A friend just sent me this.
Great White Spotted at Malibu!
The caption opines that the shark sightings increase during grunion spawning, but I'm opining that after several years of hearing about the Hermosa-Manhattan Pier to Pier swim and Surf Festival, the sharks are getting smarter about finding feasts.
:D
Monday, July 27, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Race Across Oregon Didn't Kill Me--I'm Back!
And older.
As of yesterday.
But only in numbers.
OK, and maybe in joint mobility after attempting RAO.
Should you have been checking the time stations on the RAO website, you might have noticed that after Spray, OR (yes, some place along the route was called Spray. And yes, jokes were made. Hydration jokes.), I disappeared.
(Me and my superhot crew minutes before the race start.)
Well, I didn't actually disappear. I did keep going.
Just not all the way to the next time station.
Full report coming soon, including head winds in all directions, 98-degree heat, freak storms, and special nicknames for all riders within my vicinity. Like Mr. Pee-Bag, Bananaman, and Mr. Bonk. OK, that last one was actually someone's name.
Thank you for all of your support!
As of yesterday.
But only in numbers.
OK, and maybe in joint mobility after attempting RAO.
Should you have been checking the time stations on the RAO website, you might have noticed that after Spray, OR (yes, some place along the route was called Spray. And yes, jokes were made. Hydration jokes.), I disappeared.
(Me and my superhot crew minutes before the race start.)
Well, I didn't actually disappear. I did keep going.
Just not all the way to the next time station.
Full report coming soon, including head winds in all directions, 98-degree heat, freak storms, and special nicknames for all riders within my vicinity. Like Mr. Pee-Bag, Bananaman, and Mr. Bonk. OK, that last one was actually someone's name.
Thank you for all of your support!
Monday, July 6, 2009
Race Across Oregon- All Systems Go!...
...except for one very stubborn, cruel knee who will be beat into submission with Advil and Bengay. The quads are coming around. My lungs are ready.
It's time to see Oregon. A lot of it.
We've picked up the minivan, organized a ton of stuff all over the living room, and given the Silver Bullet a final tune up and some color (blue bar tape and tires!).
Now all that's left is to load up the minivan, pick up my mom from LAX, and get going to Oregon early tomorrow morning.
Coachubby will be flying into Portland Thursday afternoon where my mom will be traded for him, then it's off to Hood River, to be joined by my crew, Robyn and Tom, Friday night.
It's showtime!
Tune in to the RAO blog for updates on rider position and fun race updates next weekend!
I'll be back on the 20th.
P.S. Getting ready for this adventure has made Ironman look like a bargain basement endurance event. Yikes!
It's time to see Oregon. A lot of it.
We've picked up the minivan, organized a ton of stuff all over the living room, and given the Silver Bullet a final tune up and some color (blue bar tape and tires!).
Now all that's left is to load up the minivan, pick up my mom from LAX, and get going to Oregon early tomorrow morning.
Coachubby will be flying into Portland Thursday afternoon where my mom will be traded for him, then it's off to Hood River, to be joined by my crew, Robyn and Tom, Friday night.
It's showtime!
Tune in to the RAO blog for updates on rider position and fun race updates next weekend!
I'll be back on the 20th.
P.S. Getting ready for this adventure has made Ironman look like a bargain basement endurance event. Yikes!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
24 Hours to Destroy a 25 Year Old Knee
Smart athletes can tell the difference between pain-pain and injury-pain.
Apparently, I'm smart on the inside, but have a tremendous ability to override reason with narrow, misguided focus.
The pain started somewhere around midnight during the Boggs 24-hour mountain bike race.
It was a 24-hour race, it was supposed to hurt, right?
Deep down, I knew it wasn't good pain. But I wasn't going to not ride for 24 hours. That was the point of the race.
I kept riding. My knee got worse.
I rode hills for the first time since Boggs today in an effort to gauge just how evil my knee is actually being.
I passed an older man on a fancy LeMonde in a fancy Ironfly kit while pedaling up a steep incline. I thought I was really chugging along, passing Mr. Fancy.
"Hi!" I said.
"You're doing great!" he said as he pulled up beside me, matching my effort.
"So are you!" said I.
"I'm 86!" says he.
Thus, I realized my 25-year old knee had gained approximately 60 years of wear and tear in 24-hours. (Either that, or my mtb saddle was too low...and the knee will heal.)
Now, 10 days after Boggs, I'm praying the lasting, point-specific pain in my inner right knee will somehow heal itself in the next 9 days, even though it hasn't in the past 10. 9 days are all it's got.
To prove my dedication to healing the rogue knee, I have iced it with peas, and done things against the very grain of my being, like taking Advil more than once a month, and sitting in icy-water. I hate cold. But I love my knee more. It should know that.
When the 9 days are up, it's showtime at Race Across Oregon. I'm asking my kneeright to at least hold off of the injured-pain until mile 526. Please, oh please.
And for fun, check out the only photos taken at Boggs. Coachubby spent the rest of the time making me pb&potato chip sandwiches.
Start!
Can you find me?
Just before the start.
Thank you, sir, may I have another loop?
Pre-race meeting. Spot the Erin?
Qeee chilling before getting dirty.
Apparently, I'm smart on the inside, but have a tremendous ability to override reason with narrow, misguided focus.
The pain started somewhere around midnight during the Boggs 24-hour mountain bike race.
It was a 24-hour race, it was supposed to hurt, right?
Deep down, I knew it wasn't good pain. But I wasn't going to not ride for 24 hours. That was the point of the race.
I kept riding. My knee got worse.
I rode hills for the first time since Boggs today in an effort to gauge just how evil my knee is actually being.
I passed an older man on a fancy LeMonde in a fancy Ironfly kit while pedaling up a steep incline. I thought I was really chugging along, passing Mr. Fancy.
"Hi!" I said.
"You're doing great!" he said as he pulled up beside me, matching my effort.
"So are you!" said I.
"I'm 86!" says he.
Thus, I realized my 25-year old knee had gained approximately 60 years of wear and tear in 24-hours. (Either that, or my mtb saddle was too low...and the knee will heal.)
Now, 10 days after Boggs, I'm praying the lasting, point-specific pain in my inner right knee will somehow heal itself in the next 9 days, even though it hasn't in the past 10. 9 days are all it's got.
To prove my dedication to healing the rogue knee, I have iced it with peas, and done things against the very grain of my being, like taking Advil more than once a month, and sitting in icy-water. I hate cold. But I love my knee more. It should know that.
When the 9 days are up, it's showtime at Race Across Oregon. I'm asking my kneeright to at least hold off of the injured-pain until mile 526. Please, oh please.
And for fun, check out the only photos taken at Boggs. Coachubby spent the rest of the time making me pb&potato chip sandwiches.
Start!
Can you find me?
Just before the start.
Thank you, sir, may I have another loop?
Pre-race meeting. Spot the Erin?
Qeee chilling before getting dirty.
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