metal Art") and was selling there. Isn't it so cute?
My dad put the "Death Ride survivor" sign on there.
And finally, my BFF emailed me a drawing of a liger today. Because you're never too busy to email someone a drawing of a liger. GOSH!
And seriously finally, for real this time, I was referred to an upper extremities surgeon, who recommends surgery on my elbow. After I broke it, the tip of the olecranon fused quickly, but poorly, with the rest of the ulna, it turns out, leaving a gap in the bone on which ulnar nerve is sitting, causing irritation and numbness in my fingers, and limiting range of motion in my arm. But I'm going to try to fix it myself with better stretching and a new weight training program. To be continued!
And super duper duper finally, here's me practicing with my band, the Webster Street Miracles. We all work at an organization on Webster Street, and we get together once-yearly to perform on the annual summer cruise. It's very The Office. There were some shenanigans involving some band members performing without other band members at the annual Christmas party (perhaps you read about it in Rolling Stone?), but we managed to overcome the drama and bring it back together to rock everyone's face. Yeah!
Took me years to master the tambo. Now I just need to master the "brooding musician" camera pose. Found some wacky footage of last year's "big event":
I expected to suffer. And I can "doom and gloom" with the best of them. I play movies of crashes in my head, and I'm always the star. I can't help myself. And yet.
I arrived at Kirkwood on Thursday evening to acclimate. 8700 feet! I was supposed to be there by the afternoon, but I puttered, and then I took 580 West up into Marin, when the directions actually had me going 580 East through Livermore. Screwed by autopilot yet again. I was told later that I shouldn't think of Tahoe as "north" but rather "east, oh and by the way, north." Noted for future trips.
My room was serene and quiet, and after losing the key between the front desk and the room, getting another key at the front desk, finding the original key in the pocket where I'd placed it so I wouldn't have to search for it, and hauling my bike, gear, cooler of food, and clothes up to the 3rd floor (oh my god the thin air!), I went to the rec center and soaked in the hot tub to loosen up my back/arm and catch my breath. I'd brought a bottle of Gatorade with me (altitude + hot tub = dehydration), but I'd forgotten to close the bottle top. It spilled all over my phone, which now randomly flashes the message, "enhancement not supported."
Marty called and he was coming in late. We met up the next morning, and hiked to the top of Kirkwood (Acclimate, acclimate! I know. It takes 2 weeks. But the psychological factors must not be underrated). It was a beautiful hike; wildflowers everywhere, and cool to see the same ski trails I'd snowboarded , now deserted and green. We were on the very run where I'd yelled to the chair lift guy, "PLEASE COULD YOU SLOW DOWN THE LIFT" so that I could dismount without falling off my board and onto my tailbone again. And he did. And I did, for the first time. And he'd given me a thumbs up.
Now, we stood at the top of a motionless chair lift and pondered life. Marty closed his eyes for a moment and meditated in the silence. I threw blades of grass at his head. Om.
I didn't really throw blades of grass at his head. But wouldn't that be funny?
Then we went to the expo and I got so much swag that I had to bum a plastic bag off a volunteer to carry it all. I love swag. Even really lame swag. We also registered for the ride there, and then went to Markleeville for lunch, where we ran into Kathryn, who was waiting for the tow truck to take her back to the top of Ebbetts pass where Bobby was waiting by their truck, which had died after they'd strayed off the beaten path looking for rocks. We had fun chatting and reapplying sunscreen and flexing our biceps until the tow truck arrived.
Marty and I decided not to join the group for dinner in Gardnerville, because it's an hour away from Kirkwood, and that's time that should be spent getting everything ready for the next day's adventure. Plus, I wanted to be asleep by 8, because I'd be getting up at 2:45, to be at the start and on my bike by 4:30, where we were meeting Tracy, who I'd convinced to do the ride at the last minute (you get in by lottery only, but there are always tickets to be found on craigslist), and who had resolved to do so despite catching some sort of stomach bug on Thursday (hard core!). So we ate at Kirkwood and set about preparing for the ride. Tires were pumped, bikes and bags were packed, and all I had to do was wake up, dress, eat and go.
Pasta at Bub's. In bed by 8. Awake an hour later. Huge party of what sounded like a gazillion people in the next room. Argh. Went over there twice to ask them to please shut up, but after the second time, I was furious and wired. I'd gotten this 3rd floor room with no elevator because it was supposed to be quiet! The entire rest of the complex was blanketed in darkness. Even the pub was quiet. Why me?! Et cetera.
After 3 hours of sleep total, my alarm woke me. I thought about blasting the TV for the neighbors. What's worse than a shrill I Love Lucy when you're trying to sleep? But I just couldn't. I had my coffee and tried to eat my oatmeal but it was disgusting at that hour so I only managed about half. Marty called to be sure I was awake. I slathered on the sunscreen (weird to do in the dark), donned my plastic shopping bags (I'd created plastic thermal underwear for warmth - thanks for the tip Anthony!!!), and then suited (kitted?) up. We met at our cars, and caravanned to Turtle Rock. There were quite a few vehicles on the same schedule, so it took longer than we expected and we were about 5 minutes late meeting Tracy, but when we rode up to the start, she was there! In the 2 minutes it took to ride to the start, my headlight had died (I hadn't used it in a year, and should have replaced the batteries). And it turned out that Tracy's taillight was out. So we rode with Marty in front, Tracy behind (for visibility ahead), and me last (for visibility behind). It was really scary, because the ride starts on a descent, and it was pitch black and I couldn't see shit. We floated down the hill and I prayed for no potholes. I have to say, I was toasty warm in my plastic underwear. Periodic roll call kept us together until it started getting light, which coincided with the beginning of the first climb (front side of Monitor pass). I balled up my plastic underwear and stuck it in my back jersey pocket.
We lost Marty immediately. He was going strong and there was no reason to hold him back. Then Tracy pulled me for a while, until she wanted to speed up and grab a wheel to get out of the wind. I decided to hang back, because I was feeling the altitude and didn't want to blow it early. I was making sure to keep my heart rate at ME for the most part, and I stopped to shove something in my mouth every hour on the way up. Eventually, I grabbed a nice slow-moving wheel and stayed there for the remainder of the climb. Slowwheel's buddy, fatcyclist.com, grabbed mine, and this is how it went for a while. They bantered, and I remained silent, conserving my energy, until slowwheel asked where I was from and then fatcyclist.com said, "you've got a skeeter on your leg." "Oh" said I. Fatcyclist.com started coming around me, I thought to pass, and suddenly, bam. He hurled his fist into my calf. I almost went down. He examined his fist and said, "yup - full of blood." Meanwhile, I was pondering the possibility of crashing out of the Death Ride on my first climb (going about 4.5 mph). This struck me as hilarious. It may have partly been the altitude. I would keep running into fatcyclist.com throughout the ride. he would say stuff like, "I knew I'd run into you again, Pigtails!" It's so weird to keep getting passed over and over by the same people, that you didn't realize you'd passed again.
So the front side of Monitor was otherwise uneventful, and after thanking slowwheel for pulling me to the top, I, staying true to my goal of not stopping at the tops of the passes, kept going over the summit and plunged down the back side. My computer registered 47.3 mph on the way down, which was good for me (you make up all your time on the descents, but I find them scary). When I stopped at the bottom, Tracy was there; we re-filled, grabbed bars and headed up the back side for pass #2 of 5 together. Himgan and some other Touchstoners blasted by us, accelerating up Monitor and looking fresh as daisies. Tracy herself was looking incredibly strong, and it was clear she was hanging back for me (there was a photo opportunity near the top), which was very nice of her.
And this is where the funniest part of the ride happened. There was a guy on the side of the road, fixing a flat. Tracy was up ahead a little bit, and there was a guy right in front of me, who said to the guy on the shoulder, "do you have everything you need?" which is what is always said by one cyclist who passes another on the shoulder when it appears they're having mechanical problems. Unwritten rule. Most people are well-prepared, and can say "yes." It's also an unwritten (and sometimes written, like on an organized ride) rule that you carry spare tubes, etc. with you. But this guy said, "uh, no, actually I don't." And the guy in front of me goes, "Oh. Well...I don't have anything. Sorry." And he kept going. Can a guy's back look sheepish? Because this guy's sure did. Since I’ve started cycling, I’ve always contemplated this scenario. It happened on the Death Ride!
So Shoulderguy needed a new tube, a C02 cartridge, and a C02 cartridge inflater, because his spare tube stem had broken off in his inflater! I had all 3. But then someone more experienced stopped too; I didn’t feel I had much time to spare, so I was happy to let him take over, and I took off after Tracy. We got our photo taken together climbing to the top, and headed over and down the front side. I passed by the infamous Pink Lady! And two passes in the bag. I saw Tracy briefly at the base of Ebbetts (the start of pass #3), but I told her to move on, and that was basically the last I saw of her. Remarkable really, given the stomach bug she’d caught on Thursday, that she was throwing it down. As opposed to up, I mean.
Well, I hate Ebbetts. It's the highest of all the peaks, so you get the thinnest air. And you have to hug the steepest part of the switchbacks on the right, what with the riders hurtling down the left side of the twisty, narrow road at 50 mph. View, shmiew. I’ll take Monitor over Ebbetts any day. But there I was. I decided to go slowly and steadily, and to try to keep my heart rate in medium endurance range. That, and the “Rolling Bones” riders toting the skeleton behind me, singing badly to their cheesy, loud, piped-in music, kept me going. The wildfire haze also kept most of the heat out, which was nice. I reached the top, declined a Red Vine (they always have Red Vines at the top of Ebbetts, but sadly I’m a Twizzlers gal), picked up my 3rd pass sticker, and headed down the back side. I heard Marty yell “LAURAAAAAA!” He was summiting the back side of Ebbetts, a full pass ahead of me, and man, was I envious. Further down, a blurry Tracy (was she smiling while climbing up that damn hill?! I really have to pop some Tums next time I do this, if I ever repeat it). And finally, I was at the bottom. My back was smarting on these descents. I simply couldn’t get any relief. Andrea was there (she was just ahead of me on most of the ride), and so was Melissa. They headed out as I re-filled my bottles and barely remembered to eat. This was where I started feeling broken down. For some reason, I thought I was way too close to the cut-off times, and that I’d never make it. Yet, there was nothing to do but move on, so I did. I was bonking and had to stop halfway up to eat some Fig Newtons. They did the trick, though, and I gained some speed and energy, and started feeling more optimistic. Suddenly I was at the top again, well short of the time I thought it would take (I think the descent just felt so endless that I thought the climb back up would be longer than it was). 4th pass down, and now, to lunch! Tried not to think about the fact that I still had 50 miles or so to go.
Saw Andrea, Melissa, and Bobby at lunch, but I didn’t dawdle. Bobby said we were fine, time-wise, but for some reason I wasn’t buying it. Plus, lunch was cold cuts. Yuck. I was back on my bike within 15 minutes, and latched onto every wheel I could on those rollers toward Turtle Rock (my god, the wind!), and finally into Woodfords rest stop. I was really dragging now, but so was the guy with whom I’d been trading pulls (Yeah, like I’d end a clause with a preposition. Please!), so it all worked out. We headed out of Woodfords together (I’d confirmed that we were at least 1.5 hours ahead of cutoff times, and would easily make it) and drafted to Pickets (itself a 7% grade – not fun), where, at about mile 100, I told my drafting buddy to move on because I needed a real rest. I sat, and gave myself a desperately-needed foot massage while watching storm clouds roll in. Now that I was stationary, I was cold. I started to shiver. Andrea showed up (weird - didn’t even know I’d passed her?), asked if I thought she’d regret stopping her ride here (Answer: You do not turn back from Pickets. Only 9 miles to the top of the 5th pass!), and laughed at the sight of me donning my plastic thermal underwear.
“Laura, what are you doing?”
“I’m freezing.”
“But, we’re going up (points up for emphasis).”
“But it’s going to rain (looks at storm clouds for emphasis).”
“It’s totally not going to rain.”
So I yanked my plastic bags off my chest and put them back in my pocket. Andrea moved on while I waited in line at the porta potty (normally I’d go elsewhere rather than bother with a line, but I needed to apply more chamois cream).
Then I was off for my last pass! Yeah! But I realized I hadn’t thought to eat anything at the rest stop. So I pulled over, pulled out a bar, sat on a rock, and ate. Bobby passed me and asked if all was OK (I smiled, secure in the knowledge that he was sincere). I said all was fine, and he moved on. And then I hopped back on my bike and took off. And it got super dark. And then the hail started. And then the pouring rain (which lasted for the rest of my ride up Carson). Truthfully, Andrea, the plastic bags wouldn't have helped in this downpour, as we both know. But: heehee! I wrapped my cell phone in the plastic bags, hoping the enhancement would be supported. And then the weird squeaking noise started emanating from my bike, which was worrisome, but not as worrisome as the car traffic, wetness, darkness, and lack of shoulder.
As a guy passed me, I asked him if my tail light was on. He said, “yep. what's that funny noise your bike's making?" And I said that I didn't know, that it had started with the rain. He said, "that could be your brake pads rubbing. Or your bottom bracket." I said "yikes" (searching my brain for the term "bottom bracket" and wondering how dangerous it was...). He said, "Ah, don't worry about it" and I couldn't worry about it anyway, because there were cars, there was a line of riders behind me, and there was no real shoulder to pull off to, only mud/gravel (I thought the noise was gravel grinding my chain). Finally there was a pull-off. I checked my wheel, and sure enough, the front right brake pad was hugging the wheel's rim! Who knows how long I had that extra resistance on the bike!!! Could have been the whole ride! I only found out when the rain made it squeak, and if the guy hadn't said anything, I'd never have known to adjust the brake pads (which took all of 2 seconds and felt better immediately)! He saw me at the top of the final pass, and asked me if the bike was still squeaking. I told him he'd made the correct diagnosis and that I'd survived the Death Ride with my brake pads rubbing the rim. He added, "in HAIL!" High five.
And there it is. 5 passes. Over 100 miles, and 15,000 feet of climbing. 13 hours. A whopping 6,618 calories.
What did I take away from this experience? Well, a long ride is nothing if not a great opportunity for contemplation, this was nothing, if not a long ride, and I am nothing if not an opportunist. Here it is folks:
1. It is truly amazing how much you can accomplish when you think you simply can’t accomplish more. And the elation, at overcoming that feeling of utter defeat, all on your own? Intense.
2. Replace your headlight batteries at least once a year, if you plan to use your headlight, and for the love of all that is holy, check your brake pads, you dumbass.
3. Please please stop with the white cycling shorts. Am I not suffering enough, on a 12% grade up Ebbetts, that I have to see your sweaty ass crack for an hour or more?
"What's the Mt. Hamilton Century," you ask? Why haven't you heard of it? And don't I mean "Mt. Hamilton Challenge?"
One question at a time please. I'm quite tired because I won.
Well, it took place today, Saturday July 5, 2008. You've never heard of it because their lame-ass marketing team sucks. And no, I don't mean the organized Mt. Hamilton Challenge, though this particular century is quite similar to the Challenge in that you have to bring, buy, steal, kill, or forage for your own food. Yet it is quite dissimilar in that there are no SAG wagons or first aid stations, and it is in fact entirely 100% unsupported, but only because one of the participants (Tracy, the second place finisher! Yay Tracy!) forgot her cell phone in the car, so that even though they were lucky enough to have an emergency private SAG wagon "Plan B" in place, it could never have been called into action, had it been needed. And it felt sorely needed by one participantwhoshallremainanonymous in particular at mile 60, when she was suddenly totally out of water and thought she was going to die of dehydration in the scorching dry valley heat before the f*cking Junction Cafe appeared on the horizon.
All's well that ends well. After 105.27 miles, 8000+ feet of climbing, 4610 calories, 3 PBJ sandwiches, 4 fig newtons, some pretzels, almonds, a mojo bar (yum! my new fave!), a snack pack of fritos (had to slam my body as hard as I could several times into the vending machine in the planetarium on the top of Mt. Hamilton immediately after climbing 4,000 feet in the mid-day heat to shake that one loose! It got stuck on the spiral thingy! I earned those f*cking fritos and they were good!) 3 bottles of gatorade, 1 bottle of water, 2 bottles of cytomax, 3 cokes, and a big gulp iced caramel latte (so much for the 4610 calories!), I reached the car first (in the interest of full disclosure, I may have told Tracy that I needed to reach the car first and she may have pulled practically to the end and then let me go in front of her). So I won. Despite realizing about a mile into the ride that I'd left both of my water bottles in the car, and having to turn back and get them. (Here's the Bikely.com route; it says 95 miles, but we changed it a bit at the end after talking with a pair of riders that we kept running into.)
Thanks to Tracy for doing all the research, all the driving, and the lion's share of the pulling. And for almost having a Plan B, which was more than I'd come up with.
This was also the day after July 4, when I rode 50+ miles and did 5,453 feet of climbing (here's the Bikely.com profile), and then went to a BBQ with Scott, who got scolded for spending the whole time inside the house, which he only did to keep me company while I was stretching and resting my sore back, and then I had to go to sleep at 9 pm instead of seeing fireworks, or getting a drink at the tiki bar. Sorry Scott. Winner/loser. 2 sides of the same coin.
And now, finally, I rest. Nothing strenuous until the Death Ride.
Marty had been kind enough to invite me out for some epic Death Ride prep a few Saturdays back, but I'd already signed up for Pescadero on that day. So when he suggested Mt. Diablo hill repeats for this past Saturday, exactly 2 weeks before the ride, I jumped at the chance. He's a seasoned distance cyclist (about a million successful Death Rides, Terrible Twos, Paris Brest Parises, etc.), so I knew this was all part of his finely tuned scientific training plan.
A couple riders passed us, going up the Walnut Creek side the first time, and after glancing at Marty's Death Ride 2001 jersey (which did not match his 2000 headband), one of them asked him if he was going to earn the jersey again this year. Marty said "naaah" with faux nonchalance (parlez vous francais?), and then asked them if they were training for it. They said that they were, and that this was their last big training ride before the big event. So Marty asked with faux nonchalance when the actual ride was, and they said it was on the 12th. And then, as they continued upwards and out of earshot, Marty looked at me with a freaked out expression and said, "Wow. That's soon." And that's how I found out Marty's nonchalance hadn't been entirely faux; rather, it was born of ignorance (naiveté?).
Merde.
So much for scientific. Actually, the whole exchange was a bit bizarre, on a couple different levels, because (a) the ride was 2 whole weeks away and even I know that only an idiot would taper that early; and (b) Marty had made a room reservation for the weekend of the ride as recently as the 19th, and he'd emailed me immediately thereafter, urging me to do the same before things filled up. So it couldn't have snuck up on him. But Marty also just had dental surgery, and teeth are connected to all sorts of important things that you wouldn't think they're connected to. Like bloodstreams to vital organs. This is why people with unexplainable maladies sometimes get asked, "have you had any dental work lately?" by medical diagnosticians. Could be a clot on the pons. Or an artificial tooth implant that had traveled through a larger artery and landed precariously on his parietal lobe. Or is memory associated with the temporal lobe? I forget. Whatever! Poor Marty.
Tracy joined us as well. She's not doing the Death Ride, but she's training for this year's Black Sheep Adventure! She was waiting for us at the wrong church, but she and Marty saw each other as we drove by around 9:35 (only 5 minutes late, even though I'd gotten lost twice driving the 2 miles from my house to Marty's!), so we got ourselves together at a very leisurely pace, and finally took off together (probably around 10:15?). We'd all decided to ignore the health advisory to stay indoors (1400 wildfires burning in the Bay Area, and counting).
Of the three of us, I definitely suffered most. The first time up was fine, but the descent was painful (not a good sign - it's important to be able to recover on a Death Ride descent; they're loooong). When I got back on my bike after the ranger station the second time up, things got exponentially harder, and hotter (a temperature inversion; Tracy had noticed, and was explaining how a temperature inversion works, but I was having trouble focusing, so please don't quiz me). The steep grade at the tippy top sucked. I bought a coke at the museum shop/lookout, and the ranger congratulated me. But I told her congratulations were not yet in order; we had to do it again. So we descended back into Danville. The descent felt endless. The final climb was OK at first, because I was moving pretty slowly, but my back was throbbing by the time I'd made it to the ranger's station. While stopped there (about 2/3 of the way up from the Danville side) I had tried to convince Marty to commit to 4 climbs total, because I felt I needed to know that I could. He was having none of it. He said we should do it three times, build on that over the next week of training, then rest. What he said made sense, though he could have been talking out of his toothy cerebellum or something. Anyway, when I glanced at my watch it was nearly 4pm and we still had about an hour to the top by Tracy's estimate. At the top, the parking lot was deserted, and it was hot. None of us had brought sunscreen with us, and I'd only remembered to slather my face in the car before we left, not my body. It was 5:05. The shop had closed while we were chatting at the water fountain, so no coke. Ah well. Back to Walnut Creek! I glanced at the horizon several times on that last descent, willing the valley to come closer, and eventually it arrived and I found Marty's car, 70 miles, 11,400 feet of climbing, and close to 8 hours after I'd left it. Marty drove us in a couple circles looking for Jamba Juice, which, when we ultimately found it, had morphed into a different smoothie establishment. Tracy and I wanted savory anyway (we'd been devouring Gu and Clif bars all day), so we left Marty to his smoothie and went next door to the burrito joint. Hit the spot. Once sated, we headed home, and after a shower, I headed to Jessnmel's to watch billions of Arrested Development (recently discovered, and perhaps the funniest show ever!!!) episodes while stretching on my yoga mat in their living room. Ahhhhh.
Hobbled over to Eden for a bike re-fit on Sunday. Rick swapped out my stem yet again for one with a steeper angle, assured me it didn't look ridiculous and that it was safe, and adjusted the seat and handlebars, all for more upright positioning. he also mentioned that my choice of Death Ride gearing was a bit surprising. Ack. Well, I don't have a triple, and that part's not changing....
