Adrift

Just spent a week with sixteen cyclists between the ages of 55-67. They rode an average of 100k each day across the Oregon coast starting in Astoria and finishing in Brookings on the California border. Pretty cool to see folks still out there getting it at those ages. I had a wonderful time hearing their histories and helping facilitate their experiences. The two other guides I worked with were awesome. Ainaz and Guido. Exhausted after a full days work we'd decompress around the fire and talk about life, stories and the things we live for. I learned some awesome campfire cooking techniques from Guido, and some all around life lessons from Ainaz joon.

Coursing the curvature of the ocean were several cycle tourists. Their rhythms were unique as were the reasons they felt compelled to tour the coast. It was amazing to see how popular the coast route was, how young many of the cyclists were and the various levels of riders: those with support headed north to south, those self-contained headed north to south, and then those headed south to north against the relentless head winds. Each wore smiles of excitement and contentment.

What an amazing place the Oregon coast is for cycling. There are great campsites all along the way and breath taking geography to keep you motivated each day. Indeed, bicycling is the physical manifestation of freedom and what a feeling to be unanchored, and just focus on moving through each day. The ocean roaring at your side. It really puts things into perspective. I'm looking forward to doing my own tour to SF along the same route this September.

Meditation:

Pedaling for me is like a pitchfork
turning shit into fuel. I'm working on
learning how to not bog myself
down with expectations, and rather turn my
experiences into fertilizer.

Being too
cerebral doesn't allow for me to
look around, feel the sensations
and check in with how it is
for me to be on the bicycle. Riding too
much into my head is an unbalanced
communication with myself.

We all know what it's like to be in the
flow: thoughts motivate movement. They
work with the body, and vice versa in a
symbiotic communication.

It's easy to get caught up in
the should be's: I should be
riding more hills, faster, harder, and
pushing ones self is good, it's healthy
if the heart is really in it. It's when we
mistake pushing ourselves with forcing
ourselves to do something.
The latter is a dangerous, ugly
place to be.

I want to check in with my body
often, and make sure my mind is in
a healthy place before I decide to
participate in any adventure, race, or
endeavor. Equipped with my own support
and confidence to get me through the
undertaking, I hope to let expectations
dissipate and be open to new
possibilities.

Into the sun

Loading up my mountain bike for the tour into the
Canyonlands was exciting and I must admit a little
intimidating. After all, the trip was being arranged by
the legendary Steve Fassbinder, a.k.a Dr. DOOM.
Ira and Matt had filled me with stories of epic adventures
led by Doom, all of which were told with resonant enthusiasm
and a bit of disbelief at what they had done.
Passing up the opportunity to experience a mountain bike
tour with him would have been ridiculous. Besides I'd had it
up to my neck with muddy riding and was in need of the desert.


The first day of the tour was incredible. We drove 2.5
hours from Durango with a threatening sky chasing us. My heart
squeezed with a bit of fear and I questioned what I was getting
myself into. These dudes were serious adventurers, but my
attempts at not feeling good enough were shot down by their
infectiously positive attitudes. The weather stayed dry but the
dust storm to the head made that fifteen mile day seem much
harder. Also, as a novice mountain bike tourer I was
just getting used to the weight on the hips of my bike.
When we finally made it to the first camp we couldn't believe
our dusty eyes. The view was spectacular, the night cold with
only shakes of snow and a sunset that made me take a step back and
a deep breath.





Day two = rad. We woke up, rolled up our beds, caffeinated
and were on our way. Darcy, my team Vag comrade, departed leaving
me the solo female amongst the fourteen fellow adventures. We journeyed
around rocky canyon rims, we hiked our bikes up sections that made us
question whether we'd over-packed our panniers, and peddled through sand
occasionally squirreling out in sand traps. For the greater part of the
day we had good weather. We even had a bit of snow with regular sun breaks.
When we reached the turn off to our next campsite a sign had been posted
preventing us from riding further. It was only about a mile away and Doom
promised it was one hundred times better than where we stood tired, hungry,
and fearful of the rain that surely was on its way. With his motivation
we unloaded our bikes and hiked it to the promised spot, and, I say, it was
a great move. The area was peaceful surrounded by a breathtaking canyon
where waterfalls trickled and birds chattered. It rained a bit but soon
cleared up in time for me to dangle my legs on the ledge of the gorge
with my dinner of dehydrated pasta parmesan.



Projected to be a lot of time in the saddle the next day was the last
part of the tour for everyone except Jon and Doom. The geography was marvelous
in every sense of the word. Thanks to the rain that had been on and off all
morning the sand for a good deal of that day was packed and much easier to
ride on than dry sand. We took advantage of it and booked it as fast as we
could. On that last day I had finally gotten the flair for riding in sand -
keep your weight back and steer with your body. My quads ached from this
style of riding but I couldn't be bothered with that when all of my other
senses were overloaded with the amazement enveloping me. Here we were
rolling along terrain that was decipherable to the ocean floor, which at
one point it was. The vegetation seemed similar to coral and algae, and we
were like a school of fish blurp blurping our way through the smooth,
burmy trails between walls tattooed with hieroglyphics. The magic of the
experience was intensified as Jon Bailey played his harmonica so that at
one point my shit-happy grin came from a deep place in my guts recognized
as contentment.




That day we finished with a descent down elephant hill and booked it to the outpost where the options of wet food and barley pop seemed limitless. It felt amazing
to have accomplished the tour but at the same time sad that it was over.







We camped one last night as Doom and Jon prepared for their extended journey,
which as I write this from the comforts of my home more than a week later, they
are still on. Their senses are no doubt synchronized with that of the land, and
the lack of distraction from their focus of survival is enviable.

My suspicions have been confirmed - mountain bike touring is sweet. I'm already
scheming my next adventure. Ashland - North Umpqua trail, um, er, uh, hell yeah!

Explorers

Yesterday was amazing. With the help of Matt Hall's enthusiasm Ira and I picked our tired asses out of bed and down to the coffee shop with our pockets full of food and our mountain bikes ready to roll to the trails around Hagg Lake, then up through some logging roads where we'd then hopefully drop out near Brown's Camp to shred the gnar before returning. An estimated time of 8-10 hours assured it was going to be epic. We were a little unsure about how our bodies felt about that after the century we'd ridden the day before. Matt showed up just in time and we made our way to the MAX then snaked it to Hillsboro.

At Hagg Lake the sky was threatening, and our energy was quiet, but we persevered. The first bit of dirt was a holiday for our doomsday thoughts. Little technical details that took our minds off the giant void we were about to explore.

We hit the steep pitch of Scoggins Road after mushing through the oily goop the Hagg Lake trail had turned into. A raven's carcass warned us to turn back while we still could. And we climbed. We climbed some more on gravel roads known only to axe-men. The views from this point were awe-inspiring, and we all rode with a sense of humility for the Sasquatches in the forest around us. The trees who-whoooed and clack-clack-clacked as our tires ascended the solitary roads. We continued to check the map but ultimately what it came down to was a test of trusting our guts. Matt's gut to be exact. When we came to a section of felled trees that would require more hike a bike than riding and seemed less likely that anyone should find us Matt insisted we continue through it. We did. Mounting and dismounting over the hurdles of forest debris until we felt the (dis)organization of civilization. As if we'd stepped into a shooting range we crawled into an area littered with concrete blocks, aluminum cans, and bullet shells.
Sunshine splashed our faces as we victoriously rode into Brown's Camp. The castle at the end of stage one of our ride was the picnic table where we lunched.

Riding our usual loop was excellent. The sounds of atv's, and the familiarity of the trails kept us hooting and hollering. By the time we climbed up Storey Burns we were worked, so not heeding the roshambo results, the thickening rain nor the signs of the two ravens warning us not to ride the additional Sictor Lars trail was ambitious. This was an adventure, after all, and we had made it all that way. Ira was kind enough to sacrifice a shoulder muscle for our over-zealous mistake (Damn knowing when to hold 'em!), and so we decided it was time to make our way home. We might even make it in time for a five pm coffee. With caffeine aspirations we time trialed our way back along hwy 6, through Forest Grove, and along the bitch of highway back to the MAX. Props to Matt and Ira for those motor-like pulls.

In Hillsboro we hung our bikes on the train and fell into our seats. Muddy faced explorers with miles of stories of a New World in our legs. The man mumbling curses to himself while fidgeting with his motorized scooter must have thought we were nuts, but we just stared at the rain splashing the windows as we approached the lives waiting for us in Portland. Though we arrived too late for second coffee our heads were buzzing late into the evening with adventurous shred scenes.

muddy monday

Yes!
Today was perfect. Ira and I were on our
way back from the beach and had plans
to meet Tony P and Matt H for our holy
day of mtbmonday. From the coast
range the sideways rain was less than
inviting but once we arrived at Browns
Camp where Tony had picked the mud
covered Matt up we were psyched to ride.
Especially after learning Matt had out-epic-ed
us by riding out there.
We no longer feel sympathy for one another, but
remind each other that the Cream Puff will
be much harder than whatever we're going
through.
Riding the slick roots and rocks at Browns
Camp left us happy and looking forward to
the season ahead of shred.

two thousand shred

i'm excited about 2010. everyone i talk to seems to
think it's going to be a good year, and we're all ready for it
after the unpredictability of the last one. the good thing about
2009 is that it shook many of us out of our comfortable positions and
made us take a good look at what we really want. it's so
easy to become stagnant in jobs, activities and daily habits that we
forget what sparks us.
while planning my year i'm keeping this in the front of my mind, and am very
happy with the goals to which i've chosen to devote my focus.
my application for graduate school is in and if all goes well i'll be starting
in the fall.
until then i've got some bike racing plans up my sleeve and am
going to put a good chunk of my energy into racing the cream puff.
two years ago i simply wanted to finish the race but this year i want to
kill it. beating my time of 14 hrs by two hours.
hopefully ryah will be interested in helping me train for this as we
work exceptionally well together.

documenting the process via map of the heart is all part of my plan.

fleeting days of honey...

sticky, like the aftermath of
swollen fruit
the hours run closer
my eyes blink

leaves turn

an invite to be sound
really try to sensualize
the rain
sip a moment that cannot
be avoided

organic.

a smile that's real
pulls from the heart
slow, but risky
and feels so good

you flex like a breeze

contributing to
decomposition

one side of me surrenders
but
i still want to be a wild flower