Slow & steady may not always win the race, but it might get you second...

After days like Sunday, it's hard to call yourself a mountain-bike racer. I mean, I register, I get a bib number, I ride in and usually cross the finish line. But when you're almost over 2 hours behind your only other competitor in your class, and you take twice as long to finish 2 laps that it takes Experts and Elites to finish 4 laps, you have to laugh at yourself. Which is exactly what I did last night when I saw the results.

Yes, I got 2nd place in my class - again, not hard to do with one other competitor in your field. Yes, I finished, but I think I was only able to ride 1 mile out of 4 miles per lap. I didn't even finish the bloody muddy race on 2 wheels - I stupidly dropped into my granny gear and had no juice left to roll up the remaining strip. Though, I did pick up the bike and run the last few feet to my friend, Sean, who must have been ready to punch somebody because he finished hours earlier and I was his ride home.

I hadn't really slept at all Saturday night. I had to get up by 3:30 and leave my house by 4:00 to meet Sean at 4:30 am. Since we're both relatively close to each other, and he's the closest thing I have to an MTB coach (not to mention the fact that we go to the same races), we typically car pool up to save gas. Besides, it's nice to have company on the long rides. Frankly, I also get very intimidated by most of the other riders simply because they are so much better than I am, that I tend to get very shy and nervous. It's taken a year for me to even say anything to some of them. Bear in mind, that is not a reflection on these people - it's purely my own lack of confidence and tendency to slip into my grade school & camp confidence issues - since I was never the "cool" kid, the "cool kids" scared me, regardless of how much I wanted to be a part of them. But, since I was first introduced to Sean by a friend at a dinner and in "civvies," he was no more intimidating to me as anyone else. It was more like I'd learned my buddy also raced. So starting a race day chatting with him makes me a little less freaked out about what I'm about to do.

I got to bed at 2:00 am. My phone alarm went off at 3:10 and I hit snooze, knowing the alarm would go off again at 3:30. When I wake up next, I stretch, calmly, knowing I had everything laid out, packed up and all I had to do was to bring my MTB "bin" (I realized a waterproof open container works better when potentially wet/muddy stuff will be stashed away at the end of a race than a backpack or duffel) and my bike down to the car. I look at the clock and do a double take. It reads 4:30. I'd asked Sean to call me if he wakes up first, and he hadn't called. I'd told him I'd call him if he didn't call me first, which I did, right after stripping out of my sleepwear and hopping around the house naked trying to pull on my chamois as my heart was racing in an utter panic. And thank goodness I called him, because he'd overslept, too. And, where I was a babbling idiot functioning on nothing but adrenaline, he still sounded half asleep. Finally, we figured out that we'd meet at the same place and I actually was able to cover up all body parts with clothing and I bolted out the door with my bin and bike and made off like a bat out of hell to meet him at the commuter lot.

Of course, no Dunkin Donuts or any other self-respecting caffeine-dispensary was open at 5:00 am on a Sunday, so bleary-eyed we made it up north and decided to stop in Hamden at the Dunkin Donuts there, hoping to find it to be a 24-hour shop. It wasn't, but it was open, so I asked Sean to hand me my purse, which is always in the passenger seat. He tells me he doesn't see it. Since we're now almost an hour from my house, I start to panic that I left my purse at home. Which, as the second wave of adrenaline hits, I realize I know where my purse is - in my red shopping bag I used the night before and I know where that is. On the counter in my kitchen. Fortunately, I found some cash in my backpack, enough for coffee, a bagel (forgive me, Dr. D'Adamo, but it's for the race!) and some gas. Now, with fuel, we head up to New Hampshire for a bit of deja vu - we were up there just a week ago, equally late (though I had my purse, then) for Pinnacle. I wasn't racing it - hence no race report - but here's a photo of the Pinnacle Plummet:

On the drive up, it looked like it would be a nice, sunny day as there is usually some mist that dissipates as the sun rises. But, as we pass Brattleboro, VT, we notice that the mist has now developed into fog. And I don't just mean fog, I mean fog. The visibility was reminiscent of a terrible blizzard with zero visibility. I almost didn't see a red pick-up truck with tail lights on! I think we both hoped this would clear by the time we arrived, and it certainly did. It was a little grey in the sky, but it certainly didn't seem like it would rain. That's because the rain was over - it had rained all week.

This meant nothing to me, though, because all I heard was dry weather for today. However, to the far more seasoned Sean, this meant, "fun," which can either be shared enthusiastically or indicate conditions that, as he'd put it, will make me want to "curse his name." Sketchy trail conditions. I knew that Moody Park had the potential for mud, which is fine - I don't mind getting dirty and walking through a mud puddle. (I'm not skilled enough to ride through mud yet.) We head up to the registration table, and I'm even happier to learn that the only other Clydesdale is Glenn Raiche of Clark Brothers Racing - which means all I have to do is finish the race and I've secured a 2nd place position! SWEET!!


Fortunately, I'm honest enough and know enough of the EFTA folks that, despite the purse SNAFU, they allow me to pay via credit card number sketched out on a form or a check sent at a later date. So we register, kit up and get ready to race (we made it just in the nick of time.) In my usual form, I line up with Glenn after some light-hearted banter, the whistle blows, and I'm smoked before we even get out of the start area. But, even more so than usual, I'm really not concerned with keeping up. I mean, I wasn't giving up the race, but since I was still nursing which can now be described as a "crunchy" knee as on a humid day, it sounds like Rice Krispies - Snap! Crackle! POP! - I wasn't going to push myself too hard on this course.

Soon, I learned what Sean was calling "fun." I was riding along at a comfortable pace - I'm not a speedster and I kind of have to warm myself up into the idea of riding over things, combating my roadie-"Don't Run Over That Thing!!!!"-tendencies. But, all too quickly, a sharp turn in mud to avoid a tree had me thinking non-stop about not hitting the tree, which meant, you guessed it, I hit the tree head on. Not to worry - no injuries, except my pride - in fact, I started cracking up. But it was an indication of a technical issue I was going to have to face - this mud sucked. I mean, it literally sucked. It was sucking in my wheels, it was sucking in my feet when I had to put a foot down, and it was sucking in the few attempts at bridges the promoters had laid. Hence, this race was going to suck. And I was maybe, maybe a mile in.

Moody Park is home of the infamous "Gravity Cavity" - a white knuckle plummet with a bridge on the bottom and grueling uphill resolution. I'd heard about it, but had never seen it before. So I came upon a plummet and an uphill and thought to myself that I could walk it the first time and then if I felt comfortable and more eased into the race, ride it on my second lap. So I walked and kept going. I hit a stretch of pretty solid ground, and I was able to ride freely. I was feeling pretty good and then I see a sand pit. I tried to make it up the sand, but I soon found myself spinning in place, so I clipped out and walked up the rest of the slope and got back into my grind. Now, the terrain was far more familiar and similar to trails around here. I turn another corner, and I see a bunch of far more adept riders trudging around in the trail up ahead. I assume there must have been a gnarly crash, because I've never seen these guys out of the saddle except in the parking lot. Soon enough, however, I see what's going on. Mud pits. Murky, slippery, slimy, sucky mud pits. Uphill, on the flat, twisty, mucky mud pits. At this point, my bike has absolutely no traction whatsoever. I don't have mud tires, as some of the other riders have, and even they are walking. Oy vey. So, I join the parade of sloppy bike carriers in and around the trees. It felt like forever until there were ride-able spots, but even then, I kept fishtailing any time I tried to go anywhere but straight. On uphill slopes, I just spun in place. So, I was doomed to even more walking, which packed even more mud and crud into my SPD cleats. When it finally came time to clip in and ride, my right foot clicked into place after a couple of rotations, but my left didn't. So I was riding almost exclusively on my right foot, as the left kept slipping off the pedals.

Bear in mind, I also decided that I didn't want to hold any other riders up that had more than 1 person in their field, so I was frequently pulling off to the side as I was passed by other riders. I didn't want my fat and sorry ass to cost someone their race. Eventually, I'm able to bang out enough mud from my shoes and bike and I'm riding again as I come upon a woman and a girl and an ATV. I peer around to the left and all of a sudden, I don't see a trail anymore. I slam on my brakes and look down. Holy *%$^@^&*! So that's the Gravity Cavity.

I'm going to include a video. I can tell you, without exaggeration, this video makes it look flat. It's about 22% grade. We're not messing around, folks.

Needless to say, I'm walking this sucker. As I'm walking, people are passing. At 40+ mph. And then, I had to climb up "Heckler's Hill," though, fortunately, there were no hecklers teasing me for walking. It was dicey to walk up, especially when riders were coming, but I managed to stay out of their way. And I'm huffing and puffing walking up the first time, and feeling increasingly wimpy for not riding it as these guys just fly down and up the other side with ease. I think, more than any other race, I am starting to feel absolutely out of my league and like I have no business here.

Finally, I make it to the top, and I'm able to ride a ways. I make it to the road that leads to the start/finish point, and I'm so glad it's over. That is, until the volunteer in the lawn chair shouts out, "No way, girl, you gotta come around the cones." I look, and I'm thinking this is stupid. I have to ride on the dirt to get to the top of the hill instead of the pavement? Fine. I cross the street and stay on the left of the cones. And then I see the markers. We're now being sent into the woods on the other side of the street. Ugh. Not only that, but as soon as I turned, it makes the mudpits on the opposite side of the street look like a walk in the park. I'm sinking up to my knees, I can see the hub of my wheels barely above the surface of murky, black water and I can hear the suction as my shoes get pulled on. When I do hit bottom, half the time my feet are slipping out from under me, and I can feel my ankles bending unnaturally. And, all this, while trudging level or uphill, trying to avoid being in the way of other racers who are struggling through the mire, and trying to figure out safe places to walk to. This went on for what felt like an eternity. I knew I had to be within a mile of the finish - if not closer, and yet, my feet feel like they're wearing lead boots as the mud cakes on and soaks into every crevice of my shoe. (I'm so glad I wore wool socks to keep my feet warm and dry. *sigh* ) Finally, a clearing and dirt road again. I try to clip in, but struggle - not only are my pedals and cleats packed with mud, but my cranks don't seem to want to move. I give up, and decide to hike some more, hoping as the mud dries, it will shake off. But it's not coming off. It's just accumulating a new layer of dirt and my feet are just getting heavier. But I still have my second lap to do. Yes, I know most of the people I started the race with have already finished, and I'm being lapped by the Elite & Expert riders that started 2 hours after I did, but I still have another lap. And, as I promised myself, I am not quitting a race that I started this year. The only way I'm coming in as DNF (Did Not Finish) is if I'm coming back in a body bag.

I see Sean and another racer, Brian Spring, standing at the finish. I'm not sure if they are cheering me on or just waiting to see how bloody long it was going to take for me to finish. Sean tries to redirect me to the finish line when I shout out, "I have one more lap!" I rode past him too quickly to see if his expression was of impression, disgust, ridicule or... well, I don't know what. He disclosed on the drive home that he couldn't believe I went back for my second lap.

Frankly, I hardly believed I was going back in, but off I went. But the way I figure it is that I've now gotten to know this course quite intimately. I knew what the biggest hurdles were, I knew what was ride-able and what wasn't, so this should go faster.

And it did. I even went for going down that first mini-Gravity Cavity. I'd noticed barbed wire on the far left of some of the trail, and I thought I'd heard one of the Elite riders coming behind me (turns out it was an acoustical trick and he wasn't behind me, but farther back), so as I began the descent, just passing the last tree on the right, I got chucked out of the saddle. Over the handlebars I went, and I curled up like an armadillidiiae and rolled down the hill. After I did a quick body inventory - making sure all parts were still attached, undamaged, etc. - I hiked back up to my bike, which seemed suspended. I pull on the bike, thinking it got tangled in a vine or green twig. Well, tangled? Yes. Natural hazard? No. 3-6 feet of rusty barbed wire is more like it, entwined with my chain around my cassette and in the spokes of my wheel. A stray piece must have been just under the surface of leaves and loose dirt and, of all the riders, I found it. Thanks to my long-fingered gloves, I was able to untangle my bike unscathed and checked. The bike still worked. On I went.

Without repeating everything I said above, let me sum up:

• Was able to cut time by hiking around muddy section instead of through, thereby not getting in other racers' ways who were trying to ride through it, though it meant some trickier hiking off the trail.
• I rode over a total of 6 logs during both laps, which had me ecstatic as I usually come to a screeching halt as logs scare the hell out of me.
• I dropped my chain more times than I can recall - at least 7 times over the course of both laps
• I almost finished the race with one shoe as my shoes had been sucked off my feet in the mud pits in the final stretches at least 6 times.
• A fellow rider had to help me yank my foot out of one mud pit, and I reciprocated a few yards up when she got her leg stuck.
• I came around the final turn of the finish line and stupidly dropped into my granny gear, which left me nothing to spin with, and I ended up clipping out, walking, and then sprinting across the finish line to look Sean in the face and say, "That SUCKED!"
• I was greeted at the finish line with a 2nd place medal and having several EFTA members shouting, "190 points! 190 points!" (the number of championship qualifying points I'd earned by finishing).

My competitor, Glenn, finished in under 2 hours. I finished in 4:41. I weighed one shoe when I got home, after some of the mud dried and flaked off. It weighed in at just over 10 pounds. That means, I rode the 2nd half of the first lap and the entire second lap with an added 15-20 pounds of mud in my shoes, alone, let alone the added weight on the bike.

I'm hardly a weight weenie, as some other EFTA racers I've known in my time. But I can tell you this much - 10+ pounds per foot is gonna slow you down.

Judge for yourself and tell me if you agree:

After I'd had a chance to shake off some mud. That's a sock off to the right. Those shoes are light tan.

My tires were slick, thanks to the impacted mud. Can you even FIND the drive train?

St. Sean and his muddy statue... wait. That's a bike. I think.

Assessing all the parts we'll have to replace on our bikes. He has a lot more to do than I do - he rode 3 laps. And rode much more than I did.

After taking an inventory of what had to get done on my bike, and the damage done to my body: all new cables, new brake pads, new chain, strained ankles (which started acting up the morning after, likely due to the slipping), scratches and scrapes from the barbed wire and thorn bushes that were hidden beneath the mud, crunchier knees than usual, a big old butt bruise, and seriously battered pride, I almost called Sean to tell  him this was a ridiculously futile attempt at a sport. That, clearly, I had no business on the same trails as these people and I just sucked. In fact, I did call him Sunday night when the results were posted on EFTA's website and laughed like I'd lost my mind at what a loser I was. I mean - it really is laughable.

And then, moments ago, someone posted this on Facebook:

And I realize now I can't quit mountain biking. Because that image is my approach.

And it's the LIVESTRONG approach.

I can't forget, I ride for LIVESTRONG.

Close to home

The past week has been an interesting one. My activist focus has shifted, temporarily, away from cancer & LIVESTRONG and focused on Anti-Semitism and Education & Development for young Jews in light of a recent incident in my home town. In my blog, "Why is This Spray Paint Different From All Other Spray Paints?" I speak about how issues that were relatively removed, though very important to me, are now hitting close to home.

The same week, cancer has been lurking close to home, as well. More will be revealed in the next week or two, but it strikes me as odd that two of our greatest fears as people - an illness that can kill us from within, silently, and without much notice and illogical hatred of who we are and about something we cannot control - are prevalent in my day-to-day thoughts.

It stands as a reminder that there is so much out of our control, and it takes so little to strip away every sense of safety and security that we have. One burst of spray paint, one letter in the mail, and our lives are turned upside down and has us wondering if we'll ever be safe again.

I guess that's the point at which we either become victims or survivors, isn't it? When we aren't just talking about what we would do in that situation, but when it is shoved in our face and we can't turn away. It's right or left, and you can't choose to walk away.

I can say with certainty that I'm fighting like a rabid dog against the Anti-Semitic act that has rocked our little town. My teeth are sunk in to the gums, and with every tug, my jaws are clamping down harder.

We'll see about the rest. But, for now, I have my fight and I'm ready to hit the mats.

I only walked twice! Also Known As My Big Fat Big Ring Rumpus Ramble

I regret I don't have photographs to enhance my report of Sunday's Big Ring Rumpus. This, however, was the one race I was not going to stop and smile for the camera. This was a race that I knew I could nail. And when I say, "nail," I mean actually do well in. And when I say, "do well in," I mean not suck at. As in no SAG wagon, no tears, no struggle, not clipping out and walking. Well, almost. But I can sincerely say it was not because of lack of ability, but lack of cooperation with my chain. It was mechanical. Not thanks to my ineptness, stupidity, back or medication reactions. Had it not been for 6 or 7 cross-chain incidents, I wouldn't have clipped out at all. I wouldn't have walked at all. I would have stopped at the Gatorade/water stop, however, as I clearly have a drinking/riding problem a la "Airplane" - I tried to snatch a small cup of Gatorade on my second lap, and instead, I wore it, as did my bike (which made for some interesting sticky patches).

Much was in my favor, compared to last year (recap at: http://ricalivestrong.blogspot.com/2010/06/let-livestrong-rumpus-begin-and-end.html). First, I'd done this race before. (Hence the fact that there is a recap.) So this was the first race that I knew well. It wasn't entirely recognizable, however, as last year the race was enhanced by a hurricane, making it a muddy mess and honestly, every turn looked the same. This year, I could see roads that weren't muddy slop - I could see the different terrains - gravel, dirt, fire road, sand pits, etc. It was sunny, but not too sunny. I'd foregone the attempt to stick with the D'Adamo Shift's plan to fuel up for the race, and I had my usual pre-ride coffee & carb (in this case, a blueberry muffin) and bananas. I wasn't getting confused (well, as confused) between how to shift my MTB vs. my road bike (I did pull a blonde moment on one uphill slope, hence a clip out thanks to a gnarly cross-chain - but surely, you can understand. I was distracted by a patch of pretty pink lady slippers!)

The only catch is that the kids and I were pretty darned challenged when it came to the clock. I was supposed to get up at 4:00 and get us all out the door by 4:30/4:45 am at the latest. My eyes opened at 4:00, but I didn't wake up until 4:15. I darn near tossed the kids by the ankles around the room like a pair of chickens during Kaparot before they actually woke up, and by then, they may as well have been chickens with their heads cut off. One was dressed, but had no socks and shoes on. The other didn't know where anything was. One realized their helmet was at Gramma & Grumpy's, which meant a 15-minute detour. The other didn't know their right from their left. One thought that getting dressed meant playing with the kitty. The other thought it was time to go back to bed. You catch my drift. In point of fact, by the time we left the house (after 5!) my son realized he'd left his helmet under our porch, outside, where the bikes were. What it was doing outside instead of in the house, on the rack I mounted next to the front door called the "bike helmet rack" is beyond me. It was madness.

The drive up this time was weird. I'll admit it. I was bitchy. There was no question. But can you blame me? I was up until 1:00 am getting ready, getting as much of the kids' stuff together as I could, doing my usual pre-race nervous insomnia thing watching Gilmore Girls & Real Housewives of wherever on my DVR and The Nanny until I fall asleep and then the insane asylum erupted. So the entire drive was me lecturing my kids on how irresponsible they were, how I hoped I would smoke them on the course, that I'd never take them to another ride again unless they showed me they had everything lined up in rows like soldiers, toting those barges, lifting those bales, etc. I think they slept through most of my rant, though.

Once we got to the Pilot Gas Station in Sturbridge, MA (holy hell, the tornado damage was ridiculous to see!), I got my coffee and muffin, and I morphed into SuperMom. All was well with the world and we cruised ahead. Now, we were behind schedule, but we had made up great time, and my GPS showed we were going to arrive at 8:36 am - WELL in advance of the 9:30 am start... I had in my head. Unfortunately, once we pulled in to the parking area, we heard an announcement that the rider meeting for novices was starting in 10 minutes... because, you see, the race started at 9:00 am. Amazing what one little number can do - I had it stuck in my pretty, blonde head we started 30 minutes later. So, the madness ensued... I was barking orders to my children like I was Lance Armstrong and they were my pit crew. "Ariella, get my shoe! Zach, fill my Camelbak! Where's my helmet?! Where's your helmet?!?! Where's my glove! Dang it, I broke a nail! Yes, you, it's your fault!"

OhMyGawdWhereIsMyBikeToolZachWhatDidYouDoDidYouStealItAgainIHaveToGoToTheBathroomWhereIsMyCoffeeAriellaGetOutOfThereZachWhereIsYourBibAriellaWhereIsMyBibDoNotLockTheKeysInTheCarZachAreTheBikesOffTheRearRackAriellaLeaveMazAloneDamnItIBrokeAnotherNailHolyChristmas!!!!!!"

Ultimately, all the pieces fell into place. Zach was able to borrow a helmet. Ariella was going to ride whatever class/distance/course she was going to ride. And I lined up with the other Clydesdales. Er. At least I thought I was. The sign at the staging area said "Clydesdales - Male/Female" (thank you, Maz, for remembering me, though I'm still gunning for an Athena class next year). Only, there's a tall, slender man on a cyclocross bike to my far left. There's a ridiculously cut fellow to my left, as well. There's a very, very tall, slender man to my left, as well. These guys don't look like the usual Clydesdale fare. I mean, sure, they might meet the weight requirement, but hell, they don't look like novices either. My friend, Glenn Raiche, pulls up behind me, and I shoot him this funny look. He doesn't look too happy either. Then the horror sets in: I know understand what "Open Class" means.

Holy crap. We aren't a novice class anymore. We've got sport and expert caliber riders in our class, now. I'll refrain from repeating the curses that flooded my already sleep-deprived, addled brain as I realized not only was I out of my league as the only girl in the class, the only obvious roadie in the class, the only marginally not a first-timer in the class, but I'm now racing against guys that could give my friend, Sean Drew, a Sport Vet Rider, a serious run for his money.

Mongo was not a happy camper.

But not to worry - this was my race. This was a roadie course. Granted, I was bummed when I found out I could have outfitted my Bianchi to ride it as a cyclocross race and as a Clydesdale - which would have, at least, put me in my Roadie Happy Place, shaved about 5-6 lbs off the weight of my machines, and been on a bike that is far more an extension of my body than my MTB. But, still, maybe I'd be able to keep up. Draft some guys, for once.

We start, and I'm with the group. For about 20 yards. And then I'm literally left in the dust. Again.

Damn it.

No matter, I am much more confident than usual. And, if I counted correctly, as long as I finished, I'd be in the top 10 and I'd earn NECS points. And I did really well, especially compared to last year, when I panicked when I hit any rocks or roots. This year, I flew over them. I gunned it. That is, until the bike jerked forward and tried to buck me off as I tried to shift down going up the first real hill. Please do not tell me that I sucked in my derailleur, or something equally dire and along the lines of what Sean would do!


I pulled off to the side to look at the bike. Did I have a stick stuck in the spokes? No. Did I break the chain? No. Did I run over a gremlin and its village come and fuse my gears shut? No. I cross-chained. And as a result, I dropped my chain. Damn. Bike grease on the hands, a few yanks and pulls, and I was back in business. I hopped back on and finished the clime and moved on.

I shot down a hill and turned to the left, nearly wiping out on the very loose gravel and sand. Next incline, and I can see Denis taking pictures, and, again, my trusty steed tries to throw me. Sunofabeetch, I cross-chained again. I had to stop doing that! Onward and upward, and I continue on. I decide to see how fast I'm going. I look at my cyclometer and...

Oh, crap. CRAP! Where's my cyclometer!??! I know I took it off at the end of Weeping Willow. I know I put it with my gear. And now, on the one race where I wanted to maintain a minimum speed of 14-16 mph, I left my cyclometer somewhere! Agh! No matter. I haven't been passed, yet.

I keep going, keeping a decent pace. I don't see the guys ahead of me, but I haven't really been passed, much, except by 1 or 2 people, maybe. And I think they were on their second lap. But no Clydesdales yet.

All of a sudden, I realize I'm back at the start. I'm starting lap 2. Wow - that was quick! Yay! 3 more to go.

I reach back for my Honey Stinger with Ginseng and I realize I have it in my center pocket. Under my Camelbak. I pull off to the side, just in time for a pair of racers pacing each other to pass me, and I suck in 1/3. I only brought one with me, so I want to pace it out. I continue on. A bit further on, I see a familiar face. It's Zach. I'm lapping Zach. Ha, ha. Sweet revenge. He's pulled off to the side, I don't pay attention up the slope, and I cross-chain. Blargh. So I make like I did it on purpose to see how he's doing. I honestly can't remember what his complaint was. I get up to him, say something encouraging, and tell him enjoy eating my dust. (Great parenting, I know.) I keep going.

I'm keeping a pretty steady pace (though I have no clue how fast I'm going). I'm getting passed, but what else is new? By my third lap, I notice that I've been passed by some of the same people a couple of times. And then I realize that as I start my final lap, they are already done. Crap. Well, fine. I see the Sports and Cyclocrossers staging, and some of the marshalls announce, "RIDER COMING, MOVE OVER! RIDER COMING" and they part like the Red Sea. Well, not really. They barely give me 3 inches on the skiddy, poison-ivy covered edge of the path. So I announce, "Laterne Rouge, coming! Watch out! Don't make me get poison ivy!" And I get a bunch of encouraging words from the guys who are going to watch me go off ahead and then will ultimately pass me.

The one good thing with getting lapped by guys of that speed? It's like a burst of air conditioning.

I charge ahead. I notice, though, that my left knee, which is my bad knee - has been since I was 16 - is bothering me for the first time since I was hit by a car while riding home in October of 2009. It's not painful, but I'm feeling it. I'm not, however, feeling any back discomfort, unlike my entire 2010 season. And I'm not nauseous or throwing up, which is a big improvement over Weeping Willow. But the cricky knee does slow me down a bit. But I plow ahead. I'm getting closer to the finish, and I realize, for the first time at an EFTA race, I might finish the course without being lapped by Sean Drew! Last year, Sean lapped me twice. This year, I haven't seen him yet. This is great! I may be able to cross the finish line and I'll never have to see his butt fly by... uh... crud.

"Hey, Rica!"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!


There goes Sean's turquoise and black shiny ass whiz passed me on his 29er. And I've only got, like, 2 turns until the finish chute. Are you kidding me, Sean? I mean, have a heart. Fake a flat or something and let me roll through the finish ahead of you.

Bah.

I try and catch up, but who the hell am I kidding? I still have to navigate the chute. I wave goodbye to Sean's rear end and focus on the chute.

Did I mention the chute is the hardest part of Big Ring Rumpus? The chute looks  like a spider's web on grass. Last year, it was insanely wet, I'd never ridden on unmowed grass before, and I got so confused that I slid into a bunch of tape and got tangled up. The first time around, I almost went outside the lines, and made up my own entry point. I did re-navigate myself, but by the time I had, I realized I was going too fast and had to slam on the brakes to make a turn, and then I had to drop into my granny gear to make it up the slope around the trees in the field. My second time, I knew to drop into 2nd gear coming into the chute, and to drop into my granny gear approaching the slope. The third time, I thought I was so slick, that I decided to fly up. Only, A slew of racers whizzed by on my left, and I got caught up in a bunch of dead tree branches sticking out from the right - no, I didn't watch out for that slut eating tree. (RHPS fans, ya dig?)

This last time, though, I was flawless. I finished.

And found out I was about an hour behind the last guy. And 8 minutes behind my time from last year. (Though, I have to check to see if we had the same distance as last year - I think this year's course was a little longer and I'm not sure if we had as many laps.)

Either way, I came in 9th place. I earned NECS points. And, despite cross-chain related walks, I didn't have to walk any sections.

I did end up bleeding on my bike. (Benefit to a white bike - blood shows up on the frame easily.)  I have no idea how, but I did. *shrug*

Without question, though, next year, I'm riding cyclocross. I need an edge, damn it.

But fun race, all in all.

Dining for Donations: Two chances to enjoy happy hour or dinner with the family for a cause!

If you live or work in the Northern Westchester County area, you have two opportunities to take some time out and go to a local Applebees with friends & family and support cancer survivorship! 10% of all checks (excluding tax and gratuity), when a flyer/voucher is presented, will be donated to the Lance Armstrong Foundation! Please be sure to follow the instructions for your meal to count!

• On Thursday, June 23, Applebees in Mount Kisco, NY will be hosting our Dining for Donations event. Bring a flyer with you (Download one NOW: http://fairfieldwestchesterlivestrong.weebly.com/uploads/6/3/3/7/6337714/applebeesvoucher_062232011.jpg) and the wonderful folks at the 185 North Bedford Road location will contribute towards our fundraising efforts!
• If you're closer to the Brewster, NY area, join us on Tuesday, June 28th for another Dining for Donations event! 115 Independence Way will be the place to be that Tuesday, so be sure to download your voucher here: http://www.weebly.com/uploads/6/3/3/7/6337714/8116048.jpg or print this image:

Please be sure to share this with your friends and lvoed ones! We want to see you there!

NECS #2 Race Report: Like, oh my gawd! Gag me with a spoke!

First, in light of recent reports, I'd like to state that while I'm not planning a book deal, staging a comeback or about to announce witnessing shady dealings, I've recently started a course of steroids. No, I'm not looking for recovery to make me competitive in the field, my doctors realized that I have no functioning adrenal system, and they are trying to jump start my system. Not to worry, I informed the race officials and have offered to have my doctor provide a statement to that effect.

I'm not kidding, I'm actually very serious. I went straight to the EFTA tent on Sunday at Willowdale in Ipswich, MA and told The Maz - I don't want to be accused of doping years later and having to turn in my socks and beer mug.

Second, I can assure every person reading this blog that these steroids are hardly performance enhancing, at least not while in my bloodstream. At the moment, they are quite the opposite.

For the past week, I've awoken to the jitters, heart palpitations and nerves and anxiety that take a good couple of hours to shake off. Yes, I have a lot of rather overwhelming stress in my life at the moment, but that's become the status quo - and any hard-working single mom working multiple jobs can attest to that. But the past week or two, I've been feeling it more and more. This new course of medication has made it very difficult to know how my body will respond to various things. I was told to take the year off altogether from cycling, which I told my medical team was not an option. I learned on the 5 Boro Tour that it is a bit more challenging to find a means to carb up before major events. No gluten, limited fruit and vegetables, virtually no dairy, etc. I also have to be mindful of when I take my meds, especially on days with very early starts.

If Sunday is any indication, I clearly do not have this new regiment figured out yet.

Saturday, my stomach was feeling somewhat "rumbly." As a result, I wasn't very hungry and I didn't eat most of the day until 10 or so, when I realized I had to have something in my stomach, if at the very least, to make sure I wouldn't collapse on the course the next day. I had a small dinner, but I had to force myself to eat.

When I got up at 4:45 am to load up the car and get ready to meet with Sean, my carpool buddy, my stomach wasn't bothering me, but I felt flush and jittery. I plugged along, packing up the bike and my gear, drinking green tea, and kitting myself out. On the way to the car park, however, I started feeling a bit nauseous. At one point, I had to pull over and came close to getting sick. A few minutes of slow breathing and cool air, I was feeling better and kept on driving.

By the time we arrived in Ipswich, we were a bit behind schedule, but early enough Sean wasn't going to miss his 10 am start time. I knew I had a couple of hours before my start time, so I started eating my stash of almonds, apricots and chocolate (the closest thing to an energy bar I could put together that was in keeping with my nutritional guidelines), along with another liter of green tea. I was feeling ok. I still felt a little flush, but the cool air felt good and I didn't have my usual nerves before the race. I was calm and collected, especially after hearing that this genuinely wasn't a technical course, there weren't crushing climbs, and it wasn't a mud pit.

Me and the fellas. I'm the one who looks petite with the blue rims and LIVESTRONG helmet - #4

I had the chance to chit chat, scope out my field (I'm the only women in the class, again, so I kinda stick out like a sore thumb and just know I'm going to be seeing these guys from the back, only, so this was my only chance to see what they look like from the front) and line up. Off we go, down the fire road, where it was still wide enough for passing and side-by-side riding. I get dropped almost immediately. (Not to worry - that's par for the course.)

I come around a corner and I see one of the novice women walking her bike in the other direction - she flatted out and had no supplies. I take off my saddle pack, throw it to her and tell her to leave it at the finish for me to take home at the end of the race and I ride on. I was feeling good about my riding. Whether because it was overcast enough that my darker lenses made it hard for me to see rougher terrain that would usually cause me to use my brakes or the fact that after a year of riding last year, I started gaining more confidence, I was having a decent run.

Then, the very windy single-track that is the signature of the Weeping Willow race starts. I start weaving in between the trees, slowly and carefully, but chugging along. I went around a hairpin turn, and when I straightened out, I still felt lopsided. Somewhat disoriented, on the next turn, I skidded into a tree. I didn't fall, but I stopped to regroup. Only I wasn't regrouping. I was getting sick.

I rehydrated, and decided to walk this incline, and this nausea off, and remounted once it was flatter and smoother. I continued to ride and came across a windy path where the ground was not level. A tiny teeter to one side, and I'd land in a very smelly swamp. Just looking threw my compromised equilibrium off and that familiar, unsettling feeling came back in the pit of my stomach. I chose to walk this section.

This continued for a while, and I lost track of time and place. I honestly didn't know where I was on the course, and then I got nervous when I realized I didn't see anyone coming behind, nor anyone ahead. I texted my friend, Sean, whom I sure had finished by then, to see if he could help me figure out where I was on the course and how much farther I had to go. He didn't have his phone on him. I realized that I had an email from the organizer, Aaron Millett, on my Blackberry which included his phone number, so I gave him a quick call. Based on what I could describe, I was only 1/3 of the way through, and it was my call as to whether or not I should come back or go forward. I hoped for the best, and went on to where Aaron said the mid-way point, manned by a marshal, would be. At that point, we'd re-assess how I was and what to do.

So, the pattern continued - ride a stretch of single track, get woozy, throw up, drink up, mount up and repeat. At one point, I looked up and there was a deer, maybe 5 or 6 feet away, giving me this dirty look, as if to say, "Hey, do you mind? Are you done puking on my front yard?" A few minutes later, I turned a corner and almost hit another deer. I'd been on the course long enough the wildlife returned.

I finally got to the only real hill on the course, and I clip out and start hiking up. I know the checkpoint is at the bottom, so I'm getting closer to the end, and hopefully have someone that has some fresh water and can give me some insight of how the rest of the course is. I get to the peak, look around, and I see no one. Crickets. Well, no, not even crickets. The deer have moved on. Not a trace of life. I descend the hill and continue following the course. I pull out a Honey Stinger, start draining my camelback and ride on. At my next stop, I get ill again and look for my lookout. No one in sight.

All of a sudden, I'm brought back to my first day in gym class at Fox Lane High School. I'd transferred over from a Jewish high school as a junior, so I hardly knew my way around indoors, let alone outdoors. That first Thursday, our gym teacher decided that we would go on the nature trails on the vast wooded campus. The catch is, at my old high school, we didn't really have gym. And I wasn't used to having to change and really have to lock my lockers, so I got to class late. I got into the gym early enough that I could check in, but late enough that I had to chase the class into the woods. Before I even knew where we were, everyone disappeared. They took a turn and I had no clue which way to go. So, I used my best judgement. 3 hours later, after falling, getting covered in mud, dirt and leaves, and coming out a few miles away from school, I was found when I stumbled upon a nature reserve. I got back just in time to catch the bus back home.

Now, here I am, lost in the woods, and the person I should have met up with is gone. I'm having a flashback. I throw up again.

I call Aaron, and it turns out that the guy who had been at the midway point left, but he was biking the course in reverse so he will run into me. I was much farther in than I thought, and by the time he caught up with me, we were under 2 miles from the finish. Phew! Aaron rode just ahead of me, leading the way (which helped me choose the best lines so I didn't have to start concentrating on the twists and turns and kept me from getting nauseous), and getting me to the final stretch. I rode in, on two wheels (well, almost - there was a final slope that I walked over as I wasn't going to risk puking over it) and I finished.

While I was the last person to finish the course, I still managed to come in 9th in my class. Granted, the 10th rider didn't finish the race, but still. I came in 9th. And one other person had a longer time - I came in over 20 minutes ahead.

Some syrupy drink, Coke and, believe it or not, potato chips, and my stomach settled. Sean drove my car back, and there was no car sickness or vomiting. There were a lot of window-rattling burps, which proved entertaining, but that was about it.

So, I earned 64 points towards the Championship Series for Team LIVESTRONG. This should prove interesting this year, as last year, I only finished 2 races, but I made the podium for the season, and this wasn't one of them. This year, I plan to do all the races I did last year, plus Weeping Willow, and I'm determined not to DNF on any rides.

I will say this: It always keeps me motivated, focused and able to push through pain and not give up when I know I'm racing for someone. I encourage you to donate to my LIVESTRONG fundraising efforts and let me know the name of the person you want me to race for.

Riding for a Cause

Yesterday, Sunday, May 1, was the TD Bank 5 Boro Tour. I'll be honest with you - in 2010, I rode in all weather, all year, every month, every season. But with the hinky weather we've been having this year, I haven't really been out much at all. And not nearly enough for a significant ride. Which, no offense to the 5 Boro Tour coordinators, I didn't think would be a problem, since the ride was "only" 43 miles and relatively flat. I've done centuries, so what's 43 miles, right?

Let explain to you why that is the dumbest assumption I've ever made about a ride.

1. Did I mention I haven't been riding consistently for months? Sure, when I've been commuting to and from work, 25-30 miles a day, 43 miles is nothing. But when you haven't been commuting, or leisure riding, in months? Only a fool would think they'd be fine. A fool that looks something like this:
2. I was riding my beloved Madone. Which, without question, is the sweetest machine in the world. However, I've only ridden it once before, and that was only for a few miles so I could lead out the ROCK the RIDE & RUN. While it's amazing, it is still relatively foreign to me. And she's a finely-tuned machine, but, just like the finest race horse, a little temperamental when it hasn't gotten to know you, and you haven't gotten to know it. Not to mention the fact that I'd violated the Cardinal Rule of New Road Bikes - GET A FIT DONE BEFORE YOUR FIRST BIG RIDE!
3. If you've been following the blog for sometime, you may know that I have Hashimoto's Disease, which is a very bizarre auto-immune disorder which does funky things, the most commonly known about is causing hypothyroidism. In my case, my metabolic system, adrenals etc are all thrown out of whack. What does that mean? That I've just started a whole new naturopathic nutritional plan, a set of new drugs and supplements, none of which have been in my system for very long, and all after my "season" in 2010 ended. So I really didn't know what my body would do, how it would react, etc to a ride.

Of course, none of this occurred to me until it was too late to do anything - aka, once I was already on the ride and it was too late to do anything about it.

My son and I got up at 3:00 am Sunday morning, started to get ready, gathered our last minute items that weren't already packed up in the car, and left the house at about 3:45 to get to Stamford, CT train station by 4:30. The train didn't leave until 5:03, but knowing that we had to unpack the bikes, put the wheels back on, get our gear on and make sure nothing was left behind, I wanted to give ourselves plenty of time. So, after some early morning stupidity (we thought we were done, I locked the door and realized my helmet was inside... he closed the trunk, forgetting that his Camelbak with our stuff was inside... I locked the door and realized I forgot my tea behind... ), we crossed the street from the parking garage, went up and down 2 sets of escalators and onto the platform for the train.

At first, we were a bit nervous - there were no other cyclists, or anyone else, for that matter, other than the Allied Burton security guards - but slowly, we saw more and more two-wheeled friends appear from the dark shadows. The train is almost empty, yet the conductor tells us, "Only 2 bikes per vestibule!" which seems like a ridiculous request, as this train was scheduled specifically to transport cyclists to the Bike Tour. My guess is many more bikes will be per vestibule. I, of course, refused to leave my bike in the vestibule, so she sat on my lap. My son used my commuter bike, which he used as a head rest/nap support.

Soon enough, we joined the throng of cyclists out to Park Avenue and started riding to our meet point, so I could get my kit from Colleen of Team LIVESTRONG, put on my VIP Jersey (because I'm that special) and passes so we could get into our breakfast and our chute for the start point. We ran into some LIVESTRONG friends, I stood in line for the bathroom for most of the time, while my son stood watch over the bikes and had breakfast, scarfed down the muffin, fruit and drink they gave us, and scurried into our place for the start.

Friendly crustacean, whose penguin buddy was a bit farther up

The Salernos

The pyrotechnics (literally) went off, and riders were released onto the streets of Manhattan. We rode past Radio City Music Hall, were herded into Central Park, where we were able to ride a little faster, and began to pace ourselves. There, we ran into some friends from the Trek Bicycle Store of Fairfield, John & Dr. Salerno - another parent/son team! John-John, as we call him, is a regular delight at the shop, and I think this was his 3rd 5 Boro Tour. (We ran into him later in the ride, as well, while I was waiting for a mechanic to adjust my derailleur - I think the chain may have stretched a bit, so it was a little out of whack - again - dumb to have started this ride without some prior riding!) Sooner than we know it, we're cruising through Harlem, passing early church goers in their Sunday best, watching this spectacle of spandex and wheels whiz through town while they wait to become road kill cross the (closed) street. We cross our first bridge, the Madison Avenue Bridge, entering our second borough - the Bronx. After a short dance in the Bronx, we cross the Third Avenue Bridge back into Manhattan, where we got to ride down the FDR.

This, by the way, had to be one of the highlights of the ride. First, we were now 3 lanes wide, so we weren't a tightly packed peloton anymore - we had some elbow room. Second, as a result, we could pick up the pace. Previously, we were lucky if we hit over 10 mph, which for many, is fine. But when you're on a road bike, and both my Bianchi, which my son was riding, and my Madone, are pretty light bikes, it's actually more work to go slowly than it is to go fast. So it was pretty tiring to ride at such a slow pace. (Not to mention, as we went through the tunnel section, we all started hooting and hollering and enjoying the acoustics like little kids.)

The Queensboro Bridge

Now, I may have been raised in New York, but please bear in mind, that I was raised in the state of New York, not the city of New York. There are a couple of isolated neighborhoods (the Upper West Side, the area around Canal Jean Company, Little Italy and Times Square) that I know pretty well, but I have no idea how to get from one to the other. I do not know my way around unaccompanied, and I certainly don't know the bridges, or their geography. I know their names, and if they come up in directions en route to a specific designation, I recognize them. But I don't know what they connect to (well, I mean I know the Brooklyn Bridge connects to Brooklyn, and the Queensboro presumably connects to Queens). HOWEVER, I do not know them by sight. All that I know is that we would be crossing the Verrazano at some point, and that it was the worst climb of the ride. Please note: I do not know to what the Verrazano connects, as there is no borough called "Verrazano." So, as we approach a steady and steep incline towards some sort of bridge, and turn a corner, I tell my son, "This must be it. I'm in trouble."

For those of you who rode any stretch of any of the LIVESTRONG challenges with me, you know I don't like hills. For those of you who have mountain biked with me, or raced with EFTA with me, you know, I don't like hills. (Ironic, I know. A mountain biker who doesn't like mountains. That's a whole other complex blog. Of course, many of those people would also likely say I'm a roadie who hikes up mountains, not a mountain biker.) By now, thanks to not having a bike fit (self-flagellates once more), I'm putting more pressure than I should on my arms, and my shoulders and back have cramped up. Which would be bad for anyone, but, a year later, my back has still not fully recovered from the sprained sacroiliac ligaments. In trying to keep the pressure off my lower back, I'm trying to shift my weight onto my feet. Which, in turn, has now caused foot cramps. So my muscles aren't playing nice with me.

Then the anxiety sets in as I make it around the turn and I see the slow rising, distant expanse of highway. I see the number of riders who are dismounting and walking. And I start to weep. Literally. And somewhat uncontrollably, because I'm terrified of what my back will feel like. I'm terrified that if I slow down and need to clip out of my Speedplays, I won't, and I'll fall. I'm afraid I'm going to lose my son as he goes ahead and gets lost in the 32,000 cyclists on the road and I won't be able to reconnect with him.

But I can't stop. I swore that, despite all the stupid things that happen on rides, I would NOT walk a FOOT of this ride, I would NOT hitch a SAG ride, and I would NOT QUIT. Tears streaming down my face, holding back whimpers, I pedal on. My son tries consoling me, saying, "Remember, 'Pain is temporary, quitting is forever.'" I know it's coming from a good place, but it happened to be in one of the few moments where I actually hate Lance Armstrong simply because he sails up hills, making it look so effortlessly, and here I am, on the same bike he and Team RadioShack rides, and I'm in agony on a slope any member of the team would do without thinking. I turn, trying not to be short (which is hard to do when you're crying), I tell him that I appreciate the thought, but I need to get out of my own head. I tell him to go ahead without me, and, when he gets to the end, if I'm not there with him, to pull off to the right when it is safe and look for me. He goes ahead, periodically looking back to see where I am.

Honestly, I also didn't want him to hear me sobbing. So I sobbed, and cried, and pedaled on. I kept trying to think of something that could inspire me to go on riding. I thought about my friend who got me into cycling in the first place, and had given me some of the best tips for climbing, as he's an amazing climber on his road bike. But, I'd just learned that he is still angry/upset enough over a fight we had over a year ago, that the mere mention of my name evokes a very harsh reaction. So that makes me even more upset, and the crying continues. I try and take my own advice and sing, "Just keep spinning, just keep spinning," in my head, but that doesn't work, either. I keep wishing that there were something that could carry me, lift some of this weight off, so I could fly up the hill.

Just then, a little girl, 8 or 9, on a pink Trek MT 200 with her mom and dad, catches my eye, and she smiles at me as I pass her. Now, this can't be easy for a little kid. And the bike looks a little big for her. But there she is, smiling, chugging along, loving life. And that's when I sprouted the little, mini wings I needed to lift me up that hill.

Zoe Anyan. I've gotten to become friends with Zoe's mom. And she's one of the cancer angels I'm riding for. Her mom goes on and on about how happy Zoe was, how she always had a positive attitude, and the joy she brought to people. How she lifted other people's spirits. And then I thought about how she lost her battle. This stretch was for Zoe. I had to fly.

Maybe it was Zoe, or the cortisone that I've started for my Hashimoto's, but either way, my head cleared, I saw the Silvercup Studios sign in the distance, and I didn't feel the pain anymore. I did keep sobbing, now more as I reflected on the state of the aforementioned friendship, but I had enough of an adrenaline rush to get over the hump and catch up with my son.

At this point, I'm ecstatic. I'm giggling like a school girl, repeating, "I did it! I did it!" like I'd just learned how to ride without training wheels. My son is patting me on the back saying, "Great job, Mom!" and we pull into the next rest area to get some ice for my back and try and work some kinks out. We get back on the road, but some of those foot cramps are getting pretty gnarly.

Somewhere on the Pulaski, I pull off so I can take my shoes off and try and massage the foot cramps out and re-adjust my shoes. My son starts working on the knots in my shoulders (his fingers are knot detectors - never in my life have I met anyone that can find a knot as quickly and accurately as he does!) and another friend, Jeremy Brittain who runs the SPOKES Ride for Suicide Prevention, rides by and says, "HI!" I hop back onto the bike, and we keep going.

All too quickly, a familiar sight. We arrive on and are coasting down the BQE (Brooklyn Queens Expressway), with car traffic flying in the opposite direction, while we're at a complete stand still. "Wait a minute," I say to the gentleman next to me (who was riding a MIGHTY sweet MOOTS full-suspension MTB), "I thought riding bikes was to reduce traffic congestion, not create traffic congestion!" That's right, we were in the middle of a major traffic jam. No joke, it was one of the worst I'd ever experienced on 2 feet, 2 wheels or 4 wheels. We were making great time, and due to arrive well before 1pm. But, instead, we spend over an hour, in 80 degree heat, fully exposed to the sun, with no water outside of what we got at the last rest area, standing completely still. We had no idea what was going on. Was there a massive crash? Was there some kind of emergency where they had to open the highway? Did a bridge collapse? We have no clue. Some of us, myself included, pull out our phones to check Twitter and the news to see if there were some catastrophe that caused this jam, but we can find no explanations. We hear sirens, but realize it's from below and not on the BQE. Finally, we begin to move, with marshals on megaphones telling us to mount up and ride, and then telling us to stop. Mount up and ride, then stop. It turns out, someone in their infinite wisdom, decided to shut down 2 of the 3 lanes of the BQE, and they were herding all of us into one lane.

A word about Speedplay pedals: They are fantastic for riders with knee and joint problems. The clipping in and out process takes practice, and is tricky, but once you're in, you're in. This, however, is the first moment I regret I'm not riding SPDs on this steed of a bike. And possibly the only time I regret the Speedplays. First, you need to keep the cleats lubricated. Which is fine. Second, it takes a significant amount of pressure to initially clip in, with your weight on your left foot as you hover over the tip of the saddle. Bear this in mind as I explain what happens next...

We're given the go ahead to mount up, and it looks like we'll really be moving forward this time. I begin to clip in, and, just as I stand to put my body weight on my left foot, hovering over the tip of the saddle (which is made with titanium rails - not flexible or giving), the woman in front of me stops short, and, in my haste to stop, my left foot slides out of position (as I must have slightly over-lubricated the cleat on my shoe), my foot slams down onto the ground, and let's just delicately say that my "where the sun don't shine" slams into the pointy tip of the saddle with all my weight on it. Boys and girls, you've just met your first female castrato. I've just, at the very least, seriously bruised the part of the body that spends the most time in the saddle, and bears the bulk of the pressure when riding. Even my son turns to me and says, "Now you know what it's like when [my sister] kicks me in my private place." Fortunately, his innocent euphemism and grabbing the chance to throw his sister under the bus relieves the tension, makes me laugh instead of cry, and he survives another day for teasing me instead of consoling me.

This time, for real, the crowd begins to move and, now somewhat battered "down there," I hop back into delicately place myself onto the saddle and we ride further. We get to the final rest stop (we'd passed a couple on the way wanting to make time), which is at the top of a hill, and hard on my new bruise. When we get to the entrance, I just start crying and a marshal thinks I'm done for the day. They even bring a wheelchair, but I'm crying too hard to be able to say, "That's not necessary." They help me off the bike, into the chair, and wheel me to a cluster of male EMTs who ask me what I did. I look at them and try and think of how to delicately explain how I hurt myself. They can't see any bleeding, broken bones, etc. Behind the guys, I see 2 female EMTs and ask if they could kindly wheel me over to them, as it's a "woman" thing. That sure parted the Red Sea, and they happily passed me onto the ladies, to whom I explained what I did. After the winces, they offer me an ice pack, which I now have to jam into my bib shorts without exposing myself. Fortunately, my experience at MTB races where re-application of chamois butter in front of a group of sweaty guys is not an uncommon thing, so I shove that ice pack between my legs and sit. 10 minutes later, the ice pack has sure chilled down my chamois, but hasn't really stopped the swelling. I understand we only have 4 or 5 miles to go to the end. Since it's all downhill, shouldn't be a problem, right? I went over the worst of it - the Verrazano.

I'm sure those of you reading this who aren't illiterate when it comes to New York City may have noted that earlier, I thought that the expansive bridge that made me weep like a silly, little girl was the Verrazano, but it was, in fact, the Queensboro. You  know, at this point, that I have yet to cross the dreaded Verrazano. I however, think I'm home free, and the worst is behind me.

My son and I go flying along the South Brooklyn shoreline in Bay Ridge, and we see some signs for the Verrazano, which I assume, would put us back onto the BQE from whence we came, therefore we aren't going to follow those signs. But, then I see the riders in front of us taking Exit 2, which says it's going to the Verrazano. I'm enough of a New Yorker to know that, often, the signs are very misleading, and you take an exit towards one thing, but you easily turn off at the end of a ramp and you head in the opposite direction. So, like a lamb to slaughter, I've convinced myself we'll just be passing another ramp where those that want the Verrazano veer off to one side or another and we continue straight, over a happy, flat, downhill bridge.

That is, until, I see the sign for the Verrazano Bridge and realize that the bridge I wept on was not the Verrazano Bridge, and that I now have the steepest part of the ride, the 6,690 foot Verrazano Bridge, which I'd also heard moves a lot, as it is one of the top 10 longest suspension bridges in the world.

I start crying again. My cramps aren't relieved yet. The feet are still sore. But now, my "special place" is bruised, and swelling, and sore. Oh, and for those of you thinking, "Well, then just get out of the saddle and climb up," here's the catch: I don't do that. I really don't know how. The one time I thought I had it right, I got out of the saddle, and the pedal snapped. (Mind you, this was on my 25 year old Peugeot with the original pedals, which had gotten quite rusty.) Not only do I have a fear that, even with titanium, or even Kryptonite pedals, I'll snap them, I don't have the skills to get out of the saddle.

My boy patiently repeats that I can do it, that we're only a couple of miles away, that it's not that bad. Unfortunately, I have very keen eyesight, and an exceptional sense of perception, so even though he's telling me, "No, really, it's flat," I can see the contours that he doesn't see. It ain't flat. I pull off to the side, gather myself together, and ease back into the saddle, riding another few hundred feet. I pull off to the side again, breathe, and get that perspective that this is so silly and, though it hurts like hell, it isn't going to kill me. But much worse pain was endured by friends who did die from their situation - cancer. So I go. And I push. And I push. I tell my son to excuse my language, and I curse like a motherf^$@ing truck driver. And then we're done.

I can see the Festival Tents below us, as we start FLYING down the ramp. We clocked over 30mph, and I'm in a position where I can coast and hold myself off the saddle. We cruise in, cross the finish line, and dismount. My poor son had to lift my foot to make sure that I didn't get stuck swinging my leg over the saddle.

Now, here's the sad part. I've attempted to ride 200 miles in one day. I've been beaten to hell on mountain bike courses. I've had sprained backs, pulled hamstrings, and G-d knows what else. But I've never felt so badly, physically, after a ride! I've never been so stiff everywhere. I've been hit by a car riding 3 times in the past 3 years, and I hurt more after a mere 43 miles. So, I looked my son in the eyes, and told him to thank me. He said, "For what?" I said, "I am your lightning rod. Your front suspension fork. I drew every stupid mishap that could happen to a rider (minus a flat tire - we were both spared that misery), hurt every part of me (save my head) upon myself so that you could be spared and you'd have an incident free ride." He looked me back in the eyes and said, "Mom, you did a great job. You toughed it out, and I'm very proud. But your eyes are turning brown from all that poop." And he walked off to find out where the VIP Lunch was. That's my son. It's been a while since I saw myself in him, but in that very moment, between his genuine care and loving, and a sharp, sarcastic wit, I knew he was mine.

With the Dreaded Verrazano behind us - literally.

Passing the Statue of Liberty

You know what, though? Even with all those mishaps, we still averaged just over 12 miles an hour, which is the typical pace for the 5 Boro Tour. And, I'd bet, if it weren't for that stupid backup on the BQE, we'd have been at a 13-14 mph pace. Unfortunately, we missed reuniting with other members of Team LIVESTRONG at the end, though we did run into 2 or 3 others.

We chilled at the Festival for a couple of hours, as we heard there was an hour plus delay at the ferry, until we could catch a SAG bus to the ferry (after the time at the Festival, my injury had swollen to the point where I couldn't sit in the saddle at all). We passed the Statue of Liberty on the Ferry, got pictures taken with my Team RadioShack Madone with tourists from Japan, Canada and someplace else (all the guy would say was that he was "from another country," though he had a pretty good American accent, if you ask me).We got off the ferry and then flagged down a minivan cab faster than I'd ever hailed a cab before in Manhattan in all of my life. We picked up our traditional Zaro's Black & Whites (one for all three of us), a hot beverage for us both, and got onto the train.

We were so tired when we arrived in Stamford. We packed up the car, hit the road, and just as we were pulling into my parents' driveway to pick up my daughter, my son turns to me and says, "I don't mean to be rude, but if we have both bikes in the car, and I have to sit in the front seat, where did you think we'd put my sister?" Uh... I had completely forgotten that not only did we have to pick her up, but that she had to fit into the car, with a seat belt and all of that good stuff. After driving several miles out of the way to pick her up, I had to call my father from his driveway to ask him to follow us with her in his car to take her to our house because we had no room for her. We got back home just after 9:30, with just enough time for my son to take a shower, for me to snuggle with my daughter and slip into a coma before "Brothers & Sisters" was halfway done.

Today, as I look back at the day, I say it was a fantastic ride.

(And, for those wondering, the swelling has gone down. The pain is there, so I don't know when I'll be back in the saddle yet, but maybe this will force me to learn how to finally get out of the saddle when I ride.)

Yesterday, I raised $1,003 for LIVESTRONG. I got to share the story of how I got a Madone of my dreams thanks to RadioShack. Burned 4,687.2 calories. Had a mother & son bonding day. Saw several familiar faces as we cheered each other on, and got to tour all 5 boroughs of NYC.

I don't need a medal or certificate at the end of the day.

I know what I accomplished.

I didn't ride for selfish means. I rode for a cause.

It's all fun and games until someone loses their life.

I know that more often than not, I take a very light-hearted approach to writing on this blog. The fact is that it's a release from my personal day-to-day stress, but also, one of the ways that I find we can LIVESTRONG. I try and find humor and fun in the dreariest of situations. (It's a sick trait that I have. I'm like Chandler Bing in that regard.) It's no coincidence that one of Lance's nicknames is Juan Pelota. It's not just because it's a funny pseudonym he likes to use when he wants to pretend that he can be anonymous. It's Tex-Mex, essentially, for the nickname that Robin Williams coined with reference to Lance's survival of testicular cancer, "The Uniballer."

But, along with that sometimes light-hearted spin on cancer, is the grim reality that it's not funny. It's just not. I mean, the jokes can help relieve the tension, as I'm told my Tweeting blonde jokes helped my friend, Lindsay, as she was fighting cancer out in Yechepitzville, Canada (aka Saskatchewan). But never, never mistake that light-hearted spirit for ignoring the fact that we're doing this for a devastating disease, and, the bottom line, that it's not a laughing matter.

Therefore, I'm going to share a story about why it's so important to support causes like LIVESTRONG. Sadly, this darling was introduced to me after she had already passed away. I wish I'd had the chance to meet her before she lost her fight.

Earlier this year, many of you saw me pleading to help me raise funds for Zoe Anyan's family - to help pay for funeral costs and the handling of her remains. Then, I shared snippets of her story. Here it is in full.

ZOE ELIZABETH ANYAN

On November 3, 2003, this world was blessed with the loving presence of a beautiful girl, Zoe Elizabeth Anyan.  On February 16, 2011, she lost her ten (10) month battle with cancer. Though her time with us here on Earth was short lived, she did anything but live a short life.  Zoe was a fighter and wanted to be a survivor. She loved life everyday, Zoe loved to run, dance, bake, bowling, watch Sound Tiger hockey games, going to the movies, fish, playing with friends, drawing beautiful pictures and just enjoying what each day brought her. 

On Sunday, April 25, 2010, Zoe was diagnosed with Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma, a malignant brain stem tumor.  For the month leading up to her diagnosis, she complained about double vision, on and off.  Her mother, Melissa, affectionately known as, “Missy,” was going to take her to the eye doctor, however Zoe did not like the eye doctor, so every time the appointment was to be made, she would tell Missy that she felt better.  On April 25^th, she was running a very high fever with the double vision, her mother took her immediately to Yale New Haven Hospital.  The family arrived at  5:55 p.m. In the beginning they were told it could be many different things causing this fever and the double vision: the flu, Lyme’s disease, bladder infection, UTI, a possible fall, but never cancer.  After all of the tests had come back negative, the doctors called on an ophthalmologist, who suggested an MRI.  After performing the test, the doctor came into speak with her mother, as Missy vividly remembers, at 11:55 p.m..  The doctor took Missy into an empty room, where she sat her down to explain the brain stem tumor.  The partsof the conversation that stands out the most is that this was terminal and that no child has ever survived this type of tumor.  Despite these harsh words, Melissa and Zoe were determined to fight! So their journey together began.

The family remained at the hospital until Friday, April 30^th, during which time, little Zoe under went several tests.  While at Yale, the family contacted St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis, TN, and were told to come immediately to begin and explore trial treatments.  With her parents, Missy and Scott, by her side, Zoe traveled to Memphis on Sunday, May 2, 2010.  After meeting with the doctors at St. Jude’s, the family decided to go with a trial that began on May 11, 2010 and would finish in September 2010.  The trial consisted of six weeks (05/11/10-06/23/10) of radiation followed with chemotherapy, Capecitabine.  The family stayed in Memphis for the duration of the radiation treatment, during which time Zoe and her parents stayed at the Ronald McDonald House.

While there she met a special friend, Connor, who made her time in Memphis enjoyable and kept her focused on being a six year old girl.  One of her favorite places in Memphis soon became Graceland! She also enjoyed the zoo, horse & buggy rides, trolley rides, baseball games and many other things, too.  Even though, the tumor was trying to control her life, little Zoe refused to allow it. Though she could no longer go on roller coasters, it did not stop her from going to the amusement park.

This is exactly how she faced each day, the tumor and her treatments were her roller coaster, but the amusement park was her life.  Zoe looked at all of the other fun the amusement park “life” offered and that’s what she wanted to focus on. 

Once the family returned home on June 25, 2010, life was never going to be as it was before they left for Memphis.  The fight had just begun, with the radiation phase behind them, they needed to focus now on all of the other drugs and medical treatments.  Each day, Zoe had to take her chemotherapy, steroids, antibiotics, antacid and have continuous doctor visits.  Her primary pediatricians, Richard Edwards, CPA & Dr. Roberta Lockhart at Milford Pediatrics, became her second family.  Each week Zoe had to have her blood work drawn and continue with follow up testing.

In July, the family traveled back to St. Jude’s for a follow up MRI, at which time they were told that the tumor had showed signs of shrinkage.  However they could not yet determine for sure, what the final outcome would be, as Zoe still had some of the radiation in her system.  The family would have to wait until the next follow up MRI before they would know for sure how the tumor was reacting to the treatment.

During the next few weeks, her double vision became increasingly worse, and she began to suffer face paralysis on her left side.  Zoe began to have difficulty walking and climbing up stairs.  Regardless of these effects from the tumor, she was determined to continue on as normal as possible. With this as her outlook, she attended the YMCA camp throughout the summer months.  She was also determined to continue on with school.

School became her outlet and haven.  With the help of the fabulous staff at Live Oaks School, especially Rose Lacobelle,  Nicole Campanaro, Marie DeVitto and, of course, her friends, she thrived at school and with pride, she was able to return to school and enter as a second grader in September. 

In September, Zoe was granted her Make-a-Wish vacation at Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida.  With a smile from ear to ear, she traveled, with her family (Missy, Scott, sister Jasmine, brother Kenney, and Aunt Patty) next to her, to make one of her final wishes come true.  Zoe dreamed big, sometimes huge, so this would not be her final wish!  Immediately upon her return from Florida, she had to fly back to Memphis for follow up testing.

On September 20, 2010, Zoe, yet again, under went an MRI.  The results brought a smile to everyone’s face: The tumor had shrunk by 70%!  With this news, St. Jude’s made a decision to stop any additional treatments and sent the family home.  Unfortunately, their trial was over and now a miracle was needed.

Zoe’s parents were not about to give up on medical treatments, though. They were determined to find a cure for their little girl.  After being home for a few weeks, Zoe’s double vision and paralysis became difficult to manage.  Missy decided to take Zoe to Hartford’s Children’s Hospital to see if they had alternative options.  While there, the doctors did yet another MRI, which clearly showed tumor growth.  The family’s fears were starting to come to fruition.  With the original diagnosis, they were told to look for certain symptoms that the tumor was growing:  paralysis, headaches, difficulty speaking, difficulty breathing, difficulty swallowing, and loss of daily functions one needs to live.   Hartford Children’s Hospital was unable to assist the family in a search for a cure.  St. Jude’s finally called Missy back and scheduled her to travel back in November, however prior to travel, as per Zoe’s request, the family stayed to celebrate her 7^th birthday.

On November 3, 2010, Zoe celebrated her 7^th birthday, first at school surrounded by her loving school family and friends she enjoyed her cupcakes and special presents.  Later on that evening, she with friends and family went to Friendly’s, one of her many favorites restaurants, where she loved their chicken noodle soup!  On November 5, 2010, the City of Milford, with the assistance of Mayor Richetelli, declared the day forever Zoe Anyan Day.  The Mayor came to Live Oaks School to present her with a beautiful plaque with the declaration.

On Sunday, November 7, 2010, Zoe once again celebrated her birthday with friends and family at Milford AMF Bowling.  Prior to becoming ill, Zoe was an avid bowler, and while she continued to bowl during her illness, she was unable to have the same energy level. Now, almost completely paralyzed on her left side, making bowling increasingly difficult.  Later the same evening, her church, St. Gabriel’s, held a pasta dinner and raffle benefit in her honor.  After all of the partying was finished, it was once again time to travel back to Memphis for another MRI.

During this visit, the family was informed that the tumor was in fact growing.  They were told that the end of her life was eminent and she would be lucky to survive until Christmas. Well anyone who know Zoe, knew that there was no way she was missing Christmas! While her Christmas list was extensive, she had two items that were imperative:  a puppy dog and a house (the apartment that the family was residing in was not conducive to her needs, as she needed to walk up four flights of exterior stairs to enter in).  A generous family friend helped the family in obtaining her puppy, Penney, her new best friend, while another friend worked on finding the family a house, which eventually was found for the family on December 1, 2010.

With these two wishes granted, there was one big one Missy was determined to grant: The gift of life.  Her mother had granted this wish once before seven years ago and was adamant to do it again.  She called every doctor and every hospital that had ever explored this type of cancer.  Due to the lack of a cure for this tumor, the family called St. Jude’s repeatedly to ask for help. St. Jude’s had placed Zoe on a new chemotherapy, which unfortunately did not help, instead the tumor became more aggressive and began taking over. 

By the time Christmas came, Zoe’s difficulty walking and speaking was becoming unbearable, but that wasn’t going to stop Christmas.  Zoe was able to spend her final Christmas with family in their new house, with her new puppy and all of her new gifts.  She desperately wanted a Barbie Cadillac, which she received from the Milford Patch.com, who has followed her story from the beginning.  She also received gifts from several other donors, including the Orange Rotary Club, with the assistance of Michael Richetelli & Colonial Properties, an anonymous donor gave the family a flat screen television, and others gave time and money from various fund raisers.  Missy had previously called Boston Children’s Hospital back in November who suggested a new steroid, as the current steroid had made Zoe gain over 30 pounds, which was almost double her weight.  So after Christmas, the journey continued to Boston, where they started the new steroid, which seemed to help, especially with Zoe’s weight and excess body hair. 

January was a month of increased negative symptoms of the tumor. As the month went on she was unable to swallow and eat as she once had, her liquids had to be thickened and Zoe was afraid to eat.  She feared chocking on her food or her liquids, it was heart wrenching to watch as this little girl, who once loved chicken noodle soup, ham, pineapple, olive loaf, salami, cotton candy, cupcakes, and brownies, unable to eat or drink any of them.

Zoe had also been fighting colds and respiratory infections throughout the month.  The only positive for little Zoe was the love of her family, friends and of course school, she wanted to go everyday, even though some days it was not possible.  As a last resort another chemotherapy was tried and seemed to work for her, but, unfortunately it was too late for Zoe. Her body had already succumbed to this horrific tumor.  While the next few weeks flew by for the family, with constant travels to and from Yale and Boston, as Zoe was having difficulty breathing and swallowing, Zoe continued to smile when she could.  When she couldn’t speak any longer she would write her mom notes, of which were things like, “Walks to the hospital café,” “take me home,” “bring my puppy Penney to the hospital,” etc. 

On February 16, 2011 at 7:57 p.m. in the loving arms of her mother, our angel, Zoe Elizabeth Anyan received her angel wings.  She never gave up the fight against this tumor, but her body gave up the unbearable fight.  She never stopped living, her body simply stopped breathing. She lived everyday with a smile and perseverance.  Even with her last breaths she fought her body to say, “I love you,” one more time.  Little Zoe took an additional breath to sit up, open her eyes, and smile an “I love you” to her mother. 

While we long for a cure for this cancer, we can all learn a little about love and life from this little girl.  She battled this horrific disease with honor and dignity and never gave up.

In her honor her parents, Scott and Melissa, donated her brain and brain stem to cancer research, hoping to save another child, as Zoe would have wanted.   As she received most of her wishes, there is one that we as her family would like to carry out: That no other child has to go through this and lose their life.  

Zoe's mother will be with us on Sunday, April 10 to tell Zoe's story. Through help from the community, including from references via LIVESTRONG, we were able to bring Zoe home to her parents from the funeral home. Zoe's ashes are now in a ladybug urn with her family.

Zoe knew how to LIVE STRONG. You can see it in her face when you look at the scores of photos taken during her treatment.

Help us continue in her spirit on Sunday. Meet Missy and her family. Hug them. Show them love and strength. They need it. Hug them for Zoe.

If you don't know anyone to ride, run or walk for on Sunday, I'd like to introduce you to Zoe. Do it for her. With the same contagious smile she shared.