Last Hurrah

Barkernews was on call this weekend which means he's not supposed to be any farther than one hour from work. It's pretty difficult to ski when your husband can't sit in the lodge and watch the baby so like a dumbass, I signed up to race the USGP of Cyclocross. This seemed like a smart move given that I hadn't been on any bike since the Barton race and I have done exactly zero interval workouts. Two nights prior to the USGP race, my bike, my shoes, and my helmet were still covered in several pounds of dried mud.

But I needed something to do. I couldn't very well sit around all weekend. I signed up at the last minute. I got my ass out of bed at a completely unreasonable hour for a cyclocross race (apparently, USGP didn't get the memo that OBRA women always start at 2pm?), I raced for 30 minutes. I had three mechanical issues: a stuck chain, a dropped chain and a loose front wheel. As is to be expected given the above circumstances, I got my butt kicked.

But I had a ton of fun and I was home by 10:30am . BAM!

Some things in my favor: I was racing a category up from my normal category. There was freezing fog (no, really. My bike was covered in ice at the end of the race.). There were very few spectators (though the ones that were there? Award-winning in their enthusiasm.).

Some things not in my favor: Holy cow, have my technical skills gone to crap over the season. I have no lactate-threshold fitness. December is for getting fat, not racing.

But it was a great race to finish (for real this time) the season on. I really liked the course, with its muddy runups, whoop-de-doos (from the BMX course), steep dropoffs, single-track tight turns and long straightaway on pavement. Ten points to the USGP folks for course layout.

Afterwards, I stood in a hot shower for an hour, took a nap, read a book, found a Christmas tree, and had dinner with friends. I didn't even miss skiing that much.

Here is a lovely demonstration of my lack of technical skills. I know how to carry my bike over barriers. This is how you should NOT do it.

Willing myself up the steep, muddy hill. Unfortunately, fortitude was not enough.

Why do I have my foot down here? I don't know. But, apparently, I sure am mad about it.


Riding the wagon to find our tree. The fog cleared and revealed a strikingly beautiful day.

Snow daze

Literally.  I can tell winter has begun because I obsessively check the mountain weather forecast every hour.  Will it snow?  No?  Well, maybe that will change in the next 60 minutes and I need to check AGAIN.

I do realize that I have a problem.  However, this problem is at least slightly better than my checking-for-race-results-every-15-minutes problem.  Slightly.  

The ski season started off with an early bang and in a frenzied fear that it may end just as quickly as it began (oh, the loveliness of bi-polar Northwest weather), I have clicked my telemark boots in to bindings 7 times in November.  SEVEN TIMES.  I went back and looked at the 2008 archives of this blog and I didn't even ski until November 23rd last year, and even

 then, it was on a few scarce runs at Timberline.  The first powder day didn't arrive until December 19th.

So I am excited.  And I want to be on the snow 24/7. And  I am doing my best to make that happen.

The weekend before Thanksgiving, Barkernews and I traded baby shifts with the Stiles and we got to ski together in knee-deep snow.  It was totally worth babysitting a 6-month-old and a 15-month-old for.  Unfortunately, we have no pictures because we couldn't manage to bring one of our three cameras.  Barkernews did snap this Blackberry picture of The Hizz and I at Cascade Ski Lodge where we spent the night:

The next day, I woke before the crack of dawn to ski patrol in a blizzard.  After three runs by braille, the ski area was shut down and I was sent home at 10:30am.  In my four years of patrolling, this has never happened.  There have been occasions when I have been there until 6pm, but never sent home in the morning.  I wasn't too upset.  Skiing by braille in to mounds of wind-blown snow is never safe.  I'll take hanging out with The Hizz and Barkernews over that any day.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving was a no school day, as decreed by my school.  The forecast was for 50 degrees and sunny.  How could I NOT go to the mountain?  Upon my arrival, the mountain was waiting for me:

Spring skiing days in November= most excellent.  I ran in to the parent of one of my students who happens to be a ripping tele skier (the parent, not the student) and my fun quotient immediately doubled.  

I LOVE to ski.  Have I mentioned that on this blog before?

After thoroughly wasting my legs, Barkernews, The Hizz, and I hopped in to the car for a three-hour tour to Seattle.  We spent Thursday eating and eating and eating, just like the rest of America.  Except we made up for it the next day.  I am proud to say that every Kaiser kid (all four of us) and their spouses (all three of them) went skiing together on Friday.

The weather and the conditions weren't ideal, but the groomers were fast and there were fresh tracks to be had in Edelweiss Bowl:

Also, from what I can glean from other people's lives, it's not often that a group of adult siblings and their spouses all do something active together.  They might eat together or shop together or drink together, but that doesn't count.  Now, if you drink together AFTER you ski, that does count.

We are missing Ritchie, Ailey's husband in the picture.  We have converted Nate and Marissa to tele.  Only three more to go:

To complete our snow whirlwind, we headed up to SkiBowl early Sunday morning to patrol, a mere eight hours after arriving home from Seattle.  The snow was hard and fast, but the sun was shining.  Barkernews took the morning patrol shift.  I took the morning Hizz shift.  It was awesome.

Thwarted by a broken snowshoe, but encouraged by hard-packed snow, The Hizz and I went on a short 3-mile hike where we encountered this snowman (whose "hair" seems to be eating Hazel):

Upon our return, it was time to switch with Barkernews.  For his Hizz shift, he skinned her up to Silcox Hut and skied her back down.  He's nuts.  The girl is finally over 20 pounds.  Add in the weight of the backpack and various "stuff" and she is easily 25% of my body weight.  I am pretty sure dropping a knee in that circumstance would be pretty difficult.

The snow at SkiBowl was less than fantastic, so I took some runs on bullet-proof ice and then hung out at Rescue Center where I proceeded to annoy Mike and Andrew for a few hours.  The view was worth it:

As you can clearly see, SkiBowl was stuck in a cloud.  Timberline and Meadows were enjoying some nice, warm sun.  Jerks.

It was a ridiculously easy day on patrol capped off by a little someone who came to pick me up in her sled:

The Barkers finished it off with our normal end-of-day-in-the-snow routine: Haze and I asleep and Barkernews driving home.  It's an awesome ritual.

A couple weeks ago, a friend told me she had declined to purchase a season pass this year because she just didn't really like to ski all that much.  I almost fell over.  Really?  How can you not love to ski?  Even on the worst days, when the snow is blue ice and the winds are whipping around you at 60 miles per hour, being on the mountain is cool.  Sure, I have been known to take some runs and then chill out for awhile (ahem, yesterday), but even if you're hanging out in the lodge with friends or your family, it's the experience.

I know, I know.  There are those of you out there who would rather run or ride a bike or swim or kick a soccer ball around or even sit on your ass and watch tv.  And that's cool.

But you should really, really try skiing.  Really.

Pain. Lots of pain.

I am stubborn and I don't learn from my own mistakes.  In 2007 and 2009, I attempted the whole "ski and bike race combo weekend".  I should know better by now.  But I don't, and as evidence, I can almost guarantee I will repeat my stupidity in the spring, when the road race season heats up.

Barton Park was the last race of the Cross Crusade series for the year.  It had rained all week down low, while it had snowed in the mountains.  I just wanted to finish well, or at least better than I did at PIR the previous week.  

It was not to be.  From the moment I started turning my pedals, I knew the race was about survival.  My legs were completely wasted.  I may not have skied much the previous day, but I did pull a loaded sled out of several powder holes.  That hurt.  My legs, my back, my arms- everything was tired and complaining.  

I have been in this state before.  See: stage racing.  Therefore, I know I can survive.  I know I will finish.  I also know that I will grit my teeth, I will swear a lot, I will curse my bike and I will generally hate the sport for the next 45 minutes to 3 hours.

I was passed in the mud, I was passed on what minimal barriers there were, I was passed on the runups...wait, WHAT?

Yeah, I was passed on the runups, the one advantage I have in cyclocross.  The runups especially hurt and even caused tears to appear in my eyes.  I even WALKED a stupid downhill because I was just so dang tired I couldn't fathom the technical skills necessary to get down it on my bike (yeah, that was embarrassing).

One tell-tale sign that I am tired?  Crying.  Just for the sheer sake of crying.  Because I am tired.  Because it hurts.  Because I want it to be over.  It's also a clear sign to me that this cyclocross season has probably ended for me.

In my first cyclocross season, I raced thirteen times.  I loved it all, except for Barton.  I hung out with cool people, I spent time with my family, I cheered Barkernews on (which doesn't often happen in road racing, given that we race at the same time), I ate waffles, I made new friends, I pushed myself...in summary, it rocked.  And that's what I want it to be about, not about me beating myself up for my worse placement this season (17th) or crying on the course because my muscles hurt so bad.

Next season, I am moving out of the beginner category and in to the Bs.  I am excited about racing with some faster, more experienced women.  

For now though?  It's time to focus on SNOW.  Adios, cross season.  You chewed me up and spit me out and all I can do is kiss your feet and say, THANK YOU.

The look on my face says it all.

Dear God, can you please supply with two different bodies for the weekends?  Thank you, NoPoGirl.

Never again, I swear.  Never again. 

(until next year)

Barton kills bikes.  During Barkernews' race, his handlebars snapped in half.  Really.  I could not make this up if I tried.

Snow season

They said it was the earliest start to the ski season in recent memory.  They said it was dumping on the mountain.  They said the ski areas would be packed.

Barkernews and I took heed.  We loaded the Suby with skis, packs, and skins, and turned the car east towards the mountain.  It was a Wednesday.  The kid was in daycare.  The snow was piling up.

And then we listened to the sound of our skis slowly climbing uphill as the snow soaked through our clothes.

Sure, we could have joined everyone and his brother at the ski area.  But we have not yet acquired our season passes and we don't pay to ski.  We did the next best thing- we earned our turns.

I'm afraid to say that we haven't earned our turns in a couple years.  Being ski patrollers means ready access to passes.  It's not a difficult decision between spending hours going uphill and 15 minutes skiing downhill or spending limited time sitting on a chairlift and lots of time wooshing downhill.  We like to go downhill.  A lot.

Wednesday was different.  With the exception of a few wayward hitch-hiking snowboarders, the trail was quiet, the amount of snow immense.  It seemed a fitting way to usher in a promising ski season, full of powder and steep runs and each other.  Welcome, winter.

Between Wednesday and Saturday, the snow refused to stop.  We headed up to Timberline Lodge for an entirely different experience on snow: our first ski patrol day of the season.  Since Hazel was born, ski patrolling has become exponentially more complicated.  Conversely, its meaningfulness has doubled.  The equation works out in our favor- we just make it work, by splitting shifts or taking turns.  It's not the same as it once was, but it's not worse either.  We still get to ski patrol.  We still get to hang out with family.  We still get to be in the snow.

Barkernews took the morning baby-watching shift and Wonderboy took Hazel snowshoeing for an hour and then skinned up to Silcox Hut with Hazel and skied down.  He gets my vote for Best Dad Ever.  Meanwhile, I drooled at the sight of fresh, dry powder while I spent two hours putting up tower pads.  As guests wooshed through knee-deep powder, I was tempted to ditch the red jacket with the white cross and take off after them.  Alas, I did not.  I performed my ski patrol duty, only to then help Ben carry a large man down a not-so-steep slope full of powder, rocks, and holes.  That hurt.

Then my shift was over and Barkernews had his turn to patrol.  He ended up skiing.  A lot.  Jerk.

To be fair, I did get some nice runs in while Lydia watched The Hizz.  And they were pretty darn good.

I had to remind myself to take a deep breath, chill out, eat some snow, stay in that tele turn just a little bit longer (ouch ouch ouch).  The snow season is just beginning.  There will be many days of powder (and sometimes those days will fall on a Monday and I will *cough* be "sick").

I have patrol days and free ski days and Tele Tuesdays and Ladies Night and Colorado days and Spring Break days to look forward to, all filled with snow.

Winter is awesome.

Ahhh...cyclocross

Watch out for the Barker family at around the 2:00 mark. Yeah, we're famous.

Soul crushing, spirit-killing MUD

Let's talk about mud.  There are several different types of mud: slick-as-snot mud, thicker-than-oatmeal mud, wet mud, dry mud (aka clay), deep mud, shallow mud.  Yep, lots of different kinds of mud.

And then there is PIR mud.  Sunday was race #7 in the Cross Crusade series and it was as if God spent the whole week preparing for it.  That is to say, it rained and rained and rained some more for the entire week beforehand, creating epic mud conditions at PIR.  

I don't think you really understand the meaning of the word "epic".  By epic, I mean shin-deep, off-camber, "you're definitely gonna fall in it" epic.  So, here's what I did: spun my wheels helplessly as I was passed by so many chicks, I lost count.  I also fell.  A lot.  At some point during the race, I shrugged my shoulders, stuck a grin on my face and embraced it.  

On one particularly off-camber 90-degree corner, I took out a 2-year-old spectator.  While I immediately stood up and started shaking my hands helplessly (since that was all I could do, given that my heart rate was hovering in the 500s by that point), the poor toddler's dad tried to put me back on my bike, all while yelling, "GO GO GO!" at me.  After that, I realized, this sport is stupid.  It is extraordinarily stupid.  For some reason, therein lies the appeal of cyclocross.  There is NO POINT, other than to ride a bike meant for the road, over a series of obstacles meant for a mountain bike.

For the rest of the race, through my typical race face grimace, I was laughing.  I PAY to do this? 

Yeah, I guess I do.  

I was 14th out of 72 women.  At Alpenrose, I was 14th out of 92 women.  At Rainier, I was 13th out of 61 women.  Do you see a pattern here?  I am beginning to hate every number that comes after 12.  It's like I'm a perpetual adolescent, stuck in those in-between years.  I can't drive yet, but I'm too cool for junior high dances.

For the last race in the series, I'm taking bets on two things: One, what will I place? and Two, will I spend my race secretly laughing once again?

Send your bets directly to me.  A six-pack of beer is at stake.

After Barkernews raced in the morning, he tried to warn me about the mud.  "It's pretty difficult," he said.  "Pshaw," I replied, "Every course thus far has been difficult."  If only I had known that he spoke the truth.

This is what we call "wet mud".

See all these women passing me?  At this point, I was just like, oh please, go ahead.  No, you first.

Runups with barriers and mud SUCK.  Literally.

This is what you look like after falling in the mud-repeatedly-and half of your team kit is white.  I had mud in unmentionable places after this race.

Let's put some perspective on all of this silliness.  I am the proud mother of the cutest bike-race-attending baby of all time.  So there.

Beautiful, glorious SNOW

In case you didn't notice, it has been snowing in the mountains.  A LOT.  Forgetting for a moment that Northwesterners are typically fickle snow-lovers who get so so so excited for the first snow, only to watch it all melt away in the next week's rains, we were enchanted.  The Barker family wanted to see and feel and taste snow and we wanted to do it yesterday.

Given a plan-less Saturday, there was nothing else to do.  It was time for a family hike with a toddler dressed like a cow.  Or a dalmatian, take your pick.

And how was it?

It was so fantastic.  It DUMPED snow all day long.  It dumped so much, in fact, that we skipped the baby sledding session and headed to the coffee shop instead.  Of course, we went on a snow hike before-hand and reveled in the wonderful, beautiful snow.

I love snow.  I really, REALLY love snow.