hard, harder, hardest

last saturday's 2-hour indoor cycling class was---in the words of a fellow classmate---brutal.
our instructor kept us in those barely-to-absolutely anaerobic heart rate zones for long stretches, and the room was heated by our 45 sweaty bodies to the point that I drank 4 entire water bottles during the workout.
when we were in the still-aerobic zone she talked about it being hard;
the first fully anaerobic zone she called harder;
the highest zone of all she called hardest.
pretty simple, easy to understand, but full of significance.

out there on the road, pedaling, we often get ourselves into the hard zone.  or even more often, the step right below hard, the uncomfortable zone.
it takes something---guts, courage, willpower, focus, determination---to get up into the harder zone.
and it takes even more to get yourself into the hardest zone.

life's amazingly similar.  we can live in uncomfortable and even hard, but harder and hardest take courage and determination:
making those phone calls you dread, performing tasks you know will challenge and discourage and possibly defeat you, getting yourself up on that ladder when you're afraid of heights, asking for something you know you might not receive.
 
and ~ ta-dah! ~ spending time in those hardest places, whether they be during exercise or during everyday life, is what makes us stronger beings.

this isn't the world's greatest insight---I'm pretty sure you already knew this---but we often forget to acknowledge our visits to difficult places, the dedication it takes, and the payoff in our own growth.

this morning's workout had us spend 15 minutes in harder.

and it was easier because, two days earlier, I'd  already spent a chunk of time in hardest.

one little leaf

I rode this morning with a beautiful tailwind pushing me up the canyon.  the skies were unsettled and gray, letting sunshine through in moments of whim, and the temperature in shaded places was moistly cold, in the forties, sending the occasional shiver across my skin.  piles of leaves sat against the grasses that lined the road edges, brown and crisp, hovering together in packs created by earlier winds.  random leaves blew across the road before me and at times I could see tall grasses beside the road bend forward with the wind from behind.
I approached a large pile of leaves where, a few inches above the rest, a leaf was tossed and fluttered by the wind, wanting to be swept away, but tangled, somehow, and unable to leave its pile.  as I drew closer I could see that it was still attached to a tiny branch that had landed in the pile of leaves, and as I passed I could hear its frantic beating against the other leaves on its twig and against the twig itself.
the wind tried to take that leaf, but the leaf was caught, stuck, unable to blow free.

lately I've been thinking a great deal about change.  the book I'm writing is ostensibly about wolves, but in truth, it's more about humans and how we deal with change.  we, as a species, seem challenged by the changes that surround us and worm their way into our lives.  few of us welcome change, and even when we do welcome in a change we often find ways to sabotage or despair of it within a short amount of time.  many of us find a comfortable spot and want to stay there, whether it be in our opinions, our physical routines, or the way we move through the world.

today I was riding up toward big mountain.  I didn't know if the road would be clear all the way to the top, but I suspected most of the asphalt would be visible due to the warmish, dry weather we've had for the past two weeks.  I wasn't physically eager to ride all the way to the top, but was pulled by my emotions, wanting to ride up big mountain on december first, possibly the last time for the year as we're expecting a storm in two days.  as I neared the beginning of the climb, I thought about riding only until I encountered snow all the way across the road.  because of the switchbacks and the trees that shade portions of the road, there are usually snowy spots that cover stretches of road, which if one walks one's bike across, are only mild barriers on a mostly dry road.  I have always been one to walk my bike over snow if there's visible dry pavement on the other side.
today, though, I considered stopping and turning around the first time I encountered a snow-covered road.  some fellow cyclists have a rule that they never walk across snow to continue up a canyon:  it's their method of respecting the season.  today, I thought of this and decided it might be time for me to adopt their rule.

fingers of snow stuck into and across the road half a dozen times before I came to the spot, a kilometer from the top, where snow covered the road for a good twelve or fifteen feet, after which bare asphalt was visible again.  I paused, and unclipped.  I stood there contemplating a change in how I approach snowy roads.  I decided that I might just adopt a new rule, a rule that respects the changing season.  I pulled on my wind jacket and changed into my lobster gloves, and turned around to ride back home.

some changes are easier than others.  the behavior I exhibited today speaks of a medium-size change, from crossing all barriers to reach a goal to revising a goal in flowing with what's presented to me.  it's something I've considered for some time---it's not a one time event.  I've pushed through obstacles and impediments for as long as I can remember, believing that honoring one's goal is important, and that if at all possible, it's good to push through those roadblocks that confront us.
today's acceptance of a snow-block--a physical representation of the word no--is new for me.
and I like it.
I like to think that I'm letting the natural world guide my behavior.  I'm ready for this change.

but many of us, in many situations, are like the leaf on that little twig.  we feel the change offering itself to us, we might even want to break free and follow it, but we're stuck, glued to whatever it is that holds us in place.  habit, complacency, fear, whatever it might be, we are unable to move along in a new direction.  a new direction in thought, in belief, in action: these are sometimes demanded of us by life, and the sooner we hop on board the better off we are.
to never change is to be static, to be unvarying, to be stalled.  and just as wolves are returning to our landscape here in the west after an absence of almost a century, newness beckons at us every day.  it is our task to listen and learn, to become more aware, and to adjust how we behave in the world.

like all of us, that leaf on that little twig will eventually become again a part of the earth.  but what if, before it did so, it was allowed to follow the wind and have a final, thrilling, unpredictable wild ride?

999

I have a friend who once spoke about working toward a goal and being so, so close, but still having to work through that final push to achievement . . . she described it as going 999 miles, and still having one mile left, the mile that feels unending, the mile where you consider chucking it all because you think you'll never really get there.

I bring this up today because this is my 999th post since beginning this blog back in 2008.  I've certainly come some distance during that time,  distance traveled in not only miles and years but in growth and awareness.

as I sit on the figurative eve of my 1000th post, I get to contemplate all those things.  I have come a long way, and it did take over 5 years to get here . . . luckily, I don't think the last mile will be my hardest.  but being here does offer time for reflection, which is something we all might benefit from doing more of.
often it feels like we're not moving in life, like we are in ruts or still so far from reaching our dreams that they seem impossible.  but I---as others---suggest that you reflect on where you were 5 years ago, what you were doing, what you focused on, and compare that with now.  have you learned?  grown?  changed in some positive way?  added variety or new challenges to your life?

we aren't meant to be static creatures.  we have amazing abilities to become stronger, wiser, kinder, better.  (and faster on a bike, too.)  all it takes is a little determination, some self-awareness, and a bit of tenacity.

so if you're in the midst of something, or even at the 999th mile toward something, be persistent.  don't give up.  keep on moving forward, and never ever ever release your dreams.  look back and see where you began, and give yourself credit for moving along, for all the progress you've made.  because you have.

we're all on the 999th mile toward something, and probably on the 500th mile toward something else.  we're often on the 31st mile, too.  so enjoy your journeys, and be grateful that you're able to take them.
use your mind, your body, your strengths and abilities, and keep striving toward those dreams and goals.
because someday you---and me, too---will be traveling along on that last mile and suddenly find ourselves hitting the 1000 mark.
which is when you start out on another first mile.
and then another.
and then, another.

when the bike lane needs a snowplow

when the bike lane needs a snowplow, it might be a good idea to stay home.
not ride.
not look outside and be swayed by the gorgeous blue sky.
not think about how you might enjoy a little exercise.
not look at the thermometer which hovers around 45.
not bundle up in long tights and three layers on top.
not put on a skull cap and your favorite new headband that has a happy jack skellington on it.
not pull on long-fingered gloves and stuff your lobster gloves in your back pocket.
not hope that your smartwool socks and toe covers will keep your feet warm.
not think that the canyon will be beautiful, all fresh and white, and that you want to see it.

when the bike lane needs a snowplow, and the rest of the road is still decorated with strips of mush and slushy runoff, frosted tire tracks and magic black ice wherever the hillside or trees shade the road with their mass, it might be a good idea to stay home.

but then you'd miss the sparkling white snow so thick and rich, the icy edges of what's begun to melt, the frosted shafts of golden grasses in the meadow.  the southern hillsides, dark and snowpacked, and the northern hillsides smiling back at them with their glistening melt.  the mirror-calm reservoir, reflecting blue sky and hillside white and brown, trees and shrub surrounded by white everywhere the eye can see.

you'd miss the thrill of riding so close to ice and snow that the cold leaps upon you, that your heart jumps throatward, that you have to lighten your grip on the handlebars and let the bike guide you safely through the edges of slush that sneak toward your tires in unexpected moments.

you'd be warm, you'd be safe, you'd never know about the wild ride being offered you just miles away.

you'd not be able to return sweaty and chilled, your feet degrees away from frozen, your fingers pink and red with cold, your lungs cleaned out and celebrating the experience.  you might not appreciate  your warm couch and blanket and book quite as much.

when the bike lane needs a snowplow, it might be a good idea to stay home.

or not.

adventure

my biking buddies define adventure in this way:    misery remembered in comfort.

and of course the most epic (meaning difficult, disastrous, wicked cold, wet, scary) rides are those that make the best stories, and the best memories, and become--in our minds--the very best adventures.
biking buddy bob, this weekend, declared our ride to be one step below an adventure.
I carefully placed it in the adventure category, hoping not to slip and fall as I did so.

salt lake city was gifted with a beautiful snowstorm earlier in the week, one that left inches on the valley floors and turned everything magically white for a day and a half.  then it melted, the creeks rose by inches, and the ground soaked moisture in with great gulps of relief.  by wednesday morning most of the snow was gone in our neighborhoods, and by friday, riding up emigration, there were just a few lingering chunks pushed outside the bike lane by snow plows, and shady stretches here and there that clung to icy snow perhaps half an inch thick.  back to fall, the temperatures hovered in the upper 50s and crept into the low 60s by saturday.

bob and I met at 11:30 saturday, and spent a few dozen words deciding where to ride, selecting millcreek canyon for its beauty, the fact that the upper half was gated the prior weekend and we would be riding without cars beside us, and the fact that neither of us had ridden there in a long time.
I think it will be colder than I want it to be, I said, to which bob replied, I know it will be colder than I want it to be.  we turned our bikes toward the canyon and pedaled away.
the lower half of the canyon allowed us sections of shade--brr--and sections lit by sun, but the effort needed to keep pedaling up up up kept us warm.  the gate, halfway up, was pulled shut and locked, and we skirted it over a bed of rocky leaves, following the path created by many before us.  trees hang heavily over that stretch of road, and we weren't 100 feet into it before snow and icy patches danced over the pavement.
ahh, this might not be so good for me, I thought.  I'm still cautious on my descents, and the thought of slipping and falling is so repellent it makes me quake.  but dry asphalt was available if you wiggled this way and that, and then suddenly there was a stretch completely free of snow, ice, and ambiguous surface.
so we kept riding.
we'd move from this side to that, searching for safe surface, and we kept finding it . . . until we didn't, where the road was covered with frozen slushy material that had been ridden over, tire tracks visible.  bob, in the lead, un-clipped and made his way through that ten-foot width, and I followed.
then we had road again, and then not.  after traversing the second time, we looked up the road and made our assessment:  we would ride to the top of the next rise, where the sun was shining, and see what it looked like from that vantage point.
the answer was, not very rideable.
so we ate our snacks while standing in the sun and adding our layers for the downhill.

the descent scared the whatever out of me:  between shaking with cold and experiencing terror over every patch of black that could be ice--let alone the true ice--I had an adventure riding down the canyon.

and this morning, sitting in comfort, sipping coffee, I can recall the terror and call it, simply,
an adventure.

cycling in new york

with a bike shop located a few blocks from our hotel, couriers flying by, regular commuters weaving between taxis and pedestrians, and bright blue Citi Bike rentals regularly floating past, I felt completely at home in new york this past weekend, although I don't know that I'd ever have the fearlessness necessary to ride my bike in that gargantuan, overpopulated city.

I love new york:  the sights, the scents, the masses of people who neither know nor care who I am, the shops, the cobblestone streets, the sirens and honks and flashing lights . . . and the people, the people of every shape and size, skin color and disposition.

and I was truly okay with not riding my bike.

I was with my daughter, and we walked and walked and walked, which is what one should do if one has a chance.  with so much to absorb, even walking is almost too fast.  signs, pedestrians, motorists, cyclists, buildings, dogs, store windows, street-side tables . . . in a car---even creeping along in traffic--- one misses too much of the experience.

but I loved the citi bike rentals.  

the city's program allows for anyone to rent these in 24-hour or 7-day increments, and for residents to rent these on an annual basis:  for $95 a year (plus taxes, of course), one is provided a key that allows access to bikes for up to 45 minutes at a time, any hour of the day or day of the year.  if the citi-bike locations happen to fit one's commuting pattern---and one were brave enough to deal with the weather and the traffic---one could have a pretty great way to get around, complete with basket on the front.  we even noticed many wide, green-surfaced bike lanes, all part of manhattan's efforts to provide an additional transportation method for getting around town, one that both encourages healthy activity and is carbon-footprint friendly.

had my daughter not had a sprained ankle and been wearing a walking boot, we would have hopped on bikes just to check it out.  however, it's awfully difficult to ride a bike with a big, fat boot on one foot.

so I'm not able to say that I biked in new york.

I may never be able to say that I biked in new york.

but I certainly enjoyed watching everyone else do it, their agility and adeptness in avoiding motor vehicles, and the strength and skill and smiles I got to see.

we have a bike-sharing program here in slc, as well, and I haven't tried it out either . . . maybe someday.  I'm supportive of any program that encourages people to pedal around on a bicycle, because I have this quirky belief that those who pedal smile more in life.

you're welcome to try to prove me wrong.

it's good to have a goal

it's good to have goals.
some people give you all kinds of rules for your goals, such as that they be measurable, written down, specific, attainable, and that you can explain why the goal motivates you.
I find that when a goal is important enough to me, it's enough for me to hold it in my head (and heart) and quietly work toward it in the best way I know how.
I often set goals for riding miles each week, or to make it up a specific canyon so many times during the summer, or similar events.  and today, I reached a goal that I've had since oh, about august 27th.

after my accident last august, I was off my bike for 6 weeks.  many things change in 6 weeks, including  fitness level, ability, muscle strength, and endurance.  when I began biking again I constantly had to remind myself to be patient.  constantly.  
I wasn't very fast, and it didn't feel great.  in fact, it was hard and it hurt. (the muscles around my ribs and scapula lost most of their strength and have become the first place to ache as I ride.)   but I wanted to get back to what I knew I was capable of, I didn't want to let that crash take away everything I'd worked so hard for.
so I kept riding, trying to accept whatever I was able to do on each ride.  I obeyed my physical therapist and (mostly) rode only every other day.  I tried to add a few hikes on my off days.  I got a little faster, and I reached a point where I could ride for two hours without exhausting myself.

back before I could really get out and ride again I knew that--more than anything--I wanted to be able to ride up Big Mountain before the fall riding season ended.
none of my rides told me that I was ready for that.
the furthest I went was to the beginning of the switchbacks, which is about 2.25 miles from the top.
then last weekend I rode my mountain bike 4 days in a row, and did a strenuous hike as well . . . and I felt okay.

and today, today, I rode up big mountain.  without stopping.   woo hoo!
on august 25th I had two large-bore chest tubes removed, on august 26th I was discharged from the hospital, and today, october 27th, I rode from home to the top of big mountain and back.
I met my goal.

there've been many days I thought it wouldn't happen, or that it would take me forever and I'd have to keep stopping along the way.  I was never certain I'd make it, but I knew I would give my all to make it happen.

it's good to have goals.
it's awesome to accomplish your goals.
and it's especially good to keep a little woo hoo in your heart as you reflect upon what you've worked so hard to achieve.  so do.