How to Legally Roll Through a Stop Sign

photo courtesy of thecrazyfilmgirl on Flickr

The answer: You must live in Idaho. Or possibly New Mexico.

On Tuesday, New Mexico's House passed a bill that would allow cyclists to treat stop signs as yield signs, almost 30 years after cyclists in Idaho won the privilege. The Santa Fe New Mexican reports that the bill's sponsor, Rep. Miguel Garcia, said once Idaho passed their bike law, the bicycle injury rate fell 15 percent. He also argued that passing such a law would help to prevent cyclists from getting rear-ended at stop signs. (A problem I have never heard much about.)

Cyclists argue in favor of the law for several reasons, including that we have better awareness of our surroundings and can stop faster than vehicles. Other cyclists argue that the law establishes cyclists as something "other" than drivers and might set a precedent to limit cyclists' road use privileges.  And that it's good for everyone on the road to be predictable.

In the meantime, New Mexican cyclists shouldn't party yet; Oregon's House passed a similar bill in 2003 that their Senate killed. Oregon's Bicycle Transportation Alliance tried again in 2009, to no avail. According to the now defunct cycling advocacy nonprofit, the Bicycle Civil Liberties Union, cyclists in California, Oregon, Arizona and Virginia have all tried to pass a similar law.

As someone who has received a $150ish ticket for rolling a T-stop on a rural road with nobody around except a cop who apparently liked to spend his Saturday mornings hiding in a bush, I'm all for the stop-as-yield law. And if you have the tenacity and connections to get it passed in CA, I'll buy you a beer. Or 20.

Badass Bike Handling Skills

A friend forwarded this rad video. It's like pairs ice skating. Except with two girls, bikes and a bball court. From the 2009 European Junior Championships for Indoor Cycling, apparently.

Kunstrad EM 2009 Carla Und Henriette Hochdorfer - The most popular videos are here

Update on RAAM Cyclist Diego Ballesteros

Spanish RAAM team Coanfi Desafio Aspanoa has maintained a blog updating the status of Diego Ballesteros, who was struck by a car outside of Wichita, Kansas during the race.

Yesterday's post stated that Ballesteros' girlfriend, Ana, had flown in to be with him and that his condition is improving day by day.

You can read the Spanish blog translated by Google here.

A Stanford Graduation in Kansas

My grad school graduation was on Sunday, so the men of RAAM's Media 2 van (who kidnapped me from the Media HQ van) held a ceremony for me in Ulysses, Kansas. It might have been as awesome as the real thing...

I'm still blogging for RAAM here. The race ends on Monday!

I'm Covering Race Across America!

Hi hot endurance athletes! It's been way too long.

I am currently a part of the media team at Race Across America. I'll be updating the RAAM website regularly on both the main page and the Headquarters blog. And you can follow me on RAAM's facebook/twitter updates.

It was a little bit of a rough start--my boss thought I was drunk on the first night (last night) because I was being me. Apparently I give off a drunken vibe.

It'll only get worse as the sleep deprivation goes on, so buckle up and get ready for some rad (drunken...not!) posts on the RAAM site.

I take off from Oceanside on Thursday to chase the cyclists to Annapolis, MD.

My grad school graduation is on Sunday. I brought a tassel and will pin it to my head for the day.

Rock on party people.

Tour of California 2010--Stage 3 Photos & Video

Tour organizers moved the Tour to May to avoid the craptastic weather February brought last year. But while it may have seemed like their idea panned out-- the California coast was reportedly sunny this morning--Tour riders met a freezing, wet cloud of evil as they rode up Tunitas Creek to the KOM this afternoon. And so were spectators. But we still went out in full force, climbing King's Mtn. then ditching our bikes and huddling in sweaty, misty-wet groups of bouncing body-heat generating spandexified cyclophiles.

Creepy wet descents!

Here are some photos from the KOM, and the intersection of 84 and Skyline in Woodside, CA. The first few KOM photos are of a smartypants who followed a lead vehicle over the line, earning his 10 seconds of fame.

And a little video.

The peloton:

France Issues Arrest Warrant for Floyd Landis--No More French Riviera Vacations

If you're one of those people who takes comfort in knowing someone else has screwed up far worse than you ever will, look no further for this week's pick-me-up than Floyd Landis.

The French have issued an arrest warrant for the cyclist. They claim he hacked into the French Anti-Doping Agency's computer in 2006. That was the year Landis won the Tour de France, then had his victory taken away because he was charged with doping.

And now the French believe in order to prove his innocence, Landis hacked their computers.

But the warrant can only be served in France.

Landis hasn't twittered (@TheRealFloydL) since the 6th, and on January 27th he was in San Diego. Looks like we won't be seeing any tweet from TheRealFloydL saying, "Enjoying a glass of wine after a ride through Aix-en-Provence" any time soon.

So if you're feeling down today, men, look no further than Floyd Landis to make you happy; at least you didn't self-induce a second round of puberty only to find that you can't vacation in France ever again because of it.

Using Denture Cleaner to Rid Cycling Bottles of Nasty Mold

I admit it. I once had a water bottle that looked like it could've spawned mutant sea-life inside, but I couldn't see the creatures through all of the mold.

That's what happens if you leave Gatorade or (especially) CarboPro in your bottle post-ride. But if your ride was 18 hours long (or, you know, spinning at the gym), sometimes you just don't feel like cleaning when you get home. Cue the spawning of mutant bottlefish.

However, there is a cure for your disgusting piece of plastic other than being wasteful, throwing it out, and buying a new one. Or waiting for the next race that hands out water bottles in their goody bag.

The answer to all of your problems is in this little pill:

If you ever had retainers, you probably encountered the miracle that is denture cleaner. Drop one pill in, let it fizz. In the case of Efferdent, it'll turn clear when its done cleaning. (At least its supposed to...in my experiment, the water still looked blue...maybe the bottle was just that bad.)

(Turns blue. Nasty stuff rises to top.)

Then dump the stuff out and rinse. All the algae and grime and fuzz and stuff in your bottle will scrub off easily now, if

it didn't already jump ship at the sight of the Efferdent tablet.

Voilà. Like-new bottle.

So the next time your spouse or training partner gets on your case for your inability to rinse your bottles after every ride, whip out your denture cleaner and tell him/her you've got it covered.

Then laugh when they start staring curiously at your teeth.

Doctor who Assaulted Cyclists with his Car gets 5 Years in Prison

Finally, some justice in the highly publicized case of Christopher Thompson, a former ER doctor who slammed on his brakes in front of two cyclists in July, 2008.

He gets 5 years in prison.

There are many cyclists who think he should be put on a bike, shoved down a hill, then have a car screech to a halt in front of him. Or have his nose and teeth shattered, like Ron Peterson did. (Don't look at that link if you're sensitive, or just ate.)

But as the bumper sticker says, "A nose for a nose makes the whole world stuffy."

Wait, that's not it...

The verdict is a semi-win for bike advocates in Los Angeles. According to the LA Times Blog, LA Now, "Judge Scott T. Millington called the case a 'wake-up call' to motorists and cyclists and urged local government to provide riders with more bike lanes."

Will local government listen?

A Crashy Christmas Century

What better day than Christmas to ride 100 miles on Pacific Coast Highway? Everyone would be at home, leaving the often creepy road all to me and coachubby and our friend Aaron. I somehow talked them into riding with me.

Little did we know that this Christmas, the battle wouldn't be against cars, but against each other.

Coachubby and I rolled out from our tiny apartment (whose 1920s wiring got so upset the day before when coachubby put oatmeal in the microwave while I blow-dried my hair that it cut the power altogether) at 6:20am to meet up with Aaron at 6:30 by the Hermosa Beach pier.

The only other people awake were the under-10 crowd, who couldn't wait to rip open wrapping paper, and cops. Lots of cops.

To avoid going straight down Pier Avenue as usual, where the cops are most likely to be hiding, I suggested we take 8th street. We didn't want to ride with lights since the sun would be up in 20 minutes anyway, and twilight had already begun.

Coachubby and I turned left onto 8th street. Then, at the next stop sign, with no warning, coachubby turned straight into me and went down. We had been riding for all of 30 seconds.

The next 5 hours of the ride were a battle royale between me and my brain. I didn't sleep the night before because I was congested, but there was no way I was missing my own Christmas Century. I hadn't ridden 100 miles since RAO (Race Across Oregon--in early July) and I would never see such beautiful riding conditions for months to come--50s and perfectly sunny. Add that to the likeliness that very few people would be driving down PCH and I had to make it to Big Rock. (A big rock on PCH just past Point Mugu, exactly 50 miles from Hermosa Beach. See below.)

But my body was pissed. A return to Beefcake spinning on the 24th at Hermosa's 24 Hour Fitness left my legs feeling like jelly, and my sinuses infected. Gyms are gross like that.

It was all I could do to hold on to Aaron's or coachubby's wheel. Yes, I was that guy--I couldn't take a pull if I wanted to, unless the dudes felt like riding 12 mph. But Aaron had a family to get to in Orange County, and my parents were driving to Hermosa from Phoenix and would be at my place in the afternoon. Slow was not an option.

I was elated when we made it back to the strand in Santa Monica. This is where you know you've made it. You're off PCH, you haven't been squished, and most of the ride home is on a designated bike path where the only obstacles are rollerbladers and oblivious powerwalkers--not to be discounted, but still not as scary as 4,000 lbs of rolling metal.

Then it happened.

Coachubby and Aaron stopped at a stop sign in Venice Beach while I was daydreaming in my stuffy head.

I ran smack into coachubby.

It was my first crash ever. (If you don't count when I fell over going uphill.) And a lame one at that. And of course, I had an audience--a young couple on the corner stared in confusion. And yes, I was wearing a Stanford jersey. Way to represent.

I popped my right foot out of the pedal and stepped it down before rolling onto my right side. The Silver Bullet and I were unscathed. The F-Bomb (Coachubby's tri bike) was not. I bent his rear wheel, and his fancy-schmancy aero-positioned brakes wouldn't open up enough so he could ride home without major rubbage. But he still pulled me back to Hermosa. What a perfect husband!

We made it back in 5 hours and 45 minutes. Not too shabby. Aaron made it back without getting run into by coachubby or me. And I made it back just in time to eat all of the appetizers I had set out for my parents' arrival. D'oh!

But there were consequences to be paid for riding sick--even it it was Christmas. Even if it was the most beautiful day ever. Even if I had a fabulous little squad to ride with.

Come time for Christmas dinner, I felt like my brain was trying to pop my eyes out of my head. And so, I write this now from the slopes of Heavenly, while the rest of my family--and coachubby's--tears it up.

Of course, I'll be out there tomorrow. No matter what.

Coming up: The Origins of the Phrase "Pain in the Butt"

Total Injustice: Tiger Woods and Cops who Kill Christmas

Only in America could a man drive an SUV into a tree while being attacked by a golf-club wielding wife and get fined a measly $14 more than a cyclist who rolled through a stop sign alongside a car on a country road.

Tiger Woods was fined $164 for careless driving. Coachubby and I were charged $150--each--for rolling the stop sign at a T intersection (going from the left of the T top to the right) along with a car. Apparently we cyclists were more of a threat to the public than Tiger Woods was behind the wheel of a massive SUV. (In his case, he got 4 points vs. his driver's license, we got none.)

There are several conclusions we can draw from this:

1. I need to be a celebrity to keep my momentum without paying for it.

2. Cops in Orlando are nicer than cops in Woodside.

3. My Silver Bullet frankenbike is more intimidating than an Escalade.

4. Woodside cops discriminate against pink spandex.

5. Santa decided coachubby and I deserve coal for Xmas and has appeared in the uniform of a Woodside cop to tell us so because his suit was getting dry cleaned.

Happy Holidays!

Stanford Cycling Makes the Big Time

No, not the team. The random cyclists on campus.

The NY Times has decided that perhaps your everyday campus cyclist was meant to walk. At least that's what I got out of it.

Check it out here.

As someone with 4 bikes and ambitions of owning an entire 3-car garage-sized fleet of bicycles, I wholeheartedly disagree. Seeing people who are not "cyclists" and who will never wear spandex in any color let alone black riding bikes makes me happy. Even if they wobble and I have to do ninja tricks to get to class without being taken out by an iPhone-wielding, cruiser-riding, 18-year old hipster.

At least his tight pants won't get caught in the chain.

All Systems Pissed

Perhaps it was my decision to do an Ironman-style workout weekend last Saturday and Sunday--without any buildup--that led to my demise.

3 people joined me on a grand cycling loop from Stanford to the ocean and back last Saturday, totaling 70ish miles. I sent out an email to the Stanford Tri Team, and got lucky--the people who came were all excellent cyclists who proceeded to kick my bum.

In my mind, of course, I had excuses for my sluggishness: I just ran my first track workout of the last half a year on Friday, after doing a 1000 meter time trial in the pool, my first swim in a month.

Sufficiently fried Saturday night, I did not sleep. I'm not sure why. You'd think a few days like that would knock a girl out. I then woke up Sunday morning to go with two highly esteemed tri-team members to Castro Valley to run a 17-mile trail run.

Yes, I was prepared to do that--I'm training for the California International Marathon on Dec. 6. No, I wasn't prepared to do that within several hours of leg bashing in the pool, on the track, and all over the South Bay.

I'm in debt to the creators of Red Bull.

Here's the kicker: My legs are still pissed. In normal Ironman-training mode, this would not happen. I would recover. But in sleep-must-go-because-I'm-doing-super-cool-stuff-for-school-that-is-more-important-than-anything-else-but-I-will-not-cut-out-training-anyway mode, my body has imposed a 10-minute mile minimum on my legs.

This speed will not get me to Boston.

I now, however, have a much greater respect for the corporate bigwigs who do Ironman--fast. They are far more important and busy than I ever was while I was training for an Ironman, yet somehow manage to get their training in, then run a Boston-worthy marathon time to cap of their IM.

Amazing.

Collegiate Cycling Guilt

One hour ago, I was presented with boxes full of Stanford cycling gear to rummage through.

I was in spandexified heaven.

Now I'm mired in guilt. Money was not required to partake in the spandex binge--immediately. When I am slammed with the request to pay for the fun things I took with the school's name splashed all over it, as well as with cycling team dues, the party's over. (And then add, in a few weeks, triathlon spandex temptations, and triathlon team dues...oy ve.)

And thus I am faced with a paradox: I miss making money, but I wouldn't be in spandex-induced guilt if I weren't here, not making money.

But no self-respecting triathlete would miss the chance to fly her respective school's colors whenever mounting her noble, two-wheeled steeds, would she? WOULD SHE?

I didn't think so.

Comments that justify outrageous purchases for which I don't have the funds are warmly welcomed.

I Have Found Cycling Mecca

If you told me there was a place where bike lanes were abundant, cyclists were out at all hours of the day, in all shapes and sizes, and on all kinds of bikes, cars were scarce, and roads were closed to cars on Sundays for my cycling pleasure, I would have laughed and asked what kind of happy medicine the doctor put you on.

But this place exists!

It is Stanford and the surrounding hills.

I might say I miss the 30 miles I had to ride in LA to get to some monster climbs, as it allowed for an enforced warm-up/ cool down period, but I might be lying. Big time. I kind of liked the sadistic 7.5 mile Page Mill Rd. climb that began a measly 10 minutes into my ride on Saturday.

To add to the weekend heart-rate spike, I met up with some of Stanford's rad triathlon team on Sunday for a swim around the wharf in Santa Cruz. WHAT!? You're thinking. You, Erin, who stopped swimming in the ocean very much at all after that dude got eaten by a shark near San Diego, are now swimming in the ocean where Great White sharks are known to be lurking?

Yes, I did. And I ripped a ginormous hole in my 3.5 year old wetsuit in the process. I figured having my torso slightly sticking out helped distinguish my rubbery body from that of the hundreds of blubbery sea lions playing around the wharf and drafting off of us.

I also sprinted the entire way.

Last one out is a rotten carcass.

:)

Xterra Lake Tahoe coming up! There are a lot of differences to be noted now that the race is no longer the USA Championships, but most of them are good.

Also coming up: Collegiate triathlon. Did you know there's an age limit on Grad student triathletes? USAT has capped the age of competition in collegiate nationals at 28. What do you think about this? (And praise the Lord I'm not there yet for a while!)

Performance: The Cycling Video of the Summer!

To see the original on YouTube, go here.

Why Hello Officer! Admiring My '96 Raleigh M7000?

Why, hello, ociffer!

Don't ask me why, but that's what I had imagined I'd say if I ever got pulled over.

Instead, it went something like this:

EXT. Day. A deserted beach street.
Erin rides her 13-year old mtn. bike into the left turn lane of an intersection. She is wearing sneakers, a t-shirt, and a black back pack. The light turns red. She patiently track stands for as long as possible. There is nobody anywhere. (I know, hard to believe in LA.) She looks left and sees the light in the other direction turn yellow. Rather than destroy a fab track stand by letting a foot touch the ground, she proceeds before her light turns green.

She makes her way down a side street. A cop silently rolls up next to her, and hand motions for her to pull over.

COP: Do you know why I'm pulling you over?
Erin: Because I turned left from the left lane.
COP: On a red light.
Erin doesn't say anything. She's watched enough COPS shows to know that cops basically want you to call yourself an idiot in front of them, then appologize.
COP: You just want to be a pedestrian and get to use the road, don't you.
Erin: That was a dumbass move. I'm very sorry.
COP: Where do you live?
Erin: 21st St.
Gut-wrenching pause.
COP: Watch out for traffic.
Cop drives away.

Erin almost pukes.

Aparently, the streets weren't entirely deserted after all. And it was a dumbass move worthy of getting pulled over. But I figured it was like farting when nobody else is around; nobody's going to call you on it. Plus, I had just read about Idaho's cycling laws, where stop signs mean "yield" for cyclists, and red lights are like stop signs. I want a piece of that heavenly cycling pie.

Thank goodness I looked like a ditzy beach bum instead of a cyclist. The Raleigh's state of rustiness, my sneakers, and shabby t-shirt saved my financial life. Either that, or the cop didn't want to follow me all the way to 21st street to see my license.

To conclude, I am an idiot, and I appologize for making bikeists look bad.

Now let's pass some Idaho-inspired cycling laws!

Race Across Oregon--A Bonk For A Better Brain

The good far outweighed the ugly in RAO, a fact that does not probably seem apparent from my first two race posts.

Shortly after the first checkpoint, when I felt like a roasting slug, I came upon Mr. Bonk, the guy with the "best name in cycling!" as race director George Thomas said at the pre-race meeting.

A skinny guy whose face I never really saw, Mr. Bonk decided at the last minute to do RAO, as evidenced by the handwritten name on his crew's van. (The rest of us got sleek, printed numbers with our names on them. I felt like a pro.) He was wearing what looked like either a homemade aero helmet, or the very first one ever created.

I rode up along side him for a few seconds--very important, sacred seconds--during which he said something to the effect of, "Those guys went out way too fast. I'll bet they all drop out. We'll see who's still around at 3pm tomorrow!"

"YEAH! YEAH!" I said. They went out way too fast. I'm pacing myself just perfectly. As long as I stick to my race strategy to not really stop ever, I'll be toasting my own victory by sundown tomorrow.

I was renewed.

I rode on for 200 glorious, happy, thrilling miles, through the 98-degree heat. Up countless climbs. Into headwinds. I was slightly irked to see a windfarm--obviously, this route was always windy. And somehow, it managed to always be windy in my face, with one notable exception: a 4-ish mile steeper climb. The wind was at my back, but I wished it was in my face, because it was hot!

I began to see other competitors. I rode up along side a very young man and we chatted for a minute.

"Is this your first time?" I asked.
"Yeah. My dad's doing it, too."
"Who's your dad?"
"He's riding a recumbent."
"Bananaman is your dad!" I blurted out.
Youngin' seemed confused.
But he won style points for having a Prius as a SAG vehicle.

I rode almost the entire day hopping around Mr. Bonk, and Doc Martin, known to my crew as "Beefcake". I choose "Doc Martin" because his van said "Martin" on it. They choose "beefcake" because his son, who was crewing for him, was huge, in an I-can-bench-press-half-of-these-skinny-cyclists kind of way.

The race was practically on the longest day of the year, and after 15 hours of riding, I was excited for nighttime. It would be cooler, and there would be less to focus on. Not that there was much in eastern Oregon to look at anyway.

We pulled into the check point around mile 206, which also happened to be one of the few places with a gas station along the route. It seemed like everyone in the entire race was there, filling up their cars and stomachs. I changed shorts, shoved enough potato chips into my mouth that my crew decided they should buy more, believing I'd finish off a bag right then. My "salty" stash of food had been raided. The "sweet" box had not even been looked at.

I was trying to stay on a mostly liquid diet, particularly because it was hot. And to my astonishment, I never once cramped, and I had to pee regularly--and at this point, I was in front of Mr. Pee-Bag! Every time I had to pee, someone had to hold up a towel so I wouldn't moon my competitors. All that time I spent squatting hadn't taken away from my race.

I felt rad. No pee-tube needed.

I hopped right back onto the Bullet, smoking competitors out of the gas station, and rode into the night.

There were several climbs, but they were peaceful, and the sight of the flickering orange lights of other peoples' support vehicles in the distance was encouraging; I was not alone.

A few teams passed me at some point.

My crew had to stare at my ass for 11 hours straight. (Mandatory riding within headlights from 7pm-6am.)

I was rocking it.

At some point, the scenery must've changed, because we were back into wooded mountains. It cooled off to a pleasant temperature, and we started to see deer everywhere! I was paranoid that I'd whack one on the very long descent before the next checkpoint.

Coming into Dale at mile 286, I was starting to get tired. My shoulders hurt like a biotch, which confused and surprised me. Shouldn't my legs hurt more than my shoulders? I had blisters on my palms.

I took a 15 minute pee/stuff-my-face break, and while I was stopped, Doc Martin blew through. That was it. I was going with him. I hadn't seen anyone for hours, and I enjoyed simply being within eyesight of anyone.

We zigzagged up mountains and into the morning.

I had planned on having a 300-mile party. It would be my first big stop. However, I'd already used my big stop in Dale, and 100 meters out of the 300-mile mark, a ridiculous storm blew--IN MY FACE! It started to rain, and the wind made it take an eternity to get to the 300 mark, where my crew threw a rain jacket on me, and took off--mandatory ass-staring was no longer enforced at that time.

I was ready to cry. The morning was beautiful--wherever I had ridden to was far more scenic than almost all of the first day's ride, but I was ready to fall asleep, the wind was trying to knock me over, and I had what the crew called "rollers" but were really mini-mountains for several more miles before I got the mental break of a right turn.

Just before the turn, I took my first nap by the river.

And that leaves us where I started the last post.

RAO was an epic adventure. I got to meet most of the people with whom I had been riding at the banquet on the 13th, and find out that Mr. Bonk made it 20 minutes before the cut-off. So did Sandy Earl. Doc Martin decided he'd finish no matter how long it took. It took him 54 hours.

And that's when I realized this: You're out there. Your crew is out there. You might as well finish, even if it's not official. Over 2 straight days of crispy-fry temperatures, cruel headwinds, and zero flat-recovery miles. Doc Martin turned out to be the most inspirational character of the whole pack. He credited his son, Beefcake, for getting him to the finish.

I told him I'd have to get one, then maybe I'd finish next time. ;)

Post Race (Across Oregon) Depression

I read about people getting down on themselves after competing in an Ironman. The newly depressed competitors had put all of their time and effort for months into achieving this goal, and once it's gone, they feel empty.

I had never experienced this.

Until now.

After my first Ironman, I had my wedding to look forward to. Then after the wedding, another Ironman. Then after that, RAO.

I have an exciting year at my dream grad school ahead of me now--one that will include competing in collegiate triathlon. This is my next big thing to look forward to.

But lately, I have been bummed. Super bummed.

I have never, ever quit a race before once I started (save for 1 xterra that I started with a broken foot. I didn't run). I have raced injured and sick, and I always made it to the finish line, often in good time.

Perhaps I had been setting my athletic goals too low, if they were always so easily achievable. But it has been haunting me that I dropped out of RAO with 141 miles to go and 14 hours in which to do it. Totally doable.

However my brain had never been asked to exercise for 48 hours straight, and at about 29 hours into RAO, it started to crack. I finally understood that it is entirely possible to fall asleep while riding my bike.

After a 30-minute "nap" that constituted laying down in the minivan around mile 310 while my crew sat by a creek and was subsequently eaten alive by mosquitoes (even while peeing...butt bites!), I decided I'd make it to the next aid station, then take a real nap.

I took a 5-hour energy, which did nada. "Oh shit!" I thought. (Only later did I realize there's no caffeine in normal 5-hour energys. D'oh.)

Close to 11am, I pulled into the Spray check point. It took me what seemed like (and was) an eternity to cover the downhill-sloped rollers to Spray. When I arrived, we checked in, parked the minivan under a tree, changed my clothes (yes, "we" changed my clothes. I couldn't do it alone.), and I lay back down in the minivan. For almost 2 hours.

I wish I could say I slept, but I'm not good at sleeping. And I had never considered that strategic napping was something a 48-hour racer should seriously consider.

My competitors started to trickle in.

My crew didn't know what to say to me at this point. I verbally bashed my Silver Bullet, who had been nothing but nice to me throughout the entire ride--I had no saddle sores whatsoever. I said he had a fat ass.

Finally, after my crew shoved ice down my pants and strung some more ice in a t-shirt around my neck, I climbed back on. My shoulders hurt more than any other body part.

My stiff knees took a few miles to warm up again, but they got into a nice rhythm. Other crews had weed-sprayers filled with water and doused me. I'd have rather jumped into the beautiful river to my left.

Then the sustained climbing began again.

I went one mile up the mountain. My legs stopped.

"I'm done." I told my crew.

"What!? You're hauling! Keep it up. Come on, let's make it to the next check point." I glared at them, then went another mile. My legs stopped.

"I don't want to climb another inch."

"What!? You're hauling! Keep it up. Come on, let's make it to mile 400!" I glared at them, then went another mile. My legs stopped.

""Why did you stop? You're hauling! Keep it up. Come on, let's make it to the top of this climb!"

"I don't give a shiz about this climb any more. Or mile 400. I'm gonna pass out."

Coachubby and my crew didn't know what to do. We stood there. My competitors slugged by. I was baking. My brain needed sleep and was trying to shut all systems down against my will. My legs were trying to keep going, but the Big Kahuna was continually trying to off them, cutting their power supply.

I had terrible asthma--excercise asthma that is induced only, it seems, after over 28 straight hours of exercise. I wonder how many people have this kind of exercise asthma and will never know it. I took several puffs of the emergency inhaler I picked up after experiencing the "tube breathing" phenomenon during the Eastern Sierra double.

I was coughing meaty, gross coughs. Like coughing up a lung. Who knows, maybe I was.

Finally, I came to a stop next to a mile marker.

"This is 376 miles into the ride, right?"
"Yes," said my crew.
"Done."
"What about 400?"
"I couldn't care less."
"I just don't want you to hate yourself later. I want you to know that even coming this far is an amazing accomplishment, you know that, right? We're behind you and proud of you whatever you want to do," said coachubby.

I handed him the Bullet.

And now, almost 3 weeks later, I hate myself for having done that.

Coachubby knows me too well.

This, too, shall pass. Soon, I hope. Being depressed is a motivational death sentence.This is why I haven't been blogging much recently. (Well, that, and coachubby and I had an awesome vacation driving down Highway 1 from Oregon back to LA the week after the race!)

So there you have it--the RAO race report sans the middle, which will come soon. The middle 240 miles were the absolute best ever. Heavenly cycling.

Race Across Oregon-- Mind vs. Body

Brain failure came approximately 376 miles and 34 hours into the race--I will not count my longest ride by 131 miles and 11.5 hours as an actual failure failure.

But let's back it up.

Date: July 11th, 2009. 0500 hours.
The plan was to wake up at 0400 hours, eat a Skinny Elvis, and roll to the race start in front of the beautiful Best Western in Hood River, OR.

That all went as planned, except I hadn't been asleep, a requirement for waking up. I was up all night with my stomach twisted in knots--a feeling I haven't had since racing on the swim team my freshman year of high school.

Hours earlier, Race Director and multiple RAAM finisher, George Thomas, asked me if I was nervous.

"I only get nervous when I have to go fast," I said. Don't ask me where I pulled that out from. What an asinine thing to say.

At that point, let's say 6pm on the 10th, I wasn't nervous. Nervous hasn't been a part of my race vocabulary for years. Excited to kick ass, yes. Nervous? No.

I got nervous the instant I lay down to sleep. Even Stacy and Clinton from TLC's "What Not to Wear" couldn't calm me through makeover magic.

And so I rolled up to the start in my pink arm warmers, bright blue hand-me-down jersey, and Frankenbike aka Silver Bullet ready for a nap.

Let's back that up even more.

I'm addicted to endorphins. And while my muscles and right knee very much appreciated and very much needed the three week taper I took after the Boggs 24-hour mtn bike race, my brain reeled from endorphin withdrawal.

Mr. Thomas led the pack of solo riders out the first 9 miles of the course in a neutral start. Evil, self-defeating thoughts that have never, ever entered my brain during a race were at the forefront of my mind the instant my right knee started to hurt like a biotch whenever we went uphill.

I was almost dropped on the little HC climb in the first mile.

However, the neutral start offered some happy-inducing perks, like picking handles for my fellow cyclists that these riders would unknowingly carry throughout the entire race: Mr. Pee-Bag, a young guy with a suspicious tube coming out of his pants, taped to his leg with an opening by his foot, and Bananaman, an older man on a recumbent with a huge yellow fairing.

A self-proclaimed Doctor riding to my right told me he did not find Mr. Pee-Bag's decision medically favorable. I agreed.

The peloton's camaraderie and the gorgeous, forest scenery began to pick up my spirits.

Then Mr. Thomas stopped, and the race started. Straight up a mountain. For over 20 miles.

When I spotted my crew for the first time, around 7am, I was ready to ask for a prescription-only dose of Advil. Not the best way to start any race. I took my mind off of the evil knee by studying other people's crews, their vans, their setups, and their peeps. The riders were still close together at this point, so there were crews cheering everywhere.

(My van & Crewmember Tom)

I pretended to be Lance on Mt. Ventoux, cutting through the crowds. Except this climb was probably hors catégorie négative--like so gradual it wasn't a graded climb. No matter, the endorphins were kicking in for the first time in 3 weeks, and I was rocking out.

(My crew on 1st climb: Coachubby, Robyn, Tom)

Then came an almost 40-mile descent during which I was crushed by everyone who lagged behind me on the climb. I pointed out one, VW Bug-sized pothole in the beginning, only to be skunked seconds later by at least 4 people. And I thought I had made my Bullet so stinkin' heavy with its aerobars and a honkin' 11-28 cassette.

I was sad, which was a huge surprise; why did I suddenly care where I was 4 hours into a 48 hour race? I'll be the underdog who comes from behind to take the win! No, you won't, you're descending like a slug! Stupid brain! Stop it!

I had told my mom, who drove to Oregon with me, that the race was going to be all mental--that it could only hurt so much, and we were all physically capable of finishing, but the mentally toughest would persevere.

She kindly listened to my pre-race babble, thinking I was a nut job mentally and physically for entering.

But I sincerely believed I was as mentally tough as they come...until this moment; my brain was being a twit and it was only 75 miles into RAO.