the state of not knowing

first, a few facts for the day:

* the first few miles of the climb up Big Mountain have become even more colorful than they were saturday morning; we are decidedly in autumn.

* asphalt is a very nice surface for riding a bike on.

* the sweetest tailwind ever helped me to a new Personal Best climbing emigration: 38 minutes. woo hoo!!!

* I still don't know what those silent, seemingly unfriendly cyclists out there are thinking.

* I have no idea what the next five or six months are going to be like for my cycling self.

which segues me nicely into the topic: I am in a grand state of uncertainty. I don't know how I'll keep in shape this winter, I don't know what I'll do with all those free hours each weekend. I don't know how much cycling fitness I'll lose, and I don't want to know how hard it's going to be to earn it back.

this all started in my mind as I was climbing back up Little Mountain on my ride this afternoon. my thought was, this isn't as hard as it used to be. I won't say it's easy, but it's become doable. as most of my rides have become. I still work hard, still send that heart rate up there, but it is slowly becoming easier.

as I crested the summit and started the descent toward the city, my mind moved to the thought of losing some of this strength and capability over the winter. ugh. it's inevitable, as there's just no way I'm willing to sit on a trainer or a spin bike for six hours on a December saturday. not going to happen.

so what will I be doing this winter? I don't know. it is currently the unknowable. which puts me in the state of not knowing. [remember, this is as oxygen is slowing seeping back into my bloodstream, as the wind is rushing against my face and I am finally descending after lots of ascending.]

and the state of not knowing is where I've been residing for quite some time. it's said that the only certainties are death and taxes, but most of us spend a lot of life hovering in a pretty stable place. we have careers, we have homes, we have marriages, we have stability. and then things happen and we lose one, two, or more of these. and then some of us move to that new state, not knowing.

as I said, I have been here for quite a while. and there's more to come. and the good thing is that I'm getting used to it.
a close friend of mine taught me this phrase a few years back: "I can't know." I like this, and I use it when appropriate.
so I can't know what this fall and winter will bring me, and I can't know what state I'll be in next spring. what I do know, however, is that this state of not knowing has a certain excitement to it, as well. what's coming around the bend can be something fabulous, which is probably more likely than the opposite.
which reminds me of yesterday's ride, a completely new trail for me. at each moment I chose to continue forward, regardless of my state of not knowing. I didn't know what each bend would bring me, I had no idea what was coming next. and I rode on, experiencing pleasant surprises, sudden scares, little thrills, big thrills, terror . . .
the state of not knowing.
this is not such a bad place to be.

let go and let bike

today I had my first real mountain bike experience in over 3 years.
my intensive training period over, I now have freedom to try new experiences without feeling tied down to a certain number of miles to ride each week. the other day bill asked if I wanted to go for a mountain bike ride sunday, and I thought, why not?
here are some good reasons why not:

* I'm still in recovery and tired (I plan to use this for a long time).
* I haven't ridden my mountain bike (except to the gas station once) in years.
* I've never been on a good long trail ride. my longest ride was in moab ~ not quite the same thing.
* in general, bill's idea of "easy" and my idea of "easy" differ by a factor of about 50 percent.

the challenges started when I loaded my bike in my car: it is HEAVY. then I drove to bill's house, where he changed my slicks out for my regular knobby tires. as he was doing so I was inspecting my bike, noticing all the dirt and grime on it, and the fact that there were no little brake pads to squeeze against the tires. hmmm. then I looked at bill's bike, and sure enough, he had brake pads. I looked again at my bike, and at the empty place where on bill's bike, the brake assembly attached to the fork. hmmm. fortunately, at this point bill said, "wow, you even have disc brakes," which saved me a tiny bit of embarrassment, as I had just been prepared to tell him I wouldn't be able to use my bike because one of my daughters must have broken off the brake assembly. his comment, however, helped me understand why my bike had these shiny round flat silver things in the middle of the wheels.
are you starting to understand how much I know about mountain biking?
bikes loaded, we drove up to Silver Lake lodge at Deer Valley, then hit the trail. hmmm.
bill graciously offered some advice: always look to where you want your wheel to go; and just relax and let your bike do what it's meant to do. let go, and let bike. ah. I figured I needed to let my bike and God in on this one: let go, and let God and the bike get me through it.
I'm not so good at letting go.
which is good, because that phrase is not to be taken literally. I held on for dear life this afternoon, and I'm sure my arms and shoulders will be telling me all about it tomorrow.
I came to a few decisions while I was holding on and letting go and praying to God this afternoon.
first, I'm about 20 years too old to be doing this.
second, I'm too female to be doing this.
third, I am, at heart, a roadie.
I tried.
and I may, someday, try again.
but how many times have I written about new, smooth, fresh asphalt and how much I love it? there's a reason for that.
have I ever written about how much I love bouncing over rocks and gravel, having tree roots catch the underside of my pedals, and being scratched on the arms and legs by beautiful, errant branches?
no.
I have not.
there were moments of pure beauty and joy on this afternoon's ride; I cannot deny this. we paused once in a sea of aspen, so dense and strong and tall it took my breath away. we sat on a bench high on an open ridge of the trail, looking out over too many valleys to count, gazing down on park city, deer valley, snyderville, jeremy ranch, silver summit, and more, in a single view. I brushed against wildflowers, I inhaled loamy earth. I was part of the trail, winding in and out of the mountainside, moving from sun to shadow and back. you aren't part of a trail on a road bike: this experience is not transferable.
I've re-hydrated, I've downed my ibuprofen, and now, I've recounted part of my trip here.
there is a possibility that I will do something like this again.

about cycling again

the ocean of pines that I look down upon from the big mountain summit is now decorated with splotches of orange and gold, but you have to look far down to see them, as the higher hillsides are carpeted in pines, row after row after row of dense green pines.

it was peaceful there this morning: during my time out I think I saw more runners and even more hunters than I did cyclists. from little dell reservoir to the top I only saw three cyclists coming down, few cars going either direction, and not a single cyclist going my direction. it was cold, clear, beautiful.
and it only took me 14 miles and about an hour's worth of riding to decide that I really did want to be on the ride I'd chosen.
since last saturday's big ride I have done fairly easy rides, none longer than 22 miles. a large part of me is just thinking "whew, I did it, now I can relax and stop working so hard." then there is that other darn part of me that chides, "use it or lose it!" I've worked so hard to get to this point . . . do I really want to completely back off?
yes.

and no.

this morning my daughter had a 10 am soccer game, so I carefully planned a ride that would let me sleep in a tad, have a short time on the couch with a cup of coffee, and yet give me a decent workout. so I rode from my house up emigration to the top of big mountain, then back down and over to the soccer field, and I would have been completely on time except that I had to drag myself out the door to begin the ride, as my feet seemed to be entangled in the carpet fibers, and my mind wasn't too eager to direct them to freedom.
an internal dialogue that had started as I was dressing continued throughout the ride, and it was heavily weighted with complaints and doubts until I reached a point 3 1/2 miles from the top of big mountain. which is when I finally heard myself being glad to be where I was, and being almost excited to be climbing to the top.
of course half a mile later I was moaning and groaning again.
last winter my sister-in-law asked me if I experienced something like a runner's high when I was biking. I had to really think about it. I said well, probably when I'm going downhill really fast . . .
so much of my training has been climbing, and I really don't feel much of an endorphin high when I'm climbing a really steep hill. I mostly feel a shortness of breath, some pain, and a desire to just stop. but I do feel that "high" at times, and I must have gotten a big dose at that 3 1/2 mile point this morning.
I know that despite my internal (and sometimes external) grumbling, I love to ride my bike. it's not always easy, and it's not always fun, but it is always gratifying.

big mountain takes my breath away. literally, of course, on the way up. and figuratively, as I pause there at the top, taking it all in: the vastness of the view, the mountains lined up, range after range stretching into the distance, the deep green pines, the deciduous trees in their myriad fall colors.

this morning there were three hunters parked off the side of the road on a switchback near the top. they were using scopes to scrutinize the hillside to the southeast, and these men were silent and focused. and I felt a strange sense of connection with these men. we were involved in completely different tasks, yet were probably having a similar experience of peacefulness, calm, and silent awareness.
it was a quiet and beautiful world this morning at nine am on the top of big mountain.

not about cycling II

last evening I got to get dressed up and go to La Caille.
I, like most people, tend to go there for significant occasions only. and last night's occasion was momentous in that it was a fundraiser/celebration of an amazing organization, but also in that it changed something inside me.
the Work Activity Center is an organization that provides training, care, and employment opportunities for adults with disabilities. the company my business partner connie and I own, alchemy IV, has worked with the WAC (as we affectionately call it) since our inception 7 years ago. we take and have delivered the components of our sets to them, and they put our sets together for us.
employees have come and gone, supervisors have changed again and again, but the "clients" are a much more stable group. connie and I have gotten to know many of them quite well. and each time we visit the WAC, we leave there a little more grounded. life becomes much simpler after we spend time around this group of people.
last night we celebrated the 50th anniversary of the WAC's inaugural year. fifty years of providing care, training, work, and other recreational experiences for adults who did not used to have such opportunities.
our company is small, and the checks we write to the WAC each month can't possibly even put a dent into their operating expenses, once they have paid the clients for their work on our sets. but those clients greet connie and I each time we visit, with smiles and stories and handshakes and hugs, and make us feel like we are a gift to them.
when it is the opposite which is true.
last night debbie (deaf, with some form of cerebral palsy that causes her gait to be awkward and her arms to move stiffly) and mike (deaf, in a wheelchair) danced for us, and their grins were barely contained on their faces. and I barely kept the tears contained within my eyes.
they weren't tears of sadness or of loss or pity, but of joy.
I will never know what it's like to live inside such a body, or to process the world with such a brain. but I do know about joy, about accomplishment, about feeling capable and competent. and these are things each person at the WAC is able to experience.
and these are the things that bring each of us contentment and a sense of harmony with the universe.
something within me changed last night. it was a deepening of my sense of connection to every other human. it didn't happen because being around this group of people was new for me, as it's not. I think it happened because last night's collection of people was small, and populated by people who truly cared. I felt compassion, empathy, commitment, strength, and love throughout the room, all circulating and empowering each one of us.
La Caille is a beautiful setting for any event, but the most beautiful image impressed upon my mind last night remains the vision of debbie's smiling face as she watched, felt, and somehow heard our applause.

clarity

monday I wrote that no one does lotoja alone.
wednesday I wrote that one can only do lotoja oneself.

a beautiful paradox, isn't it?

ghost morning

it is dark, the kind of dark that swallows you whole and negates your presence. it is quiet, the silence sitting on me like a blanket, nature's pre-dawn chatter muffled by the season, my headband and my helmet.
my headlight casts its small circle of light onto the path in front of me, and I forge ahead, the cool wind making my cheeks tingle. I am at the base of emigration, and I have just passed another cyclist who offered a warm 'good morning.'
his headlight is powerful, a full 180 degree sweep of light that illuminates me as I pull in front of him. my insignificant little light pales in comparison to his, and I once again think about replacing my batteries. then I remember that I did this two weeks ago.
I push harder to justify my passing him, and soon I am outside the main arc of his light, living instead in the periphery. I can even see my own shadow now, sometimes, up in front of me now that I have pulled far enough away from him. and here I stay, pedaling up the canyon that I have been aching to visit for days.
emigration has become like home for me. as my son's football team has a home field, this has become my home route. it is familiar and comforting. even in the dark.
which I am not quite in, as my fellow cyclist's light is still brightening particles of space around me. two cyclists have already come down the hill, their lights the only part of them I see until they draw parallel with me for that brief moment and I see their form, the wheels, a flash of covered leg and jacketed arm.
and then I see a cyclist in the middle of the road, with no light at all, no flashing red in the rear or bright white up front. I think the cyclist is moving forward, uphill, but why is he in the middle of the road, so terribly dangerous a spot to be? are my eyes playing a trick on me? no, there is a definite shape, I know, and a shiver runs through my body.
then he is gone.
and less than a minute later I see another shape, this time on the far right side of the bike lane ~ a much safer place to be ~ and this one looks like a runner. again, no lights, and I first think it's another insane person before I question my own sanity as I search harder to define the body and it slips away from me.
ghosts are with me this morning, and I am a teeny bit spooked.
could it possibly be my own shadow again, a ghosted version of me in another space and time?
I shiver again as the other cyclist's light fades further and further behind me until I am alone again, possibly, with my own small circle of light.

higher up the hill I see a round, tumbly, black shape ever so slightly moving off by the right shoulder of the road. a ghost? another unknown form? darkness has lifted a bit by now, and as I pull even with it I see a lighter color on the tips of it's outline, and I laugh to myself as I pass the slowly rooting porcupine, which is thankfully alive.

it is still pre-sunrise when I reach the summit, and I can't even read the numbers on my cyclometer to compare my time to that of other rides.
which is just fine.
I pause for a few seconds to look down at little dell, which is a ghost lake, silver and rippling gently, its iridescence floating up to me.
I turn and head down from the peak, and the thursday morning riders are approaching the top as I do so. there is first a pair of headlights in the bike lane, then a solitary one a bit behind that, then another, and another, and I count the column of riders as I spin my bike down the road. there are eight, eight headlights with barely formed bodies behind them, and these are the only other cyclists I see this morning on my ghost ride.

rainy day story

this morning's ride was rained out.
which hasn't happened in so long that I didn't know what to do: go back to sleep, go to the gym to work out, make coffee and read a book . . . the latter won, today.
but I am not giving up: I sit here in my biking clothes for the second time today, waiting for the sky to clear so that I can go ride. I've showered, made lunches, took my girls to school, got my son to the doctor for cast-removal, brought him home so he could finally have a thorough shower, took him to school, accomplished some work, and here I am, typing this as I wonder whether or not I'll be able to ride today.
I may be wondering for a while.

since it's a rainy day, though, it's perfect for a story, and I believe I have a good one.
a friend told me about his experience at an AA meeting last night, and gave me permission to share this, so settle in and I will try to keep it brief.
a young woman was receiving a 60-day sobriety chip, and told a story about something that happened over the weekend. her husband was riding his bike in an all-day race, and she was providing his support, meeting him at the rest stops. (my friend is listening to this, knowing that it was lotoja, and that he was there, too.) he started off well, but as the day went by he slowed, and at each rest stop he seemed to be further behind than before. she was worried about him, but kept cheering him on, helping him refuel and get back out there for the next leg of the ride. he kept riding, but by the time he got close to jackson it was very dark, and she was driving her car behind him with her flashers on, providing light for him and protecting him from motorists who might not see him.
he finished the ride.
and when the two of them talked about it afterward, she told him how much she wanted to do something for him, to help him, to make it easier for him to finish this long and painful ride.
he looked at her (okay, that's me giving you a little drama) and told her that this is exactly how he feels about her sobriety: it is difficult, it is a struggle, and it goes on forever, and no one can do it but her. as much as he wants to help, he knows he cannot do it for her. it's her ride, and no one can pedal those wheels around except her.

last saturday morning a cyclist behind me said "biking is a metaphor for life." perhaps any activity could be linked with life in similarly metaphorical ways, but I am constantly amazed at how many metaphors and analogies leap to mind when I compare biking and examples of human life.

lotoja does many things for many people: obviously we who compete in or ride this race have a purpose of some kind in doing so. but we also each have our own stories, and create new stories, connections, and significant discoveries during this event. the story of this young woman and her husband is now a part of my lotoja experience, and I hope it is one that stays alive for them, strengthening and connecting them as they ride down life's road together.