My half-assitude lasted me through the weekend until I figured it was time to actually do some semblance of research and see who I could ride with. I had never done the Kirkland ride before (it’s put on by the city every year to raise money to help homelessness), so I asked Jason if he’d sign up with me. He gave me a “Pshaw hell nah, I’m tapering for Boise.” His dad, on the other hand, was interested in doing the ride so at least I’d have one cycling buddy for the day.

In keeping with my “total lack of research” theme for this ride, I woke up early Monday morning, got my gear together, did a quick glance at the 7 Hills website to get the address of the starting point, and took off. I met Jim, Jason’s dad, at the park where the ride took off from at 7 am and begrudgingly coughed up $55 for the registration fee. (A cost that I think is too expensive, especially considering that the course is still open to car traffic and we’re really only paying for a couple of aid stations. I reminded myself it was for a good cause and remembered to take more fuel gels than I needed at each food stop to make up for the dent in my wallet.)

The ride started out pretty decent, and the climbs were pretty good but nothing that was pants-crappingly difficult. Unfortunately, I found out pretty quickly that it’s not the best idea to do the ride on a time trial bike — there are enough climbs that having a road bike would be more beneficial, plus the descents are often winding/zig-zaggy and there aren’t that many flat/fast stretches to get into aero. I ended up being that doosher trying to look all bad-ass on my TT when a road bike was way more appropriate (at least I didn’t have race wheels *coughBrentcough*).

Jason’s dad had warned me ahead of time that the Winery Hill climb was the worst, and he had also cautioned me to be in the proper gearing as soon as we turned onto it. He wasn’t lying — as soon as you take a right onto that road, you run directly into the start of the hill. If you’re not in the correct gear when you hit it, you’re pretty screwed. The climb itself is shorter than the other hills on the ride, but it’s a steep fucker. My rear shifter was pointed towards the sky and I was cranking down on my pedals so hard, I nearly keeled over a couple times (I do not know how those professional cyclists wobble back and forth on their bikes so aggressively). When I got to the top, I was greeted by a woman sitting in a lawn chair and clapping, and once I made my way out of the neighborhood, a bag piper played the one token bagpipe song in existence.

According to the map, the winery hill was #6 out of #7 total, so I’d have a nice, good stretch before running into the final climb…or so I thought. We’d ride for a bit, and then we’d come across another freaking hill that wasn’t marked like the other ones we had climbed. I thought, “There’s no way they don’t consider these to be hills, so why the hell aren’t these marked and how come they don’t count?”  I grew more and more disgruntled with each ascent, cursing the city of Kirkland and my go-to scapegoat, Teresa, for scheduling this ride for me.

When we got to the second aid station, I brought up the fact that we’d clearly done more than seven hills. Someone heard me and said, “Oh yeah, the 7 Hills is if you do the 40 mile ride. Since we’re doing the metric century, we climb 11 hills.” What?! That’s over 50% more hills! Granted, if I had checked the ride’s website, I would have known that the metric century course is a lot hillier than the standard 7 Hills course, but I didn’t do that because I was half-awake when I left that morning (and a groggy Bec ain’t nuthing ta fuck wit). Thankfully, we were 15 miles and one last climb away from the finish.

After we finally rolled back into Marina Park, I checked my bike computer and saw that I averaged a glorious 14.4 mph — that’s what happens when you do 11 climbs over 60 miles and are packed so tightly amongst other cyclists, you can’t get a whole lot of speed or get into aero. I sure felt speedy. Jason’s dad gave me a dopey hug and thanked me for riding with him. We decided to grab lunch, so I headed over to my car to change into some less-yucky clothes and to lock my bike.

As I ghetto-cleaned up next to my car, I noticed a car waiting behind me out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t think much of it since I figured he was waiting for cyclists and pedestrians to cross the street so he could leave the park. After a while though, he stayed put and I realized he was waiting for my parking spot because the park was full. Since I was only dropping stuff off at my car and wasn’t actually leaving yet, I walked over to him and told him exactly that. He sneered and retorted, “You could have told me sooner, I’ve been waiting for ten minutes” and then drove off. And that’s why I hate assholes who try to poach your spot instead of looking around for something that’s available.

Jason’s dad and I grabbed lunch. Our conversation went something like this:

(before lunch) Jim: “Yeah, I think I could have gone 30 extra miles and done the century ride.”

(after lunch) Jim: “I’m glad I didn’t sign up for the century ride.”

When I got home, I unpacked my stuff and pulled up Training Peaks to log my workout. I noticed that Teresa had updated my workouts for the coming week, but what immediately caught my eye was that she had changed my 7 Hills of Kirkland ride to a day off. My reaction was basically this:

I updated my workout with some choice colorful language, and Teresa called me back within five minutes (because a workout update is like the Bat Signal to her), exclaiming, “You told me you weren’t going to do the ride!” I responded, “I said I’d maybe do it!” This back and forth continued for quite some time before she said, “Well, I’m happy you did it! Aren’t you happy you did it?” I didn’t have the heart to tell her no, I’m not happy I did it because I could have slept in and played video games and eaten a huge breakfast scramble instead, so instead I just sighed and said, “Yeah, it was fine.”

Overall I felt the ride is alright except for a few things:

• It’s too expensive (I know it’s a charity ride, but still)
• I should have used my road bike
• They should mark all of the goddamn hills, not just the titular “7″
• They should space out the aid stations better (the first one comes after an hour and the second one comes towards the end)

I don’t know if I’ll do it again next year — it’s good for training but the course ain’t exactly scenic, plus all of the cyclists can make for a somewhat dangerous/annoying ride (I ran into my fair share of douchebags who’d cycle two-by-two in the middle of the road going 18 mph on a descent). Whatever my decision for next year, I’ll make sure to triple-check the workout with Teresa.

Riding indoors, however, gives you some nice luxuries — you don’t necessarily have to get up super early to begin your workout, you’re always near a bathroom, and you don’t have to worry about running out of fuel or getting in a crash. These are all nice perks, but my absolute favorite reason for cycling at home is the obvious one, and that is I can watch whatever crap I want for the duration of my workout.

Jason and I watch a lot of movies when we ride. We watch TV too, but usually save the DVR’d shows for shorter recovery rides and opt for full-length movies or TV on DVD for longer workouts. Our preferences typically include the following:

• something with subtitles so we don’t have to blast the volume too loud
• no heavy dramas or depressing crap that can suck the cadence right out of you; this means we usually end up watching a lot of mindless action movies or lighthearted comedies
• something that’s long enough to last the entire ride (either we’ll watch a bunch of TV episodes in a row or we’ll try to find a movie with a running time that matches closely with our workout)

I thought I’d try to chronicle some of the movies we watch while cycling in a segment I’ve coined Cyclepiece Theater. My first two entries come from the Paul Verhoeven collection, my favorite guilty pleasure director. Two weekends in a row we watched some awesome vintage Verhoeveny goodness.

RoboCop

Pretty accurate depiction of Detroit

Genre: Action

Year Released: 1987

Running Time: 102 minutes

Awesome?: Yes!

Memorable Quote: “Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.”

Lesson Learned: Crime doesn’t pay! Also, in Verhoeven-envisioned futures, men and women share locker rooms because they are sooooo progressive (see also the Starship Troopers communal shower scene).

When I first met my friend Matt and told him I was from Detroit (I’m not, but saying “I’m from Detroit” to people who aren’t from Michigan is better than saying “I’m from 40 miles outside of Detroit”), he perked up and said, “Oh, really? I don’t know anything about Detroit — do you guys just have a bunch of RoboCops wandering around the city policing it?” Dude, I wish! That’d be supremely awesome. Alas, I have to make do with watching it while doing a dumb cycling workout. Boo.

The movie holds up well, although you might be weirded out seeing the dad from That 70’s Show acting like a total dickwad to the entire population of Detroit. It’s a good one to cycle to — you’ll get caught up watching Peter Weller transform into RoboCop while his partner who had been paired up with him for literally less than a day feels an inexplicable bond with him (it’s like those d-bags you barely spoke to in high school who are now all of a sudden coming out of the woodwork to friend you on Facebook because OMG REMEMBER WHEN YOU BOTH WENT TO THE SAME HIGH SCHOOL?! BESTIES 4 LIFE!!). He mops up the street while Clarence Boddicker mops his toxic waste-soaked henchman off his windshield (that scene is so nasty-cool).

The actual citizens of Detroit want to erect a statue of RoboCop and are planning to pay for it out of pocket after Mayor McAsshole shot down the idea. I am in full support of this movement; if RoboCop inspires me to get through a Sunday morning workout, he can definitely rally an apocalyptically poor city to flourish and thrive once again.

Total Recall

Ahnuld. Mahs.

Genre: Action

Year Released: 1990

Running Time: 113 minutes

Awesome?: Yes!

Memorable Quote: “Get your ass to Mars!”

Lesson Learned: If you’re trying to sneak through interplanetary customs dressed as a towering fat woman, pre-record more than one phrase. Also, three boobs is one boob too many.

Total Recall has everything: a sheisty Sharon Stone, Arnold making his standard gutteral noises that he passes off as acting, a midget hooker, a mutant renegade leader attached to some dude’s chest, and the evil executive bad guy from RoboCop playing an evil executive bad guy. The special effects are still pretty good despite the weird Arnold puppet face when he’s extracting the tracking device from his nose (and, of course, minus Three Boobweirdchestington).

It’s Inception-lite, meaning you could spend the duration of your ride wondering whether Arnold is actually trapped in a dream state or if he’s really living out this Martian adventure. Considering it’s an action movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger, I’m thinking you should go with the less cerebral option and save your thinking cap for when you watch Jingle All the Way and wonder where the last shreds of his dignity went.

Yesterday Jason and I begrudgingly drove up to Lake Stevens to ride the 70.3 bike course a few times with our teammates. We have no intention of doing the Lake Stevens 70.3 since it’s too close to Ironman Canada and because I hate the race with the fire of 1,000 suns, but it was our group workout for the week and we needed to get in the mileage. Well, to summarize how the day went, we had the usual redneck obscenities screamed at us and had to cut the ride short one loop after Jason got in a bad bike accident. Needless to say, our feelings about Lake Stevens have continued to dampen.

We showed up remarkably early for the workout (normally we’re [and by "we're" I mean "I'm"] running a few minutes late to workouts) and waited for our teammates to start rolling in so we could begin riding. The workout varied for our teammates — some were only doing two loops, while others were doing as many as four. Teresa scheduled us three loops, meaning we’d ride about 84 miles total, and then a 45 minute to an hour-long brick run. The temperature was surprisingly chilly — it was supposed to get to mid-70s, but it doesn’t seem to warm up until late afternoon, so we ended up riding in high-50 degrees through a thick, wet fog.

The ride started innocuously enough. My legs felt a bit tight from the week’s workouts, but I was riding pretty strong and steady. I was surprised by how easy the course felt compared to when I rode it in previous years. The frustrating false flats and the challenging climb up Debuque seemed like a piece of cake — a nice testament to how much my riding has improved this year.

As I was finishing the first loop, I started to think to myself, “Hey, this ride’s going pretty well. I haven’t gotten honked or yelled at by some jerkfuck in a truck, so maybe they’re being nicer to cyclists around he–”. The thought hadn’t even completely materialized in my head when some piece of shit in the opposite lane passed me and screamed “Fucking FAAAAAAAAAAAG!” I sighed and trudged on. (Later, my teammates and I swapped “getting heckled by rednecks” stories; Jason said some fat lady on a Harley shouted at him to “Get off the fucking road!” while in the other lane going in the complete opposite direction, Tracy said a car full of teenagers screamed obscenities at him while he was descending a hill, and several other cyclists complained about how cars would buzz by them much too close and honk at them angrily as they passed.

FUCK YOU, LAKE STEVENS. You host a half Ironman, for Christ’s sake — it’s not like we triathletes think, “Hey, you know what piece of shit town I’d like to ride through just to piss off the inbred locals? Lake Stevens!” We’re there to ride the course of the race that takes place in your shitty, stupid town. Stop being surprised and annoyed — every year you host the race, you’ll run into athletes practicing the course. If you don’t like it, tell Ironman to move their race to a different town (which is what I hope to God ends up happening). I’m sure another location would be grateful for the income and extra business the race will bring them since you’re clearly not.

Okay, now that this year’s Lake Stevens rant is (mostly) done, I’ll move on. I finished the first loop in about 1:30 and met up with the fast group of cyclists at a gas station. We chatted for a bit, had a quick bathroom break and refueled, and started on loop #2.

Me and my peeps at a 76 station

I rode behind the fast group for a short while, but they lost me and I ended up riding with Jason’s dad, Bill, and a guy in an Oregon State jersey named Joel. I passed Jim (Jason’s dad) climbing up a hill and chased Bill and Joel.

Before I continue, I have to explain part of the Lake Stevens bike course for those of you who aren’t familiar with it. It’s a two loop course (28 miles per loop) that’s fairly challenging — there are a lot of false flats and a few hefty climbs. Towards the end of the loop there’s a double climb up Debuque at around the 20 mile mark (it’s a long hill, then a brief descent/flat, then another hill that’s short but steep), then a winding descent that takes you over a bridge and to a stop, where you turn right and ride about 4 or 5 miles back to where you started.

The descents on this course are a bit challenging since they’re on a windy road, there’s no shoulder at all, and the drivers are absolute assholes (I rarely rode in aero because I was so paranoid about the drivers and about being safe). To make matters worse, because this town is royally fucked in the head, towards the bottom of the descent I just described, right before you cross the bridge, there’s a goddamn bump that juts out across the width of the road. It’s not quite speed bump big, but it’s probably nearly a foot wide and runs across the entire road. It’s at the end of a long, fast descent, and there is no sign whatsoever warning you that it’s there. The first time I rode the course, I spotted the bump at the last second and slammed on my brakes so I wouldn’t ride too hard over it. It was really scary and jolted me. If you don’t know this bump is here and you don’t see it, or if you ride over it a weird way, it can be extremely dangerous.

Anyway, I was finishing my descent down Debuque when I saw a sea of blue jerseys on the side of the road on the bridge, as well as a white truck pulled over. I immediately knew something was wrong, so I started to slow down. Mark saw me and put his hands up to get my attention. I stopped, saw the look on his face, and knew in the pit of my stomach that something had happened to Jason.

“What’s up?” I asked. He said, “Don’t freak out…Jason took a little tumble, but he’s okay.” I hopped off my bike and handed it to him, then awkwardly ran in my cleats over to where everyone was huddled, nearly rolling an ankle in the process. I could hear Jason talking and chuckling, so I wasn’t too worried since he sounded coherent and in relatively good spirits. He was laying on the shoulder of the road with his helmet still on and his head propped up under a duffel bag. His knees were scraped up pretty bad, and I could see a big scrape on his elbow that had already started to swell up. Remarkably, his face and head seemed fine.

Here’s what happened: The fast group was about five minutes ahead of me. Jason was in the lead when they descended down Debuque, with Mark riding about five feet behind him and a truck was behind them both. When Jason got to the bump, he was probably going about 35 mph. His front tire hit the bump and came off the ground, and he instinctively hit the brakes. When the tire hit the road, it was locked up and launched him over the handlebars. He miraculously thought to tuck his head as he hit the pavement, so instead of stopping his forward momentum with his face, he took the brunt of the fall on his right shoulder, then tumbled again on his left side. Mark had to swerve into the opposite side of the road to avoid the accident. I think he scooped up Jason’s bike and moved it off the road. Jason ended up on the side of the road about 20 feet from where the bump was.

Some people stopped to help. As luck would have it, one of the guys who stopped was a part-time EMT, so he washed off Jason’s scrapes with some water and kept him stable until an ambulance arrived. When the paramedics showed up, they checked Jason out and ruled out any major head injuries (THANK YOU, Rudy Project, for making a product that did its job and protected my boyfriend’s noggin) — although Jason saw stars and was a bit dizzy after the accident, he wasn’t having any head pains or problems. They wrapped up his knees and offered to take him to the hospital, but Jas opted to just have me take him into urgent care, so the ambulance left.

I have to point out that the people who stopped and made sure Jason was okay, as well as the paramedics who tended to him, were far and away the nicest, most compassionate and helpful people we’ve encountered in Lake Stevens. They were so helpful and concerned, and we’re both very grateful for all of their assistance and expertise. Not everyone in Lake Stevens is a piece of shit…just most of them.

Jason’s dad got a ride from one of the drivers who stopped, so we waited for him to come back and give us a ride to our car. Our teammates who were all sweet enough to hang around and make sure Jason was okay finally took off after we assured them that we’d be fine waiting for Jim to get us.

I didn’t take pictures of Jas splayed out on the road with the paramedics attending to him since it didn’t seem appropriate at the time, but here’s one of him wrapped in an emergency blanket checking out his bike while we wait for our ride:

He was marveling at how his handlebars were bent downwards, but other than that, some cosmetic scrapes, and a funky-looking rear tire that will probably need to get replaced, the bike seemed to emerge from the accident relatively unscathed.

While we waited for Jim, a woman who lives near the bridge walked over and asked if we could complain to the county about the bump in the road. I guess it’s been a major hazard for the residents in the area. A couple people have lost trailers when they’ve driven over the bump, and it also gets really dangerous when there’s snow on the road, causing people to swerve and lose control of their vehicles. Apparently the county hasn’t given a shit despite the numerous complaints. I’ll probably call or write a letter expressing my concerns and include a couple of photos of Jason’s injuries, but who knows if they’ll care or even bother to respond.

Eventually Jim came to retrieve us. We got a ride back to my car, and Jason changed out of his scraped up bike clothing and into a t-shirt and shorts. I saw his bare back was all scratched up along with his right shoulder and elbow and both knees. At this point I was wondering if he had more road rash surface area than actual skin. He was starting to move pretty slowly and stiffly by this point, so we packed up all of our gear and I drove him to the hospital.

We got to the ER and checked Jason in. The girl behind the counter was some dumb-ass college student with the worst bedside manner imaginable. When she asked what happened, he said, “I got into a bike accident — went over my handlebars.” She literally responded with, “You should be careful!” (Seriously, WTF? Does she say that to everyone who gets wheeled into the ER? “Oh, you were out for a walk and some drunk driver hit you and drove off? You should be careful, guy who’s in a coma and probably won’t pull through!”) Then she started going off on some bullshit tangent about how some guy came into the ER after he got a new bike, but he was wearing a hoodie while riding and got his sweatshirt strings caught in the bike and crashed. “And he had to have like a TON of surgeries and stuff, which isn’t fun at all!”

Jason just smiled politely while I death stared at her, wondering if I should call her a fucking idiot or just not bother. In the end, I decided it wasn’t worth the headache to explain to her that we’re not rolling around on our fixies wearing hoodies and dicking around, that we’re actually training for a race, wearing appropriate gear, and know what we’re doing but that it was just an unfortunate accident, and blah blah blah what the hell is wrong with you, you shouldn’t talk to an incoming patient like that, what are you fucking retarded, etc. and so on. We ended up saying nothing and just sat down next to the fish tank.

After a while, a triage nurse called him in to check his vitals. While getting his blood pressure, she asked him when was the last time he got a tetanus shot. He said he couldn’t remember, and I said, “Well, you haven’t gotten one since we’ve been dating.” She said, “How long have you been together?” I told her nearly six years (I think the timeline for a tetanus shot is every 7-10), and she said, “Time to propose to the girl” to a bashful and in pain Jason. I laughed and said, “Ask him again after you’ve given him some pain meds.”

"Please stop asking me about marriage, Nosy Triage Nurse, and just give me some fucking Vicodin already."

After about 40 minutes, he got called in again and we were taken to a room where we waited for another eon.

Getting restless

The doctor finally came in and checked Jason out. He also asked Jas when was the last time he got a tetanus shot. When Jason said he couldn’t remember, the doctor smiled and said, “Well I know when you’re getting your next one…todayyy!” I chuckled while Jason looked less than thrilled. He ordered an x-ray for Jason’s shoulder, elbow, and chest — the shoulder because Jas said it was hurting, the elbow since it was all swollen, and the chest to look at Jason’s clavicle. Dr. ER also checked out Jason’s head and determined that it was a-okay. (I later checked out the helmet and saw that it was cracked and scratched on the right side, about where Jason’s temple is. Lucky guy.)

While we waited for Jason to get x-rayed, two nurses came in and gave him 2 Vicodin, 3 ibuprofins, and a tetanus shot. One nurse cut off the bandages the paramedics applied to assess the damage:

Left hand

Left knee/leg

Right knee

Right elbow bruised, swollen, and scraped up

Scraped up hands (with gravel still in them)

The nurse wanted to wait until after Jas got his x-rays before cleaning and dressing his scrapes. Finally someone came to wheel him to the x-ray room:

Getting wheeled away

While I waited, I heard Dr. ER talking to someone about Jason’s accident. I snuck to the doorway to try and eavesdrop but could only hear snippets: “…Uh-RON-go (Jason’s last name is pronounced Uh-rain-go)…over the handlebars…multiple abrasions…fracture.” The “fracture” part worried me. The paramedics initially didn’t think Jason had broken anything, but when we drove to the hospital the pain in Jason’s shoulder was getting worse and worse, so you never know. I was worried that he’d have a break somewhere and wouldn’t be able to do Ironman Canada. It would have crushed him — we’ve both been training hard for the past several months, so to be knocked out this close to race day would have been a major disappointment (just ask my teammate Amanda, who broke her collarbone a couple weeks ago and needed surgery to correct it, which ended her triathlon season and prevented her from being able to race Canada with us this year).

Jason came back from getting x-rays and we waited to hear the prognosis. Dr. ER came in and said that the x-rays looked great, and he invited us to see for ourselves. He said he was convinced that Jason would at least have a fractured collarbone, but he reviewed the x-rays and was “pleasantly surprised” to see no fractures whatsoever. Dr. ER reiterated what we already knew: that Jason was one lucky dude.

He got a prescription for some Vicodin for the pain and a sling for his injured shoulder (while it’s not broken, the doctor said to follow up with a sports medicine specialist to see whether anything was torn), as well as a bunch of gauze, ointments, and bandages for his wounds. The nurse came in and spent nearly an hour cleaning Jason’s scrapes. Every time she’d finish with one, we’d find another one. When he took off his shirt and we saw his back, both the nurse and the doctor went “Ughhhh”:

Blahhhh

After much TLC, my bandaged boyfriend was finally ready to go home:

It's like he's wearing volleyball pads

Bandaged shoulder and elbow

Good thing he's left-handed

On our way home, we dropped off Jason’s bike to the bike hospital (aka Speedy Reedy) so they could fix it up for him. Jason’s sorry state elicited much sympathy from the employers and riders who were there. We then sped over to Walgreens to try and fill his pain killer prescription before the pharmacy closed. I waited in the car while Jason ran (hobbled) in. He said when the pharmacist saw the prescription and looked at him, he simply said, “Oh.” The pharmacy was closing in two minutes, but the pharmacist was nice enough to rush the prescription and fill it right quick. Sling + bandages = insta-sympathy.

We got home and I put everything away while Jason puttered around the house. I noticed his water bottles that were sitting on the back of his bike were pretty demolished from the accident:

Yikes

I played the role of Supportive Girlfriend/Amateur Nurse in a Non-Sexy Way for my battered beau. We ordered Mexican takeout and I picked up some nighttime ibuprofin and some goodies from the store for him, then put clean sheets on the bed so he would feel comfortable and to minimize infection. He took an awkward hooker’s bath in the bathroom since he couldn’t get his wounds wet for 24 hours, and when he stripped down he discovered even more scrapes on his body — two abrasions on his left butt cheek that looked like waffle fries. In a few days I will be dating a Walking, Talking Scab.

We spent the evening watching Toy Story and eating frozen custard, and I felt like a mom cheering up her sick child. Jason was exhausted and sore, but thankful that the accident wasn’t much worse than it was. He had a rough night’s sleep, waking up every two hours feeling stiff and in pain, and this morning he’s feeling pretty shitty and has a hurt neck and shoulder.

Right now he’s taking it day by day, letting his body heal up. Thankfully, we’re starting our Canada taper so he’s not missing many workouts. We’ll see how he feels in about a week or so and whether he’s cleared to race at the end of August. If he doesn’t have any torn ligaments or severe shoulder issues, he should be okay, but you never know. Hopefully he’ll be all right — I’m just super happy he’s (relatively) healthy and got as lucky as he did.

Postscript: Mark pointed out to me that in one of my photos, you can see how far Jason launched himself off his bike. I’ve provided the photo below with some notes to give you an idea of how well Jason would fare in his future career as a man-a-pult.

Rollin' in Wenatchee

We started riding along Highway 97 and experienced the bittersweetness of a newly paved road. The upside was that the road was nice and smooth, but the downsides were that the tar was hot and toxic-smelling, and the shoulder had a ton of gravel and debris from the paving. We rode amidst the pebbles and chemical fumes, dodging the occasional snake carcass. (Seriously, I swerved around about a half dozen coiled up serpent corpses. What is the deal, do they all decide to slither to the side of the road when nearing their life cycle so they can curl up and die?) After a ludicrously short amount of time, Jason had to stop because of a flat tire, so I waited on the side of the road, baking in the sun while he and his dad changed the flat.

Jason pretends to know what he's doing while his dad does the actual tire changing

They blew through a couple cartridges but couldn’t quite get the tire fully inflated, so we rode a short while until we got to a little store, at which point we stopped and asked some fellow cyclists if they had a pump. They only had a craptacular hand pump that barely worked, so Jason and Jim used another cartridge to fill up the tire even more. I killed time by buying a jug of water and ingesting most of it. It was the highlight of my workout.

After squandering more time on the flat, we finally got to the mighty McNeil Canyon climb. This sumbitch is a nightmare — it’s a several mile-long hill up the canyon that offers zero shade or any sort of breeze. It just keeps winding forever and ever, and you never get a reprieve — no small descents, no flat stretches, nothing until you get to the top. I climbed McNeil a couple months ago with Teresa and some girls during her bachelorette weekend, and it took me an hour to ascend it. I had to stop multiple times during the climb to let the lactic acid dissipate from my burning quads. I’ve heard McNeil has a reputation among seasoned cyclists as being the worst climb in Washington.

My ultimate goal is to conquer this thing without having to stop, but unfortunately that didn’t happen this time around. I started climbing and immediately felt the heat — it was so stifling and intense that I had to stop after a short while and rip off my helmet so I could get some semblance of air to reach my fat noggin. I repeated this process a few more times, but the heat just sucked the energy out of my legs and I didn’t want to have nothing left by the time I got to the top since we were going to have to ride another 20 or so miles before we got to a store for more fuel and water. I threw in the towel, having only climbed up half of McNeil, and told Jason and Jim that I’d wait for them at the park at the bottom of the canyon. They soldiered on slowly, intent on conquering McNeil since they hadn’t climbed it before.

I got to the bottom of the canyon and rolled into the park. All of my water bottles were full of hot, unappetizing liquid, and all I wanted was something cold to drink. Unfortunately, the drinking fountain next to the bathrooms had such pathetic water pressure that I was going to have to tongue kiss it in order to successfully ingest anything (most likely herpes), and I wasn’t quite that desperate. Another drinking fountain near the courts was shut off, and a third spigot was broken. What the hell, it’s the middle of summer and 100 degrees outside and none of this shit works. *shakes fist*

Frustrated, I gave up, parked my bike under a tree, and waded into the river clutching my water bottles in hopes of cooling them down a bit. I sat in my makeshift refrigerator for a long while before returning to the park and sitting at a picnic table in some shade. I considered riding out and back along 97 while waiting for Jason and Jim to return from climbing McNeil, but I was paranoid about missing them and figured it’d be best to just sit tight. “Sit tight” quickly translated to falling asleep. Oops.

After my little cat nap, I woke up feeling even more dehydrated and had now thrown groggy into the mix. Great. Where the hell were they? Finally I saw them descend down the canyon. When they got to me, I heard the standard grumblings about how effing miserable that climb is and how hot and tired they were. We sat in the river for a while to cool off, then rode back to the store, which was quickly becoming our desert oasis.

Jason's dad cooling off much like how a dog would

Jason hydrating like a champ

At this point the heat was really starting to psych me out. It was going to be similarly hot in Penticton for Ironman Canada, and I was worried about not being able to handle it. I texted Teresa in a panic:

“Riding in Wenatchee and having a crisis about riding in the heat. Giving me doubts about Canada.”

She responded with this gem:

“Dump water over head!”

I countered with “My water’s too hot!” It doesn’t really feel refreshing to dump liquid over your head when it’s the same temperature as your pee.

We finally managed to tear ourselves away from the cool refuge of the store and continued along 97 back to the car. Jason and his dad both started to cramp from the heat, and by the time we finished, neither Jason nor I were in the mood to do a 30 minute brick run in 100 degree temps. We opted instead to drown our sorrows in an obscene amount of barbecue and iced tea.

Wenatchee is a fiery mistress, and riding along 97 and climbing up that bitch canyon is great training for Canada, but it was so hot that I was really worried about how I’d be able to handle the heat on race day. Thankfully, we had a training weekend coming up in Penticton, so I’d be able to experience first-hand how conditions would feel…

via reddit, where I get my daily Internet fix

If I saw dudes dressed like this cheering me on at races, I would race all the freaking time.

We got to Chehalis and found two stores that were open: Wal-Mart and K-Mart. Faced with the worst Choose Your Own Adventure path imaginable, I opted for K-Mart since it rang of nostalgia instead of evil corporate greed. We pulled up and initially thought the store wasn’t open yet due to the vacant, post-apocalyptic parking lot, but once we let the tumbleweeds roll by, we checked the store signage and found that K-Mart was indeed open for business.

I headed into the store and stopped first for a bathroom break, where I got to enjoy listening to the morning cleaning lady argue with someone in Spanish while sitting in the stall next to me. Afterwards, I marveled at the “Layaway Pick Up” sign (how 80’s!) and wandered the aisles looking for any of the three items I needed to purchase. I couldn’t find anything except for nine variations of “World’s Greatest Dad” t-shirts, so we asked the cashier for help. I found out that they didn’t have any of the items I was looking for — I could maybe understand not having gloves, but a store that doesn’t carry jackets or electrical tape? No wonder they’re going out of business.

Frustrated, I begrudgingly resorted to stopping at Wal-Mart to procure my items. I found a black $7 windbreaker that looked like a Hefty bag and had “Chinese child labor” written all over it. After nabbing electrical tape and some cycling gloves, we were finally able to exit this middle American wasteland and continue on to Mt. St. Helens.

We arrived at the school where the organized ride started and picked up our registration packet. After meeting up with some teammates who were also doing the ride, we all embarked along the road that would lead us to the top of the mountain. It was cold and rainy — my sunglasses fogged up almost immediately, and riding too closely behind Jason resulted in an immediate spray of muddy water all over me. Fantastic.

The climbs weren’t bad at all — gradual and long, but I must be getting better at climbing hills because the stubby Asian legs were doing pretty decent that day. Climbing also kept me warm; unfortunately, when we stopped at the first aid station and I stopped working, I got pretty cold relatively quickly. We attempted to shake off the cold and damp and trudged on to aid station #2.

When we stopped at the second aid station, one of the race organizers discouraged us from going the final 13 miles to the summit, in typical Gandalf fashion. Apparently temperatures were continuing to drop, and the top was especially cold with a mix of rain and snow. Several cyclists were getting hypothermia and had to be shuttled down, and they were running out of shuttle rides.

While we all debated on what to do, the waiting around meant I started to get colder and colder. I scanned the aid station and saw a huge group of cyclists grouped together and wondered what they were doing before realizing they were all huddled three athletes deep around a huge fire pit, trying to warm up. They looked like spandex-clad hobos minus the woeful harmonica music. (One cyclist later told me the huddled masses reminded her of the scene from March of the Penguins where the animals huddled together with their eggs at their feet — also an apt visual.)

Jason and his dad macho-ly wanted to continue to the top, but I’ve seen Alive and I know how much those two can eat, so I didn’t want to get stranded up there and have to fend off two ravenous Panamanians who felt like partaking in some Korean BBQ. We compromised and decided to head back down the mountain and make up the lost mileage by climbing back up a ways.

As soon as we began our descent, my brain screamed, “I immediately regret this decision!” My shoes and gloves were soaking wet from the rain, so my hands and feet instantly froze as I shot down the mountain. My faith in my motor skills declined sharply as my hands grew stiffer and stiffer, so I rode the brakes with three functioning fingers as I wobbled downhill, fending off shivers. I saw Jason and his dad waiting for me in front of the Mt. St. Helens Forest Center and stopped to meet them, shaking like a scared little bunny.

We headed inside to warm up and figure out what to do. I scanned the lobby of the Forest Center and saw about a dozen cyclists looking like soggy and miserable refugees. Some were given blankets, while others were so desperate for warm clothes that they shelled out money in the gift shop for commemorative Mt. St. Helens fleece pullovers (which I hope were adorned with the exclamation “I had a BLAST at the Mt. St. Helens Forest Center!”).

The three of us were ushered into a back display area and plopped next to a radiator. One of the employees handed me a cup of coffee, but I immediately had to put it down because I was shivering so hard, the cup’s contents were threatening to splash all over the place. To keep me occupied, another employee showed me pictures of Mt. St. Helen’s path of destruction way back in 1980.

Jason and his dad opted to continue down the mountain back to the school where we started, but I was too cold to be able to descend all the way down so I elected to wait with the other wet and freezing cyclists and hope for rescue. I took brief refuge in the ladies’ restroom and virtually molested the hand dryer for about 20 minutes in a sad attempt to dry my gloves and clothes.

After a while, it felt like I was waiting with a group of people plucked straight out of The Grapes of Wrath. I heard them pine for warmth and sun as if they were dreaming of a new life out west:

Cyclist #1: “I hear they’ve got warm showers back at the school!”
Cyclist #2: “And pipin’ hot beverages and pasta!”
Cyclist #3: “I tell ya, things will be great once we get to the bottom of this here mountain.”

Meanwhile, a couple of cyclists and I conspired to pool our money together to try and bribe some Forest Center tourists to give us a lift back to the school.

Lady: “I have fifteen dollars.”
Me: “I’ve got one dollar.”
Lady: “We have sixteen dollars!”

As we were plotting to commandeer a tour bus in an epic Lord of the Flies-like fashion, out of nowhere the Montana Boys Choir sauntered into the lobby and decided to randomly belt out two religious songs in front of an audience composed of smiling, awestruck Forest Center employees and scowling, shivering cyclists.

Eventually, a school bus pulled up and we click-clacked onto the bus while wielding our cumbersome bikes and our drenched gear. I managed to get two compliments on my Cervelo P2, which ended up being the highlight of my day. We all couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of a bus full of cyclists with their bikes sticking straight up in the air, balanced on one tire.

We finally got back to the school and I changed into a dry pair of clothes. My 82 mile training ride turned into 32 miles of shivering failure. I drowned my sorrows in a gigantic hot chocolate and about half a pizza, wondering when I’d be able to finally get in a decent bike ride. Sigh.

Our bikes' temporary home

View from our hotel room

On Saturday Jason, his dad and I woke up and prepped everything for our ride. We parked a few miles from the transition area and started setting everything up when I realized that the black rolled up wad of fabric I grabbed and shoved into my bag wasn’t arm sleeves like I thought, but rather compression sleeves for my legs. Fudgers! It was going to be a gray, chilly day, and my wimpo arms were surely going to freeze without some sort of cover. Jason suggested I just wear my compression sleeves as arm warmers. I didn’t have any better options, so that’s what I did. I ended up with 90 miles of compressiony goodness, but unfortunately I realized two things after the ride:

1. The sleeves, which typically go from under my knee to my ankle, weren’t long enough to cover my entire arm.
2. Even though the sun wasn’t out, that doesn’t mean the rays weren’t poking through the clouds.

As such, I ended the ride with this B.S.:

This is not a good look for me

The watch tan I’m used to. The half-forearm tan? Not so much. (I’ve grown accustomed to the hairy arms though, so deal with it.) Anyway, I started riding for a whopping minute before realizing that, no fucking way, my bike computer’s cadence sensor wasn’t working again. What the shit, I just replaced this stupid thing two weeks ago! I angrily fiddled with it for a while, and it went from not reading my cadence to not reading anything. Great, now I was going to ride 90 miles with no indication of my speed or cadence.

Frustrated and fueled by rage, I took off and anger-rode for an hour. After a while, Jason appeared next to me, slightly out of breath, exclaiming, “It took me forever to catch up to you! You need to slow down!” Apparently I was averaging about 24 mph and was climbing rollers going 20. To be fair, the first 30 or 40 miles of the Canada course are pretty fast, with lots of flats/downhills and a few inconsequential hills. I pouted a bit more about my broken computer but decided to slow it down in anticipation of Richter Pass.

Before we got to the pass, Jason’s dad got an epic flat by running over a huge kinked wad of wire. He wrestled it out of his tire and changed the tube but wanted to stop at a gas station to properly fill the tire with air. While he was fixing his bike, I stopped inside to use the bathroom and buy more fuel. When I came out, I saw Jason barely hiding his irritation while a filthy grifter with roughly four teeth peppered him with questions about our bikes. Apparently this Canadian mountain man had been marveling at how nice our bikes were and said that someone should build an eight person stealth bomber out of the same carbon fiber our bikes are made from. He then paused, looked at Jason, and said, “I see you’ve got a belly under all that gear! You must work in an office, eh? This is good exercise for that!” Jason muttered a “Yeah…” while murdering the dude with his eyes, and I resisted the urge to laugh. What kind of person makes remarks about a complete stranger’s stomach? Dudes with meth mouth, that’s who.

"Your belly offends me and my professional appearance."

After our brief break, we continued on and hit the pass almost immediately. I gotta say, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Don’t get me wrong, Richter Pass is no picnic, but you get to climb for a bit before shooting down a decent decline, then lather, rinse, repeat for a while and before you know it, you’re done. Unfortunately, after you conquer the pass (and are rewarded with a nice downhill), you get hit with a bunch of rollers that are pretty sucky, especially when you factor in a craptacular crosswind (which we got hit with on Saturday).

We skipped an out and back portion of the ride and continued on until we hit the second significant climb, which is the stretch of road leading to Yellow Lake. (Brief aside: who names a body of water “Yellow Lake”? Nothing screams “urine-soaked” like that moniker. It actually is a pretty lake though, and not at all yellow. Still, not the best name.) I thought this climb was uber-shittier than Richter because unlike Richter, which has steep climbs but brief reprieves where you get to descend, the Yellow Lake climb is pretty much a long, arduous, gradual, relentless son of a bitch until you get to the top. On the way up I saw several banana peels and wondered if Jason was trying to take me out, Mario Kart style. If only I had a red shell…

I'm gunnin' for ya, Jas

The last several miles of the bike course shoot you down a pants crappingly fast descent that scared the bejesus out of me due to the semis and crosswinds. Operation De-Chunkify has been going well for me, but at that point I wondered if I should have actually gained an extra 15 lbs instead of lost weight so I’d be better anchored and wouldn’t get bitch slapped by the wind and cars. At several points during the descent I envisioned myself getting blown over the guardrail and falling to my death while still clipped into my bike.

The next day Jas and I ran the middle portion of the run course, which is the same stretch as the first part of the bike course. We did about 15 miles in the sun and I thought about how miserable I was going to be racing in 90 degree heat considering I was already feeling overheated at 70 degrees. The “inconsequential” hills I mentioned earlier on the bike suddenly seemed like a jerk crusted bastard during the run. This will not feel good on race day.

We spent the remainder of the weekend enjoying the gorgeous scenery and buying roughly an asston of wine:

View of the swim start from a vineyard across the lake

Loitering in some Canadian's vineyard

Jason's mom gets inspired by the boobalicious mermaid statue

Our Ironman training fuel

Before we left, we flailed around in the freezing lake (“freezing” being 55 degrees) for about 20 minutes, making me think that I really need to do a couple more open water swims before Boise. Poop. Other than that, though, it was good to explore the Ironman course and dump my paycheck into many, many wine purchases. I can’t wait to come up with the team in July and do it all again. Hopefully Teresa will have some good advice on how to pace myself for the ride, and I’m counting on doing more wine tasting with some of my teammates. Don’t let me down, Ironman crew!

Dude, if someone threw a tray of mustard at me while I was riding, I would freak the eff out and go apeshit on him. Then again, I can’t stand mustard, but still, that’s so not cool.

Jason insisted that we do the Ironman Lake Stevens 70.3 course, to which I begrudgingly obliged. We rode the course twice last year, and I hated it both times. It’s a fairly technical course, with a lot of turns and a number of irritating hills. Also, it’s in Lake Stevens, which means that as you’re riding you get passed by huge pickup trucks that blare their horns at you for daring to venture out on the road in anything that’s not Hemi-equipped.

Our track record with Lake Stevens isn’t great. The first time we rode it went okay, but we were with a giant group who actually knew where they were going. The second time we did the course, Jason’s friend broke his rear derailleur while miserably cranking up a hill and had to wait around in a combination general store/bait and tackle shop while Jason and I rode back to the car so we could pick him up. (Naturally, we got lost on the way back.)

This time around, we packed up our bike stuff and headed to Jason’s parents’ house to meet up with his dad who also wanted to ride the course. We got to “downtown” Lake Stevens (meaning the street with the Subway), parked, used the bathroom, checked our maps and ventured off for our hardcore 55 mile bike ride.

When we came to the first intersection we immediately made the wrong decision and ventured in the completely opposite direction of where we were supposed to head. We biked for about 4 miles before realizing that we had to be horribly lost because we ended up riding directly into a construction zone. Barriers were placed right up against the white line, forcing us into the lane as hoards of vehicles zoomed past us. I prayed that I wouldn’t get clipped by a car while trying not to pass out from the mixture of exhaust fumes and construction stink.

After another mile or two we managed to wrangle free from the construction zone and stopped to check our maps again. We found the road that led back to where we parked, so we decided to take it all the way to the starting point so we could get our bearings and find the proper course. After riding for a bit, we stopped again to check the map to make sure we were on the right track. It was at this point when Jason’s dad realized he had broken a rear bike spoke. Great. Okay, Plan B: Ride back to the car, head to Jason’s parents’ house so his dad could swap out the tire with his other bike’s spare rim, then find a new goddamn course that’s easy to navigate and relatively free of toxic fumes.

We rode onward: me in front, Jason a bit behind me and his dad bringing up the rear with his broken spoke. I was pedaling pretty steadily when I happened to run over something pretty hard with my front tire. I had about enough time to mentally utter “Shit” before my tire imploded. GAHHHH. I stopped and Jason rode up next to me, exclaiming that he had heard my tire pop when it happened (and he had been a ways behind me).

I started to change my tire (my sixth flat in a year — at least I’m getting pretty good at swapping out tubes). Jason’s dad continued on to the car as I wasted a cartridge trying to figure out how to inflate a tube without using a bike pump. Thankfully, the second time was the charm. I inflated my tire and was about to put it back onto my bike when Jason said, “Hey, look.” I checked out the exterior of the tire and, sure enough, it was totally shredded in one section, with a chunk of rubber hanging off like a loose tooth. My ride was officially over.

Basically, our 55 mile ride ended up being 10 miles. We got lost, Jason’s dad broke a spoke, and I had to spend $70 on a new tire, cartridges and tubes. In a nutshell: biking is bullshit.

Wrong. They cost an ass cheek, which is why for our first tri season Jason and I were like “Eff this, we’ll borrow some bikes.” We then proceeded to remain the laughingstock of our training group until about November 2008. For about nine months I rocked out on my coworker Christine’s aluminum Giant, which was built for teeny people but weighed a ton (adding to the weight were mountain bike pedals that I was too lazy to change). The bike was too small for me (Christine’s 5′1″ and I’m 5′5″ — even with my stumpy legs, that’s a considerable size difference) and I never got a proper adjustment, so I rode on a bike that didn’t fit me for an entire season.

Here’s a picture of me and Christine’s bike after the Victoria Half Ironman:

Notice how it’s sportin’ the aero bars. Putting aero bars on that heavy mofo is kind of like ordering a Diet Coke with your triple quarter pounder with cheese, but I did stick aero bars on it (mostly so I could drink without having to wobbily reach down and grab a bottle from my cage — I’ve since gotten better at doing that). I also put new tires on the bike after I tore the rear one during my first sprint triathlon (I’ll get to that in a future post). While I had made some modifications to the bike, it never felt like mine, and after I decided that I liked racing, it was time to go shopping for a bike I could call my own.

Jason, meanwhile, was tearin’ it up on his dad’s old, old, old bike. Here’s a picture of it:

Haha, just kidding. The bike isn’t that old. Jason’s dad has a Klein that’s about 20 years old and has the shifters down on the frame. Now that’s old school. My racing buddy borrowed the bike the whole season and stubbornly raced with it amongst the fancy Cervelos, Scotts, Felts, Gurus, and Quintana Roos.

You can sort of see the Klein in the above pic where Jason is in T1 at the Victoria Half Ironman. Though it ain’t much to look at, the bike did get Jason through a half dozen races this year (and he passed his fair share of athletes on fancy $3,000 time trial bikes. Suck it, losers!). Jason made some much needed upgrades to the bike as well — the front derailleur needed replacing and he also swapped out the seat. Much like me, however, Jason didn’t have a bike of his own and wanted to join his fellow athletes in the 21st century with upgraded, lighter technology.

So, at the end of the 2008 season Jason and I started keeping an eye on various bike and tri shops to see if we could score a deal on a 2008 bike as the stores made room for their ‘09 inventory. We were both unsure as to whether we’d buy time trial or road bikes, but I was instructed by Teresa to at least check out the Felt B12 and the Cervelo P2C in my size. Jason headed over to Speedy Reedy with me so I could shop around…and the bastard ended up buying a bike before I did.

Basically, it turns out that Speedy Reedy was out of virtually every time trial bike that would fit me. Teresa figured I’d be a 48 since she and I are about the same height and we are both cursed with the same affliction of having long arms and torsos but no legs. (The guys over at Triumph Multisport now know me as “All Torso, No Legs.” Not the best nickname…) The only bike they had in my size was this godawful looking white and pink Scott (no offense to any of you who like pink, but it’s not an ideal color for me).

You know what size they DID have the ‘08 Felt B12 and the Cervelo P2C in? Jason’s. That’s right, apparently clearance time is the only time of the year where it pays to be a 6′4″, 250 lb beast of a human being. They had tons of 58s in stock, so he happily scheduled some test rides and took the bikes out for a spin.

Here’s what he ended up buying:

It’s a beaut, isn’t it? Jason bought an ‘08 Cervelo P2C with Ultegra components and Look Keo pedals. The guys at Speedy Reedy gave him fantastic customer service and were nice enough to switch out the handlebars and brakes after he said he didn’t like how they felt. He got a good deal on the bike but ended up spending a small fortune on accessories. You know how it is…

Naturally, I griped to Jason about how he “stole” my bike, so the following weekend we went hunting around for something that I could buy. We ended up at Sammamish Cycle, where they had a couple of Cervelos in stock. I took one for a test ride and tried to barter down the sales guy to no avail. I ended up begrudgingly buying a bike and spending about $500 more than I wanted to (though I did get a free bike fit…which didn’t seem accurate, so I may need to get another one).

My bike is oh so fancy. It’s also an ‘08 Cervelo P2C, but the extra $500 that I didn’t want to spend went towards Dura Ace components, so technically my bike is better than Jason’s. Ha ha, suck it, Jason. Teresa also hooked me up with a pair of titanium Speedplay pedals that she had, so no more mountain bike pedals for me! Wahoo!

Jas and I tried swapping bikes and quickly found out that sharing wasn’t gonna work:

Kind of a Goldilocks situation we got going on there. Thankfully, our bikes are juuuuuuust right for their proper owners…even though they did cost us each an ass cheek’s worth of money.