My bottom bracket is creaking, and something feels…gritty. It feels yucky when I pedal, and I can’t describe it any better than that, but that there’s a subtle vibration I can feel and I don’t like it. I’m like the princess and the pea, a delicate snowflake who cannot handle the weird rub felt with every pedal stroke. I write my mechanic friend to complain, and immediately, a photo of a new bottom bracket is sent to me. I roll my eyes, because of course he’s going to just tell me to get a new one. Oh, but wait. I look closer. It’s BLUE. Well now.. I had forgotten about this. He’d done a big order months ago, and here it was.
I head over after a long day at work because he’s going traveling for a bit and I’ll have no one to help me fix my bike for a few months. I whine about my injuries, and how I’ve been off my bike for over a week.
If you recall, I built my dream bike last August. Every little accent was thought about, from hub to widget to grip cuff. I have a thing for blue anodized bits, and I don’t mind (much) that companies can’t seem to get colour consistency right. I love all things blue and shiny. I have yet to put the blue rotor bolts on, but there are so many little blue things to do!
The old BB is removed and indeed, the bearings are worn and the princess was not hallucinating. The grease is an odd brownish grey and smells a little rancid. I gag a little, all is wiped clean, and the new BB is installed.
Like a magician, said mechanic friend produces a small ring.
My eyes widen with glee. When these pre-load adjusters came out, they came out in a plethora of beautiful colours. I had sent the marketing photo to him to ogle. He’s ordered a few on whim, suspecting I might want one, even when I’d said I ought not. “But,” my heart saddens, “it’s the wrong blue! You’d think the company could get their own anodizing in order.” This piece would sit right next to the BB, highlighting the colour discrepancy, so I decide not to put it on. No matter, there is surely another bike this little ornament will brighten.
Then, more magic.
I feel like a kid who’s favourite uncle (only he’s younger than me) just keeps pulling out more toys from the toolbox. They’ve been out of stock forever on these. I don’t know how long this little guy has been tucked in the toolbox, but now it’s MINE.
This little doodad holds the brake cable to the fork, like so.
It’s ALL ABOUT THE LITTLE THINGS! I am squeaking internally with excitement. Internally because, get a hold of yourself Crusty, you are a professional. Also a bash guard, fresh rubber, front and back, and in doing so, new valve cores, and a new stem cap for the front tire that has this nifty little hole in it so that you can use the cap to extract valve cores without hunting around for pliers. Also, all blue. Of course, of course.
It is dark by the time I leave, and I am feeling a bit better about my shoulder and hamstring tendon pain limiting me from riding, aggravated by sitting all day at work. I have a physio appointment in the morning, and I am extra motivated now to get sorted so I can ride the bike again.
This physio is known in town for being a good one, if not a bit stern, so I’m a bit nervous when I meet her, but she is lovely, and knows just where to dig her fingers in to my shoulder and my butt to release things. After what feels like fifteen needles into my hip and thigh, each one yielding a satisfying/horrifying spasm upon insertion, I’m sore for a bit, then pain free. I leave with a list of tedious exercises to build hamstring tendon load tolerance, and a warning not to strain it suddenly as I’ll delay recovery.
A friend messages me to ride with her, and I pause. No punchy climbs, steady cadence climbing with no standing? Sure, we’ll take it easy.
No gnar, just meadows of happy yellow wildflowers and glorious sunshine.
It’s been two weeks, and my left shoulder and right glute still hurt. I took rest days, cut my training load in half, and today, in my attempts to do *some* strength training, realized that I am still a gimpy bag of joints. I tried to ride a trail I know well a couple days ago and felt a twang in the glute, a jab of pain, and for the rest of the descent, was painfully aware that I do not recover like I once did, feeling hesitant on lines I’ve thundered down without a thought in the past.
About a month ago, there was a big fundraiser gala. Black tie, so I put on a long dress, did my hair and put on makeup. I got my nails done, and when choosing a colour, the girl at the salon voted a bright vampy red. “Heck no.” I reply. I choose a darker red, called Malaga Wine. If you’ve never been to a nail salon, the best thing about it is the names of the kaleidescope of bottles in front of you, mounted to Lilliputian acrylic shelves on the wall. Someone creative or eternally bored gets paid to think of these names, and that thought gives me joy.
I get ready with my friend, and she sees my nails and says, “Oooh, that’s Rich Lady Red. Nice choice.” Malaga Wine is something a Rich Lady would drink I guess. Ha. Tonight, I think, I will pull it off. It’s a proper fundraising gala, with oodles of the uber-rich who have come up from the city for the art auction. Locals are there to network, unless you’re me, and happen to be besties with a partner at a law firm that represents the gallery. Then you’re just freeloading and it’s good times for all. “Um.. aren’t you supposed to be inviting clients?” “Yeah, but I want to have FUN.” It’s a proper auction, with people waving big ol’ numbered squares, bidding tens of thousands for a picture of a fluorescent lizard with a mohawk, or that strange stack of blocks. It is really, really strange. I keep thinking the money should go to way more practical things, and that it’s silly to put that expensive stack of blocks into your vacation home that you never go to, but I digress. I’ve had too much to drink to carry on this conversation with the wife of the chancellor of something and I’ve already forgotten her name, but how many times is too many to ask again? Also, Rich Lady Red does not extend to my toes, and I’ve had to take my shoes off because this whole high heels thing is really misery doled out by the patriarchy right? Besides, this place is classy and carpeted and surely there is no sloppy drunk breaking glassware at a black tie event?
I call it a night by 11 pm, but my friend gets back at 3 am and attempts to make Kraft Dinner. For all her talents as a lawyer, she is equal parts ineptitude in the kitchen. (Truly, even when sober.)
Here you see the Rich Lady Red, and the way I found the butter in the morning.
The next day is full of electrolytes, naps on the couch, greasy egg and bacon sandwiches (bought, of course), and a long walk to the spit and back. She is leaving town soon, to be with her partner on the other side of the country.
It’s a common story: best friend moves away, there is sorrow and wistful waving out the back of the car window as they fade into the distance. But it’s different now, because we are in our forties and this is not new. We have each been through our own many losses and triumphs, and this is not forever, and we have telecommunications and air travel and means.
But it’s different now also because we are in our forties, and this is not new, and we know how this could end. We know that people get busy and lose touch. We know that people drift, or sometimes surprise die on you. We know that in our forties, making and keeping good friends is hard. We had the benefit of knowing each other for five months (and getting along famously) at fifteen, then losing touch for seventeen years, then serendipitiously meeting again. We had the luck of our partners getting along well, and sharing close friendship as couples and individually. This kind of friendship is rare, where you really truly like each other through and through, and have all been through enough therapy to move on past the things that annoy you. There are maybe three people in my life that I have this kind of friendship with, and I’ll be damned if they don’t all live far away now.
The ligaments in my neck and shoulder are telling me to wrap this up. So tomorrow I will distract myself with work, which sucks up all my time for friendships anyway, and when the sun comes out next week, I’ll be doing boring physio exercises because my shoulder and my @ss refuse to settle down to just let me have my therapeutic biking, because I am an old creaky house. JUST LET ME HAVE IT, please. I’m not getting any younger.
Don’t, actually. I don’t want to know. I did a five week power zone training program and tested at the beginning and at the end, and my FTP actually dropped. I got all in my head about it, until I went for a lap with some friends who then reminded me that on a mountain bike, it means nothing, because we never ride at cadences like that, and FTP tells you nothing about how effectively you pumped the corner or thundered through the rock garden to keep speed on a downhill lap.
On Sunday, I raced my first race of the season. I came last in my age category, but I don’t feel bad about it because I raced the entire first stage blind, and the latter three stages I’d ridden once each, all about two weeks before race day so I took all the wrong lines. I generally struggle to remember what happened this morning so it’d be some luck for me to remember race lines 14 days away. It was also greasy slick after a hard night’s rain so it’s a wonder I came out of it in one piece, until I didn’t. Crashed 200 m before the finish line on a flat breakaway. I was coming in too hot, touched a brake but I guess my body position was too far forward and I went for a high speed somersault into the brush. I’m a bit bruised, but no worse for wear. It cost me a good few minutes though, with medics asking a lot of questions before letting me get back on the bike, and has resulted in me feeling generally old and decrepit.
All in all a fun time though. I’ve been feeling strong with my training, and if it weren’t for the crash, I felt pretty good for the whole thing. I started the day riding with the Masters Men category, instead of the women, because I didn’t know anyone else doing the race aside from three male riding buddies, and 4+ hours on a bike where 80% of that is climbing is pretty miserable to do alone. So we had a grand time. I tried to keep up, mostly, while listening to their banter. We lost one after stage 2 to cramps, discovering he was gone after we’d gotten to the top, only to catch him later at apres, telling the tale of how his hamstrings and quadriceps cramped in tandem, effectively leaving him a stiff-legged heap in the woods, waiting for his electrolytes and water to kick in so he could stretch.
I’ve got another race on Saturday but I might have to pull out if the shoulder isn’t feeling a bit less sore. It has to be at a soreness level where the number of painkillers required to make me forget about it has to be below the number of painkillers that will make me tired or slow. A delicate ratio.
I took two days off for full rest, doing only mobility and stretching work, until today, when I put in an hour of endurance training. But I really would rather be riding outside. The grey skies on the days I can actually ride outdoors, in contrast to the work days where it’s sunny and glorious, only serve to add insult to injury.
We are three days out, and I still haven’t washed my bike or taken off the race plate from Sunday. This is a testament to my current mental state. I came home post race and did two hours of work. Yesterday, after a 12 hour clinic day, I made dinner and cleaned and then did another hour of work. I am running on 5 hours sleep, but have done three loads of laundry and am procrastinating on the three reports I have ahead.
I’ll write properly again maybe, when I’m not so overwhelmed with work and the constancy, volume, and perpetual nature of it. I suppose I ought to be grateful.
I can’t recall now if I ever wrote about my mother’s accident on here.
Over the years, I’ve chosen not to dwell on the past, and instead conveniently shelve painful memories into lockable trunks that get tucked in the basement storage room.
Today though, I feel like I ought to write about it, because, well, I don’t know why. It’s just been on my mind I suppose. It wasn’t like my father’s death a little over a year ago, where it was relatively swift, startling, and final. It’s lingered on, refusing to be forgotten, because the subject of the accident is still alive, though perhaps only in very literal terms.
You know when something really big happens, you remember exactly where you were, what you were doing, what the weather was like? You remember the goosebumps and chills, how it feels a bit like the universe has shifted yet looks eerily the same? Like when the twin towers were hit on 9/11. I remember it clear as day.
It was the same on the day of my mother’s accident. It was a sunny Thursday, and I was finishing up a cushy clinic rotation on what would be the last week of my five year residency. The next day, I’d be leaving to meet up with my husband in cottage country for the last three weeks of June, where I’d banked enough vacation time to ensure I’d have a nice long break before starting my fellowship training. It was mid-afternoon, and I was about to dictate a few followup notes. I was working with a fellow senior resident in another specialty who was aloof, but intelligent and kind. I think her name was Sarah. It was hot, as we were at on older hospital site away from the main university campus where the air conditioning sputtered some days. I was wearing a skirt, something I never do at work anymore.
I had a basic, small, cell phone, sitting on the counter. I was never one to answer the phone, but that day, I just happened to. It turned out to be my dad.
He had this way of whisper-saying my name when he was trying to be discreet, and that day, that’s how he responded after I said “Hello”. “It’s Daddy.” in the same whispery voice. He paused. Why did he call himself that? Hi Dad. Is everything okay? He never calls me. Never called me. It was always my mom who called to chat. “Your mom. She’s been in an accident. She’s been airlifted to St Mike’s. I think you need to come back.” Each sentence is punctuated by a numb, vacant pause. My mind races. Air lifts are bad. St Mike’s is a trauma centre. My parents lived in the suburbs, far from the hub that St Mike’s services in the city centre. It must be bad if they sent a helicopter to take her to a trauma centre out of her usual regional health authority. My stomach tightens. “Can you come back?” What happened? “Car accident. I can tell you when you get here.”
I am flustered. I have notes to dictate. An afternoon of patients left to see. I am frozen with indecision. I’m meeting with my fellowship advisor after work. I don’t know what to do. The other resident has heard parts of my conversation. “Hey, are you okay?” I remember trying to piece together a sentence. She waves me away. “Give me your notes. I’ll dictate them. Go. I’ll tell Dr Z why you’ve had to go.” My notes are chicken scratch. There is probably a series of follow up notes that make no sense whatsoever from that clinic.
I drive to my little townhouse. This part I don’t remember. I do remember my already packed suitcase sitting open. I throw in toiletries, zip it shut. I call my husband, who is working on a garbage barge hauling rich people’s garbage from their private islands to the dump. I can hear the wind and boat motor in the background as I update him. We live four hours apart. I call my best friend at the time to see if she can watch my then tiny puppy while I’m gone. I change hurriedly out of my work clothes while said puppy cries and whines in confusion at the excitement. I leave him in his crate and he cries some more. “You can’t drive like this. You’ll get in an accident. I’ll drive you, then I’ll come back and get the pup.” She is a neurocritical care nurse. She is used to waking up semi-comatose patients and them having no choice but to listen to her and obey. I protest, because I will be fine, I say, it’s only a two hour drive. “NO. Stay put. I’m coming to get you.”
On the way to the city, we stop for gas. I vaguely recall talking to an ICU resident on the phone about my mother’s injuries, then patting myself on the back for being so calm and collected. My mother-in-law later advised that he had reported to her that I seemed disjointed and harried, but I like to think he just sucked.
My friend, who hates the city, weaves through the dense traffic of Toronto’s downtown core, where she dumps me and my suitcase on the steps of the hospital, then turns around to drive back another 2.5 hours now in traffic to collect my dog.
My aunt and uncle are already there, and meet me so I can put my suitcase in their vehicle.
I am led to a “family conference” room outside the ICU where I see my father, and he looks small and broken. My brother-in-law is there, surprisingly, and my uncle and aunt. My brother-in-law gets up to hug me, and he is quiet. I remember his expression so clearly, and oddly, I can’t remember now who else was there. This is where the clarity stops.
The rest of that day I don’t remember. I don’t remember the feeling of seeing my mother, swollen, bruised and stitched, head shaven, with a collection of wires and tubing attached to her. I imagine now it would have taken my breath away, not like sunsets do, but like sucker punches to the gut. I don’t remember much about the two weeks she was in that coma.
I do remember seeing an old friend one day, a neurosurgeon who pulled strings to expedite meetings, imaging, tests. I remember calling him one night at midnight, and asking him to review the evidence with me for a treatment they were doing. I remember another friend, a radiologist, pulling up every single one of my mother’s many scans, and reviewing them with me. His mother and mine were old friends. I remember pulling out a notepad and drawing brains to explain to my dad what what was happening. I remember calling some of the most seasoned Neuro-Intensivists I knew to get their opinions on prognosis. In the two months that followed, I have vague recollections of sleeping on the futon in my parents’ family room, going to the gym and running on machines that go nowhere until I couldn’t breathe anymore, then driving to the subway station with my dad and my brother, and eating lunch at the Chinese BBQ place across the street from the hospital. I remember my dad calling a prayer hour every evening. I remember him yelling at me one day when I sighed, “Let’s get this over with” after he called one. I remember my dad, hunched over the kitchen sink, sobbing. I had never seen him cry before.
It’s been a long time. My mother lived, but she is not the same. The present day version of my mother is a stranger to me, and I don’t really know what to do with this. I have stopped bursting into tears at the memory of the Mom I lost, of the things that could have been, now forever only a wish.
My brother sends me silly pictures of my mom in pink metallic pleather jeans, which she made him buy because she liked them. She is standing by a flowering tree. Or in front of the living room wall. When I call her, my phone tells me our conversations last about a minute, often less. She cannot think of things to say to me, or remember how to initiate conversation anymore. We have already talked about the things she does remember a hundred times, and I don’t want to talk about them anymore. Such a far cry from the hours we would gab when she was well. That too, is a vague memory now. I don’t remember what we used to talk about, laugh about.
It might be better this way though, because lockable trunks exist for safe-guarding the things you hold dear, but don’t need to access too often; don’t want to access too often.
I’m going to put it away again. I think I’ve had enough.
Global warming has turned February into false spring. It snowed today, but I hold out little hope for a proper winter. Our mountains, a world-class ski destination, are icy and muddy and trying desperately to give us a ski season, only we can all see the bike park trails, clear and dry, and well, I’ve been riding my bike outside an awful lot for January and February.
But the horror of it really, is that I’ve bought a Peloton bike.
Yes, an indoor stationary bike, where they have attractive, muscley instructors who do dancey spin classes to music. Or so I’ve heard.
Can I call myself a serious cyclist? I ought to be on Zwift, or Trainer Road, or continuing my current training program, curated by a local triathlete. I already have my Wahoo trainer, and it gives me all my metrics, so I can fully nerd out.
But ohhh… I get so BORED. I’ve been working with the same programming for the past three years, and yes, I’m maintaining, but I feel kind of meh. My strength routines are meh. My trainer days are meh. ALL MEH. I like to think I’m not being flaky or flighty, because I’ve stuck with this program for a solid three years, and have done some ridiculous races with it, because it frickin’ works to get me up to snuff.
But when I’m clipping in to my bike in the darkness of the early morning while the rest of my family sleeps, I am filled with a sense of dread for the work that lies ahead. I’ve got bluetooth earphones that I turn up, with “Energy Motivation Mix” playing, DJ beats helping me set cadence. Today, on power interval 13 of 15, I am nearing zone 5 in heart rate, and I am dripping all over my towel, with that song where some woman is yelling “I AM TITAaaaNIiiiiUMmmm” echoing into my brain as my eyes squeeze shut and I pedal harder to finish the longest bloody minute of my life because I am trying to keep breathing and my legs are on fire and feel a little bit like they might explode with fatigue. It’s not always like this. Some days, I can’t find the drive to push this hard, and I’ll pause to breathe, slow the cadence, drop the wattages. I know, I know, the only person I’m cheating is myself, but damn if it isn’t the hardest thing to motivate yourself when you’re half asleep or already mentally spent.
Do I miss formal in person spin classes? Where the old guy behind me makes a joke about me needing a life preserver for my sweat puddle? Where I get called out by the instructor when he sees me flagging? Where I feed off the shared misery of my fellow classmates as we all strive to be stronger, tougher, faster? YES. But am I willing to drive twenty minutes each way to the spin studio and pay $28/class for that? NO.
I don’t miss the gym though. I don’t miss the sweaty, dank smell, or waiting for machines or squat racks and having to alter the whole workout to accommodate weights or equipment that is in use. I don’t miss driving to and from, and figuring out what to wear that will be decent.
So here we are.
To be fair, I’ve been contemplating it for a while.
I ride regularly with a couple who have a home gym, of which the Peloton is a big part. They’re both strong mountain bikers, and fit. They understand my (entirely first world, privileged) plight, and have been encouraging me to get one for a while. All spin classes are tailored to road cyclists, but apparently, they have power zone classes which will help for all bike disciplines, and strength training programs that will build in stepwise fashion, as opposed to just picking a random workout each day. I know this in part because of these riding buddies, and in part because I walked into a Peloton store and asked the person there if this was something that could fit what I was looking for. I’ll have to choose programs and time them appropriately around race events, but I think I’ve kind of got an idea now of how to do this.
It should be delivered next week. And I have thirty days to return it if it doesn’t go to plan.
I don’t feel great about any of it, and I had some wicked buyer’s remorse tinged with a bit of excitement for something new, so we shall see.
It is dark, and the house is quiet as I rouse from sleep, bleary-eyed, and stumble out of bed to wake my children. Saturday mornings in some households are lazy, slow days with the cozy smell of coffee, and sizzling eggs and bacon. In ours, a ski-school schedule beckons, and it being a weekend means that all the city folk will descend upon our town, clogging up the highway and the mountain parking lots, feeding our tourism economy, and necessitating ridiculously early arrivals to the mountain to find parking.
My children put their base layers and winter gear on. It will be warm today, after our recent cold snap, so fewer layers are donned. We quietly sneak to the kitchen so Dad can sleep a while longer, and I get a bowl of oats into each of the kids and load up the car. We are at the mountain 40 minutes before open, so I’ve got a decent parking spot, but a lift lineup is already forming. My kids take their time putting on their gear, and my son jogs over to his snowboard group while my daughter and I get in line. As we await the lift open, my daughter dips into a negative headspace.
“I hate skiing. I don’t even know why we’re here. This town is stupid. Skiing is stupid. I wish I could go home.” I’m surprised. Earlier, we were talking about what we were going to ski today, what snacks we’d get. I was excited to get to spend time with her, just the two of us, as we don’t often get the chance anymore. I tell her this, and remind her that she agreed to come. “Well, I didn’t really have a choice, did I?” she retorts. She glances at me with a side-eye through her low-light lens goggles, and even under all her gear, her usually beautiful face is hell and thunderclouds.
It’s grey out, with a dense fog mid-mountain where we’re standing. The gondola starts to move and the lineup shuffles along. Maybe it’s my chronic lack of sleep, but my daughter’s sudden change of heart and tone of voice slices deep. I feel tears well up, and my mind envisions a bleak future where we are estranged, my daughter hating me, and I am bundled up in a nursing home blanket remembering her sweet little face at a time when we used to adore each other. No, I can’t let that happen. I have to keep our relationship positive. Also, get your sh*t together, who’s the adult here??
I’m disappointed, I tell her, at her change of heart. Then I stare at her with a goofy face on, trying to get her to break. She side-eyes me again. Her face is stone. I admire her misery and resolve. It reminds me of myself. I propose that after we get to the top of the gondola, we ski to the chair, and head to the very top for a hot chocolate and a snack. Then we could wait for the rest of the mountain to open, and take her preferred terrain down. She grudgingly agrees.
As we sit down for hot chocolate, her mood shifts, and suddenly, we are discussing her plans for a Youtube channel, all the silly things that happened in class yesterday, her teacher and his funny antics. She is a flood of stories and enthusiasm. She pauses. “Maybe I was just hungry…,” she smiles at me apologetically. “Maybe oats aren’t enough.” I look her pointedly. “You hurt me kiddo. It made me really sad, when you were talking to me like that.” She mouths, “I’m sorry”, as if saying it out loud is too embarassing, and in her normal voice, announces that we ought to get skiing.
All her favourite zones are now open, but she knows that if we go to 7th Heaven we’ll likely end up doing an extra lap, and she wants to get home sooner to talk to a friend about their youtube channel ideas. Crystal chair it is. The snow isn’t great today anyway, the weather shifted too suddenly.
The chair stops unexpectedly for a few minutes and she muses, “It’s so peaceful up here.” I look at her in surprise. She’s looking at the spectacular view that surrounds us, breathing in the mountain air. It’s always quiet up this high. Yeah, it is, isn’t it?
We ski a long, fast lap down and are soon back at the car. As we take off our skis, she says with a smile, “Well, that was fun!” It’s like the whole forty minutes of misery earlier that morning didn’t exist for her. Am I crazy? Did I imagine it? I look at her incredulously. “Say that again?” She catches herself smiling, then laughs and shakes her head.
I’m thinking I can probably convince her to do this again with me next Saturday. One lap, two, whatever. Time is fleeting, and I’ll take what I can get. Who knows how much worse it could be? She’s only ten. I theoretically have at least another 7-8 years of adolescent attitude to wade through and I really, really don’t want to mess it up.
I wait at the top of the chairlift, fingers freezing, texting a friend. “What’s your kit look like?” as I scan the helmeted, goggled faces disembarking. She yells a “hallooo” as she skis up to me, enveloping me in a hug. Wisps of her pale pink hair peek out from her helmet, but it is her accent and her grin that are most familiar. “Ah! My summer friend!” she exclaims. We ride bikes together in the summer. It’s always strange when your friends cross over into different seasons.
There’s been very little snow the past few weeks, a grim sentence for a ski town like ours. Conditions have been poor, with a thin base, bits of grass and gravel peeking out through the groomed runs, and limited terrain open due to the lack of snow coverage. It’s also been unseasonably warm, resulting in ice patches and generally treacherous skiing. We ski down cruisy groomers, practicing backwards skiing, jump technique, and body position. It is fun goofing off without consequence, and there are giggles and guffaws every time we end up doing a baby-giraffe move and looking generally ridiculous. “It’s three runs and a cuppa season!” so we do the requisite three runs before stopping for tea. We peer over the boundary ropes to see if some of the other runs are worth a go. “Mingin'”, she says. “What’s that mean?” I ask. “That it’s horrible. We shouldn’t bother.” “Huh. Mingin’.” A few years ago, I learned the word “Lairy”. My across the pond friends are a wealth of new vocabulary.
The next day, I pull my bike out. It’s been a few weeks since her last ride, but I hadn’t washed her. I check tire pressures, suspension pressures, give the chain a wipe, drip some lube on, and head north. A photographer acquaintance has been posting footage of him riding well into December, and it’s been looking good, so I too, will go hunting for dirt.
My solo climb in the chilly fog is peaceful and my first lap down is the kind of thrilling joy you get when you haven’t done something in a while and you’re reminded of why you love it so much because it’s just so unbelievably fun. I have a big grin pasted on my face and my endorphins are having a proper party.
I climb again and meet friends for another lap, then find a fast and furious out to make it home in time for my husband to get to work.
Household errands are done, the bike is washed, and Amazon delivers wire cutters and colourful zip ties and ferrules. I get to work on the ongoing build of my son’s bike for next year. There is stuck cable housing, some cursing, some brake fluid leakage and texts to a mechanic friend for help as YouTube fails to provide me solutions. Then, after a brute force negotiation of cable housing by said mechanic friend, and the realization that there is yet ANOTHER tool I need and do not have (but can conveniently borrow), there is a lot of general bike ogling and satisfaction. As in standing with arms crossed, looking at the bike, with a stupid, sly smile, and intermittent comments of, “Look at that rig.” I love that there are people who do not think I am insane, and who will happily partake in such ogling alongside.
Today, after clinic, I catch a glimpse of my fellow doctor riding buddy. His schedule’s changed so we no longer have overlapping clinic days, and I haven’t seen him in months. He pops in to tell me about some new unmarked trails I should go check out, and he pulls up heat maps to show me the same trails the mechanic friend showed me the other evening. I get more intel from him, what trails I can manage solo, which ones to repeat, how long repeated laps of one region will take, and where to park for this whole new area of uncharted territory. As I’ve got a few days off upcoming, I want to plan a few big days ahead. “When are you going to go?” he says wistfully as he heads out the door. Our schedules won’t allow a proper mission day, but soon, I’m sure. It’s only December!
The slightly sweet, exotic smoke of his cigar wafts toward me, his hot pink tshirt and loud, palm tree-printed swim trunks offset the by uninterrupted blue sky behind him. There is only the sound of the waves crashing beside us, irregularly irregular, yet still soothing. The pungent smoke is also strangely comforting. There is a sensory memory behind this somehow, I’m sure of it.
A young girl toddles by with her mother, wrinkling her nose and complaining of the stink. “Sorry,” my husband says to her mother, a confident woman in a loose linen dress and wide-brimmed hat. “Apologise for nothing,” she says to him sternly, with a slight English accent and a wisp of a smile. “Enjoy it. Don’t apologise. I’d smoke one too if I hadn’t quit.” They walk on.
Alphonso, our server, comes by to chat. “This one is from me,” he says with a smile. Another small glass of Scotch. Glenfiddich, this one. The glass sitting in front of us is Glenmorangie. I smell them both, sip them both. Hold each in my mouth for several seconds before swallowing, then gently exhaling through my mouth, like I’ve been taught to do. I am not a Scotch person. I couldn’t tell you why. They all make me sneeze.
We’re on the last legs of our family vacation, rush-planned because I legitimately just had a vacation, but my husband *needed* one and didn’t have time to plan it. We picked a highly recommended resort and hoped for the best. If it was a bust, then at least it was only seven days?
The last time we went to a resort, we all (including my then 7 and 8 year old children) vowed never to do it again. So much chaos and noise, so many people, so much pee in the pool.
But this one?
It’s quiet. This is the public access beach. There’s a “kids’ pool” but it’s stunningly beautiful and empty. The adult pool is busier, and even then, quiet. The grounds are lush with foliage and winding paths through hacienda-style grounds. Rarely do we see other guests. The resort staff cater to our every whim before we’ve even had the chance to think of it. In the evenings, we take an Uber into town and try restaurants that show up in travel magazines. The one where there are trees lit up on islands and water surrounds the sunken dining tables. The one that is built on to a cliffside and overlooks the ocean. The two along the seaside that allow you to watch the sun go down. The one tucked behind a dull facade and opens up to a secret courtyard with beautifully braided thatching on the roof above.
“What did I say to you, that time we broke up? Do you remember?” He puffs thoughtfully on his cigar. I recall vaguely his petition. He’d driven three hours to talk to me on my psych rotation in a middle of nowhere town. Something about not giving it a proper chance, when he knew. Deep in his gut, he knew, and he couldn’t just walk away unless he’d known we’d given it a good go. He can’t remember the details now either. But here we are, sitting in the afternoon shade of a palm tree, waves crashing, punctuating the quiet, our kids nearby, noses in books and toes in the pool. “I can’t even imagine what alternate path my life would’ve taken.” he says. I think he would have been fine. He would have found another career path, found success, and he would have probably met someone else and built a family. I don’t know if I would have though. I really don’t.
“Next question: If you could live 200 years in good health, but no one else around you could, would you?” This is a harder question. My first instinct is no, because what’s the point when those you love can’t be with you? But then, that’s at least two or three different lives you could live in one lifetime, two or three more lives of people you would love eventually, potentially including relationships with your own great-great-grandchildren. My new answer: Yes, but only if this 200 years included unlimited living and travel funds for the remaining 150 years. He laughs.
The cigar is burned through, the scotch glasses are empty. He holds my hand as we meander back to our room.
I left work and high-tailed it home to load up all the things I’d packed over the weekend. I kissed my family, squeezed the dog, and drove to the city, parking at the airport and lugging everything over to the airport hotel, where I proceeded to do a workout, then lie in a hot bubbly tub, before being too excited to sleep. I got up from lying wide-eyed in a hotel bed and lugged everything to check in at 4 am, where they made me unpack my bike so they could peer into every nook and cranny, and then repack it all before they would check it as sports equipment. I watch four episodes of The Last of Us on the way to Mexico City, then wait patiently at a gate for my connecting flight to Oaxaca. Only they change the gate. Twice. And notify no one. When it’s time for boarding, and I see nothing happen, I check with the attendant, who notifies me that this flight is now boarding somewhere else entirely. By the time I make it there, the flight is closed, and there is no way, no how, I’m getting on it.
I cry a wee bit, then stand in an interminable line to sort it all out. An American woman and five Mexican nationals are all in the same situation. There is yelling in English and Spanish, and somehow, I am bumped to the next morning’s 6 am flight. It’s 6 pm.
I wander the Mexico City airport, and drink three Mezcalitas at a restaurant where I think I’ve ordered tuna tacos, but this mystery meat is most definitely not fish. I chat with my brother, who is in Phoenix on a business trip, and has been in this exact situation many times in Mexico City, where apparently this gate changing business is its M.O. I lie in awkward positions on airport chairs, watch workers at the bakery restock shelves to a heavy metal music soundtrack, and I finish a novel. I do not achieve sleep. I do, however, pray repeatedly that my bike is safe, and will make it.
At 430 am, I am at the gate with the American woman. She has lipstick on. She is going on a “spiritual retreat” in Oaxaca, and I am imagining her high in a sweat lodge. Her almost-elderly status makes this more comical than it ought to be. My eyeballs are a bit burny, and I feel sticky and gross. I doze on the 60 minute flight (but apparently a 6 hour bus ride), and arrive in the tiny airport of Oaxaca, where I am soon on a shuttle to my hotel. I have perhaps slept two hours out of 48, and upon my arrival, I’m greeted by the face of a neighbour from home, who also happens to be a pro mountain biker and one of the coaches for this trip. He is so very French, so very energetic, and so very excited. I dump all my things in his hotel room until my room is ready later, and beeline to the restaurant for coffee before heading back to his room to change. Someone has already begun to put my bike together, and I am delirious, but it doesn’t matter because I have met one of the other girls and thirteen random people are introducing themselves and I am trying to remember everyone’s names while signing forms, and tshirts and stickers and a lucha libre mask are being shoved into my arms.
Soon, I am squished between two boys who will be my “back of the bus” buddies for the rest of the week, but I am passed right out on the trip up the mountain, and then suddenly wide awake as we get warmed up, and ride our first lap on Mexican soil. I feel like a space robot that hasn’t been switched on yet, and clip a tree with handlebar within short order. We session a drop into a sketchy runout, and everyone is feeling a little strange, catching air in a foreign country with travel health insurance cards in our back pockets. Riding on no sleep is ill-advised, but by lap three, and our longest top to bottom lap of the day, the terrain has gone from wet and muddy to dry dusty steeps into river ruts and tight corners. I’m wide awake, and we’re finding our rhythm now, what order we should be riding to avoid holding people up, and whooping like monkeys at the end of each lap.
Views from the top.
We stand by a highway, dusty, muddy, sweaty, and starving. Stray dogs sniff our bikes and smelly kneepads. As we regroup, our local guides take us to a little lean-to by the side of the road, where we have lunch, at 4 pm.
Oaxaca is the home of Mezcal, and this first meal together solidifies the tradition of a mezcal at every meal. One of my new friends has six children. He doesn’t drink coffee or alcohol. I tell him he’ll probably live forever, if it weren’t for the six kids.
We head back to the hotel, wash bikes and bodies, and wander into the main city, marvelling at the leftover decor from Dias de la Muertos celebrations, soaking in the dancing couples in the main square, and the random fireworks that seem to be going off haphazardly.
Dinner is fancy, but I don’t remember it anymore. All I remember is collapsing into my bed and having the deepest sleep I’ve ever had.
I wake a new person, and what follows is five more days of coaching, riding, and more riding. There are two other girls who have come on this trip, one who’s only been riding a year, and the other who crashes and garners a wicked whiplash on day two or three. They scale it back, and sit out some of the more technical or steeper trails. I find myself the only girl on a few days, keeping up and sitting comfortably in the middle of the pack. The coaches take turns riding behind each of us, yelling out tweaks in body position, timing, pumping corners, braking, leaning and posture. It is invaluable, and I can feel my bike control, and subsequent speed, increasing.
Every day, I finish the trails with a massive grin on my face, fist-bumping my compadres, and every evening, we sit around a table and joke and laugh, talking about bikes, trails, and more places to ride bikes. I am amazed at how a group of fourteen strangers can get along so famously. We are all stoked for each other, cheering each other on, with a cohesion I suspect is rare amongst large groups like this. One guy dislocates his finger after crashing and as another reaches to help him up, the wrong-way finger becomes apparent and there is panicked yelling. The rest of us pull up to the scene, and a Go-Pro captures the sucessful relocation of said finger, with only minimal cursing, en espanol. He rides out, and the footage is replayed at length as we all laugh about it later.
Post-ride Modelos after riding El Toro (the bull)
We were, in essence, a group of grown children, riding bikes and having fun. One evening, we are all in the pool trading tattoo stories, and another night, daring each other to eat hot peppers. We range in age from 15 to 55 (two local teenagers have joined the tour) and all share a fierce love of bikes and the cycling community.
I have found my people.
On the last two nights, a few pro urban downhill racers from Guadelajara join us for drinks. They are fresh-faced and young, known for racing crazy courses through twisted city streets and steep stairwells and here to join our coaches for some filming after our trip is done.
The final night, we all exchange hugs and farewells. “Thanks for being the other adult here!” says my six-progeny friend. I catch a ride to the airport with the only other Canadian on the trip (who advised that the bus to Oaxaca is indeed a six-hour trip, because he too missed a connecting flight), and in Mexico City, we part ways as we catch flights to opposite sides of Canada.
The red-eye flight gets me back in short order. I’ve slept two hours, watched another three episodes of The Last of Us, and finished another novel. I drive back from the city in crisp, wintry cold.
Upon arrival home, I message riding buddies to see if anyone’s keen for a ride. It will motivate me to put my bike back together, and stave off the blues and fatigue.
I find one taker, (it’s a Tuesday morning after all) and we go for a lap on a trail I’ve never ridden before. There’s been some snow, and we’re relegated to the lower mountain trails. This one’s techy, with awkward turns into steep chutes. I’m briefly scared again, as none of the trails in Oaxaca have this steep, technical terrain. I have a moment of panic at the top of a chute. “I’m scared! And I don’t know why!” I yell, debating if I want to walk this, because it’s probably safer to ride it. I didn’t see my friend ride it, only heard the tires thunder over rock and soil. “You’re fine. It’s fine. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. Ride the line on the far right.” It’s the steepest line. He hikes back up and rides it again, demonstrating the line in, and that the runout is smooth. I take a deep breath, ride it, and shake my head. It was fine. We do two laps, and on the second climb, it actually feels like I’m dying. My heart is racing and I’m struggling for breath. Fatigue is a b*tch, but the second lap is fast and fun.
That night, I sleep thirteen hours.
In the week that has followed, I’ve ridden bikes in the cold, fought a stomach bug, and napped numerous hours on a couch in front of the fire, while my dog snuggles into me. I’m still coasting on the high, remembering the warmth of the sun, and the happy glow of some of the loveliest people I’ve had the privilege of meeting.
In three days, I will be in Oaxaca, Mexico. Hopefully my bike will make it too. It is the sole source of anxiety for me right now. I’m relying on airtag tracking, a prayer, and trust in an airline.
I’ve never ever travelled alone before (well, not internationally). I’ve never ever travelled with a bike before. I’ve never ever travelled for the sole purpose of riding a bike in new environments.
So exciting! Also, mildly anxiety inducing.
I have so many friends who roll their eyes at me. “You’re a grown woman. You will be fine.” “You’re a DOCTOR. You will figure it out. I believe in you.” And yet, I will be my small, sweaty self, hopefully lugging around a giant bike bag (because it will make it there, right? Manifest destiny!), in an airport where I will fumble around in a vague and terrible mix of Spanish and French (I have always mixed up words, I find them such similar languages), ensuring I have my resting b*tch face on so as to deter would be accosters. I’ve switched over currency, bought health insurance that covers mountain biking, and packed tools and extra brake pads and tubes and gloves. I’ve no idea what the riding will be like, so I’ve brought the convertible full face, and an armoured shirt with spine and chest protection.
In the meantime, I’ve just been bike tinkering. As I hadn’t booked any assessments for the next few weeks, I was struck with the strange feeling of having no work to catch up on for the weekend. A very bearable lightness of being. This allowed for meal preparation, children coming for playdates, loads of laundry and a clean and tidy kitchen. It also allowed for bike tinkering. Things I’ve been meaning to do but never got ’round to. Mostly aesthetics. Like putting on stickers. It’s pouring rain right now anyway, so I’m not terribly motivated to go play outside. Is this what everyone’s weekends are like?All this free time??
This Fox sticker used to be grey and orange.
This PIKE sticker used to be grey. Now it is a gold foil, but one that doesn’t match. And it irks to no end. But is not irksome enough to invest in new stickers. In other news, my dog is now 13 years old. He is so wonderfully handsome.
I took my enduro bike apart and cut up a foam noodle to protect the frame before securing it into a bike bag, carefully wrapping and securing all the bits and bobs.
I also took apart the new hardtail, so I can put a CushCore insert into the rear tire.
I have broken all the rules of bike photography here, but oh well. It was the end of a fun first ride.
She’s been getting a lot of pedal time, because holy hell is she a ton of fun. I still want to swap out the brakes to something more reliable and confidence inspiring (and the brakes I have in mind are silver), and I’ve since put on a blue bottle cage and pump/tool mount. There will be blue rotor bolts, and maybe a blue headset spacer and seatpost collar coming, though I haven’t yet decided. If the bottom bracket wasn’t a pressfit, I’d consider a blue one of those, you know, for subtlety. But I’ve been taking her down all the usual trails, seeing how she handles. I can’t go as fast on the chunky stuff, but she can still handle jumps with aplomb, and steeps with confidence. She is so, so nimble, and I love her. My legs burn at the end of each lap though, likely as they’re doing more absorbing than they ever have before. Small bump sensitivity…
I had a moment yesterday where it felt so crazy to me that I built this ridiculously fancy enduro bike with so much front and rear suspension, and instead, I’m having oodles of fun on a barebones basic. Back to first principles.
Happy sigh. I love bicycles. I really, really do. 🙂
Here’s hoping Mexico will yield a group of like-minded folks and some solid, fun, riding!
Bikes, Brains, and other Musings 