Cycling and art

I view cycling as an extension of my creativity, a kind of art in motion. The whir of hubs, crunch of tires on dirt and rhythm of pedal strokes are music; the trickles of sweat and labored breaths are poetry, the flow of my legs and sway of my upper body a dance. I draw invisible patterns on the world with my movements — broad paint strokes on the strenuous climbs, staccato marks on technical trails and swooping pencil lines for ethereal descents. Every ride is a different kind of work, seen and known only by me, but I find this creative outlet immensely satisfying all the same. I return home and write paragraphs and process photos, but these are only reflections of the beautiful creation that I left outside.

It doesn't surprise me that a lot of creative types find their way to cycling, or maybe it's the other way around. I recently received an e-mail from A. Jeffrey Tomassetti, a 2011 Tour Divide finisher who lives in Florida, offering to send me one of his Tour Divide-inspired original paintings, free of charge. He simply wanted to create something for his Tour Divide "compatriots." Even though Jeff and I have never met, he believed as a fellow finisher, I could understand and appreciate the depth of his work.

This is the painting Jeffrey sent to me, titled "Red Rock Pass." The painting is acrylic and texture layers with a Nanoraptor tire tread "lift" to reveal the darker layer underneath. Here's what Jeffrey wrote about it in his artist statement:

"During the 2011 Tour Divide Race from Banff, Alberta, to Antelope Wells, New Mexico, I studied bike tracks on the trail for hours and was consumed by their beauty. Often the trail was wet, impassable mud, which grabbed hard onto the bike until the wheels would no longer turn."

And then he quoted from my book, "Be Brave, Be Strong:" "Just a few short minutes of downpour had rendered the once-solid road into a chunky sludge the color and consistency of peanut butter. I could only pedal a few strokes into the goop before my rear wheel seized up like the mouth of a greedy kid who had taken too large a bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

I love that Jeffrey created this peanut-butter-colored painting with a Nanoraptor bike tread slogging down the center. His attention to details add to this painting's meaning, from the clear gloss coat that glistens like water from a recent rainstorm, and the cracks in the paint revealing once-dry and smooth dirt. I can relate to this particular Tour Divide scene a thousand times over; it remains the image that's burned deep into my memory.

Then he named it "Red Rock Pass." This is a picture a local photographer snapped of me on the backside of Red Rock Pass, near Island Park, Idaho, during the 2009 Tour Divide. The Centennial Valley of Montana was my first full and harrowing encounter with the horrors of wheel-sucking, bike-stopping mud, followed by an intense lightning storm. The photographer actually took this photo after I hosed off my bike and myself at an RV park on Red Rock Road. "The Mud" would become a near-daily battle through Wyoming, parts of Colorado and all of New Mexico. When people ask me what the hardest part of the Tour Divide was, I always say "The Mud." The Mud of Tour Divide is a worthy adversary more terrorizing than distance, elevation, and even solitude. And the Nanoraptor tire track signals, to me at least, the ultimate conquering of The Mud.

Thanks for this great painting, Jeff. As you can see, I hung it in the middle of my living room next to all of my bikes. It seems a fitting home for "Red Rock Pass."

Crisis of confidence

I enjoyed my weekend despite the fact I wasn't perched on my bike in Washington state, ripping through a cloud of Capitol Forest dust. We took a trip to the city, met up with friends, went for a couple of runs, ate good food. I spent most of Friday glued to updates about the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc, which, in case you haven't heard of that race, is generally considered the most competitive ultrarunning race in the world. I was embarrassingly unproductive for most of the day, then stayed awake much too late on Friday night hitting refresh on my Twitter feed. I did feel the 4.6 earthquake that struck south of San Jose at 12:15 Saturday morning, and was still awake at 1:30 a.m. PDT, about the time Geoff and Scott Jurek dropped out of the race. I admit I went to bed feeling bummed. I was really pulling for Geoff — for obvious reasons — as well as all of the other "local" (American) runners in France.

Since Friday there has been a lot of chatter about why so many Americans didn't finish UTMB. Of course I don't know any of the racers' individual reasons, but to me the answer seems obvious. It's an extremely hard mountain race and many of the Americans who made the effort to travel to Europe intended to compete with the top runners. Anyone racing to win has to stick with or nearby the leaders, and racing near the front always comes with enormous risks, even more so when the race is on unknown terrain. It doesn't surprise me that so many U.S. runners flared out in the process. The after-race chatter has bothered me. I'm not usually one to subscribe to nationalism but I admit even I bristled a bit about the  jabs against "lazy Americans."

Since I started to follow ultrarunning more closely, I've been surprised by the strong anti-DNF sentiment that is so prevalent in this sport. Of course finishing a race is always preferable to not finishing, but the "finish at all costs" sentiment doesn't seem nearly as strong in ultra-cycling. Indeed, a fair amount of respect is doled out to bikers who crash and burn during races because "they left it all on the trail." Finishing with gas left in the tank is seen as a negative in competition. And finishing the race with completely wrecked knees just to say you finished is viewed as actually kind of dumb. (Believe me, I know. This was some of the feedback I received after the 2007 Susitna 100, in which I ignored blatant knee pain in a drive to finish that race, and couldn't ride a bicycle again for three months afterward.) But in ultrarunning, DNFs seem to be strong marks of shame. My ever-kind friends are always quick to point out that I "timed out" of the TRT100, which as far as I can tell is preferable to a "quitting" DNF (but in my mind just emphasizes the fact that I'm ultra-slow.) Other friends have described vast horrors in their drive to finish ultras. One has a particularly cringe-inducing story about her Su100 finish, involving a few moments of literal crawling. I certainly have gone through some challenging times in my efforts to finish ultra races, but I don't think there's shame in quitting if you are truly spent. And only the individual can make this judgement call. Agonizing later about a DNF is only human; I still second-guess a lot of decisions I made in the TRT100. But the acronym to "Did Nothing Fatal" still applies.

It's likely that much of the sensitivity I feel about criticisms surrounding American DNFs is attached to my own current insecurities. On Saturday, my friends and I went for a mellow 11-mile run in the Marin Headlands on the Dipsea Trail. Because of my injured arm, I have been running extremely carefully all week long, especially during descents, where I scrutinize every short, deliberate step. But on Saturday, near the steepest part of the descent, I was distracted by a large group of hikers and hooked my left foot on a root. Suddenly, in extreme slow motion, I felt myself going down, and my injured elbow was headed directly for the hard, painful-looking gravel far below. I had an intense surge of adrenaline and somehow threw my right leg out just in time, landing hard and twisting my knee in the process. But it must have been an impressive save, because one of the hikers said "Nice." I felt shattered. My sense of ability drained from tentative to nothing. I hiked down to catch up with my friends and declared that I would never run again, because I "sucked," and from now on would stick to hiking forever and ever.

I know I sounded like a whining child, but the truth is I haven't experienced a crisis of confidence like this since 2007, when chondromalacia patella (decreased knee mobility) dogged me for the better part of three months. It started with the TRT100 DNF, continued through the slump I was experiencing before the crash, onto the crash, and the longer-than-expected recovery. And recovery is going well. There really isn't any complication in my injury that would prevent me from continuing to run, except for I really shouldn't rub any more gravel into my wound if I can avoid it. The problem is, I'm not sure I can avoid it. My crisis of confidence has extended to the point where I question whether I even have control over my movements, or if I'm doomed to perpetual clumsiness, mistakes, and pain.

In some ways, I place too much faith in my irrational insecurities, but I also view them as my own personal challenge — forget that I wasn't "Born to Run," forget my clumsy legs and awkward arm flailing and over-sensitive feet, I'm going to run anyway. Indeed, I went back out today with Beat. We charged hard through the heat up Black Mountain, until my elbow was soaked in so much salty sweat that it burned with distracting intensity. But I continued running anyway. At the top, I turned around and ran down. I was very careful. I did move more slowly than usual. I did think about how amazingly hard it must be to finish a race like UTMB. But I didn't fall. I did finish my run with a smile on my face. Running up and down Black Mountain felt good, except for the burning wound part.

I'll get through this crisis of confidence, I will.

A time to run

Beat complained that I haven't updated my blog all week. One might think it's because I'm lacking bike inspiration, and that's part of it. But another is that I've recently launched into a new writing project that I actually feel both optimistic and excited about — the first of my many starts this summer that I'm convinced I'll not only finish, but finish relatively fast. Work has been going well but it's been a substantial creative drain. I feel like I don't have anything left for my regular assignments, let alone my blog. I've even lost my focus for picture taking. This week during my evening runs, I saw beautiful sunsets, a rattlesnake, a crazy suicidal rabbit and intriguing light over Steven's Creek Reservoir. Not once did I even attempt a snapshot, until today, when I realized that I hadn't take a photo all week, and probably should make at least one to go with the blog post I promised Beat I'd write.

I still haven't ridden a bike since I crashed two weeks ago. My barometer for readiness is my ability to drive — when I can successfully hold both hands on my steering wheel for the length of a trip, then I will feel ready to take a chance on riding, starting with my fixie on the bike path. Sadly, I haven't been successful yet. Even the suspension in our brand new Subaru causes too much jiggling on my arm, and pain quickly increases from annoying to intolerable. I stubbornly held on over the speed bumps today; that was a terrible idea. Needless to say, if my arm can't handle speed bumps in a Subaru, those nerves are going to need a bit more healing before I can rip mad descents on my mountain bike.

It's hard to determine exactly why there's still so much pain. My wound is still open, shedding dead tissue and bleeding some, but there's no sign of infection. And my running strength has nearly returned to normal. I ditched my sling on Tuesday, and while I still run with my right arm held in place (and my left arm flailing to make up for this minor imbalance), I can run without pain. But every time I place pressure on my arm or grip something, the pain returns. It almost seems like a deeper internal problem, possibly with a muscle or other tissue that was compromised. I believe it will just take more time, and I'm willing to give it all the time it needs. It's been a rough two weeks, and I am so tired of this pain that I'll give up anything to avoid it, even cycling. Yes, it seems the universe has finally found a way to keep me off my bikes while I'm (otherwise) healthy and strong.

That said, if I were training for a 50K right now, I'd be pretty pleased with myself. Although I had a slow start to the week, I've been running stronger since I ditched the sling. A bit of pent-up energy and the fact I still have to short-step the descents has led me to push as hard as I can on the climbs — lung-burning, gut-busting hard. As I crested today's eight-mile, 2,500-feet-of-climbing jaunt, it occurred to me that I've been running six to nine miles daily all week, and starting to feel hungry for a long run. Without my bike in the picture, it's suddenly not difficult to log a 50- or 60-mile week.  This has led me to believe that if I just injured my arm before the Tahoe Rim Trail 100, I might have actually finished the thing. (I kid, I kid.)

I'm still sad I won't be getting on a plane to Seattle tomorrow to race the Capitol Forest 100. But I'm glad I didn't push that pipe dream; it's obvious I'm not ready.

Small victories

I returned from my Thursday run drenched in bliss, and a decent layer of sweat, after successfully executing my three-mile uphill run and three-mile downhill shuffle/hike with only a few encounters with the invisible searing knife of pain. I felt as satisfied as I often do after finishing a 50K, or a day-long bike ride, even though my accomplishment was comparatively small. When one's ability to move pain-free is taken away, even for a short time, and even by a relatively minor injury, every new movement suddenly feels like a gift.

Today I accomplished an even stronger run, covering seven miles with a consistent running stride and only walking a few of the steepest descents. Earlier this week, I struggled with the jarring impact of each step, which sent a stabbing sensation through my elbow that I referred to as "jiggly pain." That impact soreness has mostly abated and I can now run (slowly) without issue, although I'm certainly not out of the water yet. I was reminded of this today when I picked up a half gallon of milk and felt an electric jolt that nearly caused me to drop the carton on the floor. When I grip things with my right hand, I engage an arm muscle that triggers what feels like exposed nerves in my open wound, and it hurts something fierce. I still drive one-handed, and feed myself with my left hand (even with chopsticks during my birthday sushi dinner, a feat I was quite proud of.) It feels like it will be a while yet before I can grip handlebars and steer a bicycle.

Still, I have been genuinely enjoying my short and slow runs (short I guess only by some standards. Five to seven miles is still enough to get my heart pumping.) At first, I was so grateful for my renewed ability to even get out of bed without pain that I convinced myself I could live out my life happily as a five-mile-a-day jogger. But as pain diminishes, so grows my desire to go longer, higher, harder. And even though I feel a sort of post-crash disillusionment about mountain biking, I still salivate when I pass cyclists on the road. I am itching to get back out there in a real and challenging way, to energize my body and fuel my creativity. And yet I have this most annoying injury, this hole in my arm that cuts into the muscle, still open and oozing and shedding bits of gravel after ten days. It's hurt me physically like nothing I've experienced before. And yes I'm grateful it's not worse, and nothing's broken, and I will recover. But I admit this has been a hard lesson, an unsettling reminder of just how quickly and easily health and vitality can be ripped away.

Still, every movement is a gift, and maybe it's good to receive a refresher course on building from the ground up, every once in a while.

32

Today's my birthday

I can't go for a bike ride

Grateful all the same

August lost

On Monday evening, I attempted a four-mile hike. Using an ACE bandage, I created an elastic sling for my arm to aid in stability and suspension against each jarring step. I set off walking, fighting back the initial sharp releases of pain until the impact settled. The sun cast golden light on the hillside and it felt so wonderful to just be outside, focusing on breathing and movement again. For the past four days, my thoughts have largely drifted to stillness and pain. The truth of the matter is my arm hurt a lot, and every time I moved, it hurt even worse. But in stillness I could almost be free, almost.

I held my arm away from my body and pressed my wrist deep into the sling until my shoulder burned from the effort, but by doing so I could almost achieve stillness while moving. The gray pall of pain lifted and I started jogging up hill, drinking in the saturated colors of the evening. I reached the crest of my route and surveyed the sunlit valley below. It was so incredible, so beautiful. I felt a literal, tangible tear of joy roll down my cheek. That's when I remembered that my moods were all jacked up from not having slept more than an hour at a time in four nights. Sleep had just become so difficult, because my arm constantly felt like somebody was holding a hot iron against the joint. I usually drifted fitfully to sleep only to be jolted awake in twenty minutes by sharp pain, probably spurred by movement. On Sunday night, I only slept about an hour, total. On Monday morning, I had to duck into the bathroom to quell some tears after the car dealership employee told me my three-hour wait for an oil change was probably going to extend to four. My humorously overdramatic reaction to that news only confirmed that I really needed to get some sleep, and get out.

On Monday night, I still had hope. Hope for participation in the Capitol Forest 100. Outside hope that I might even heal up enough to run a 50K for my birthday at the end of the week. These hopes were all but extinguished just a few hundred yards after I started downhill into a new barrage of burning pain. It was impossible to brace against so I just had to suck it up and deal with it. It was probably no different or worse than it has been for the past four days, but my reaction to the pain was amplified by the beautiful setting, some mounting frustration, the wild emotional roller coaster of sleep deprivation, and of course, disappointment. This injury isn't going to clear up in time for anything. Not without some sort of incredible turnaround.

I returned home to more stillness, and attempts at acceptance. This probably appears to be a humorously overdramatic reaction to road rash. The injury is actually a bit more complicated. When I hit the ground at 20 mph on Thursday, I landed directly on a sharp, quarter-sized rock that dug deep into my elbow. Then, with a puncture wound several millimeters deep, I slid a meter or so, ensuring that maximum debris was pushed deep into the wound. The plastic surgeon I consulted on Friday used terms like "bullet hole" and "shrapnel." He smiled as he said these things, and I assumed he was using hyperbole for humor's sake. But honestly, after four days of near constant pain even with the aid of Vicodin (which I was at first too proud to ingest, and am now rationing), I've become more convinced that this is what it might feel like to be shot in the elbow by a small caliber gun. I can honestly say that while this may not be the most serious, it is certainly the most painful injury I have ever sustained.

I have another appointment with the surgeon on Friday, and am really hoping for no further complications that might necessitate surgery (and maybe a renewed Vicodin prescription.) But I'm ready to accept that the rest of this month is probably going to be about a slow comeback in the form of easy hikes, jogs, upright spins on a trainer, and possibly several weeks before I have enough arm strength and stability to ride a bicycle again. That's OK, injury is part of life, and for now I'm grateful for simple things, short releases from the stillness, and a renewed appreciation for health and vitality.

I heart rangers — not so much the ER

It almost seems like it should be an exhilarating experience — catapulting through the air before diving into a spinning kaleidoscope of leaves, grass, gravel and sky — but reality always manages to hit me before the ground does.

"This is going to hurt."

I've been here before. More times than I'd be willing to admit in casual company, at least to people who can't see the scars on my legs and arms. I have what I consider an unfortunate combination of genetic traits — my dad's sense of adventure and my mom's sense of balance. Which means, sorry Mom, that I'm incurably clumsy but I don't have the good sense to pursue a more suitable hobby like knitting or reading books.

Instead, I crash. Some are more spectacular than others. And, in the long-time custom of incurably clumsy people, my hardest hits always find me at the most benign moments — like a wide gravel descent on the same trail I've ridden at least a couple dozen times, on a beautiful calm evening, during a simple taper mountain bike ride two days before a hopeful "comeback" race like the Crystal Springs 50K. That's when it always seems to happen. I'm riding down Steven's Creek Canyon, confidently coasting at top speed because, hey, this is easy and I do it all the time. I launch into the steep section and hit the big rut in the same way I always intentionally hit it. But something goes wrong, and my rear wheel skids sideways, and there I am, again, flying through the air.

Yes, that's my brave face

This time, the Steven's Creek Canyon trail and I swapped souvenirs. I left behind a chunk of flesh from my right elbow and took a large helping of gravel embedded in my arm. Several seconds later, Beat found me writhing on the ground. This is another trait I inherited from my mom. We don't take our hits well. We swoon and drool and struggle to hold onto consciousness, even in the absence of a notable head injury. Beat propped me up and spoke loudly in words I wasn't quite in a state of mind to comprehend, but I did gather he probably thought I was about to pass out. "Light headed," I mumbled. "No injury. Impact. Just impact."

But the wooziness wears off fast and leaves behind a frustrating amount of pain. We were still more than four miles from the end of the canyon, where another eight miles on pavement would complete our loop home. Twelve miles. About a half hour of daylight left (we did have lights.) Searing road rash, tender hip and a nearly rigid knee. Blood dripping onto my shorts. I laughed and made jokes and tried to put on my brave face. It wasn't convincing. "Hey, it's OK if you cry," Beat said. "You're a girl." Beat's crash jokes are better than mine.

But I knew I was going to have to walk it off and get back on the bike. I accepted it, and even embraced it. Brave face. Boost onto saddle. One finger on each brake. Let of brake just a bit. Wheels over rocks. Ow ow ow ow. Impact. No injury, just impact. OK, tears. Fine. You win.

It was just after 8 p.m. when we completed the first mile. Eleven to go. And then I saw something I never thought I'd see in the narrow corridor of Steven's Creek Canyon — headlights. I didn't even know trucks could get in there, but sure enough, up rolled a ranger who had spent the evening removing deadfall from the singletrack section. She drove beside us and rolled down her window. She didn't need to ask what happened.

The ranger's name was Liz Wright. She was a former East Bay area police officer who made a hobby of heavy labor construction, then opted to seek "work where I can both build things and help people" in the service of the Midpeninsula Open Space Preserve District. A professional who builds trails and saves clumsy mountain bikers like me from painful walks of shame — I instantly adored Ranger Liz. She took charge and formed a plan to take me the other direction to the Page Mill parking lot while Beat rode the singletrack down the canyon and back home to get the car. I assumed Ranger Liz was just going to take me to the trailhead and leave me to wait for Beat — a service I was already more than grateful for. As the truck lumbered up the canyon, she exchanged code talk on the radio, and then turned to me and said, "You know, the EMTs aren't busy right now. Maybe we should just have them come take a look."

By the time we arrived at the trailhead, two other rangers were waiting in the parking lot. One had set up a flood light and Liz joined them underneath it, talking and laughing. Ten minutes later, two fire department vehicles arrived and five EMTs emerged to join the party. I felt beyond embarrassed that eight public employees had mobilized for my little mishap. Maybe they sensed it because they assured me that work was slow that night in Palo Alto, and they were just wrapping up a leisurely dinner. They cleaned me up and took my vitals. They expressed concern about my blood pressure because it was closing in on too low, but not quite ambulance ride low. "Hey, at least you're not about to upchuck a hamburger," said one EMT as he slapped wires on my skin to take further readings. "Sitting in the back of the truck on that winding road, man. I thought I was going to vomit." I laughed, and my vitals spiked to a satisfactory level. We wrapped up the social gathering and the EMTs and other rangers left. Ranger Liz drove me down to the bottom of Page Mill to meet Beat, pointing out the scenes of grizzly road bike crashes she had responded to along the way.

The EMTs told me I most definitely needed stitches in my elbow, so Beat took me to the emergency room, being that the ER was really the only option for medical attention at 10 p.m. I was hedging on even seeking stitches because I'm me, and really, what's one more scar? But I assumed it would be a quick in-and-out. I was covered in so much dirt that dust clouds literally erupted from my clothing when I sat down in the waiting room chair. I was starving so I wolfed down a vending machine Twix Bar and chips as I waited, covered in dirt and blood. Yes, any remaining fragments of dignity were finally gone.

After several cleansing sessions.

But that wasn't the end of the indignity. An X-ray revealed a somewhat alarming amount of foreign debris inside my arm. A nurse, an EMT and a physicians assistant scrubbed and scraped and worked at it intermittently for several hours in procedures that can only be described as light torture. Honestly, if I had been harboring any government secrets I would have told them anything just to make them stop. As the hours passed, the dirt-coated bloody swabs stacked up and the medical professionals became increasingly less gentle. It was well after 2 a.m. when the doctor announced she couldn't dig any deeper because she risked damaging nerves, but infection was a real concern that close to my joint. "You're going to have to see a plastic surgeon," she said.

Suddenly, I felt light-headed all over again. "Um, surgery, really? For a cut?"

Luckily, the surgeon I visited today is letting me take a wait-and-see approach. I'm on antibiotics and a cleaning regimen and, admittedly, somewhat strong painkillers. I decided after last night's torture session, I deserved a bit of a break from pain (this hurts a surprising lot.) But sadly, the Crystal Springs 50K is definitely a no-go. And I suspect that the crash will significantly rattle both my confidence and fitness ahead of the Aug. 27 Capitol Forest 100. But of course I realize it could have been, and can always be, so much worse. And I am grateful to all of the  rangers, EMTs, nurses and doctors who mobilized to help me last night. Every single one of them was great. And if I never get this gravel out of my arm, well, at least I'll have a little piece of Steven's Creek Canyon to carry with me always. I do like that canyon.