Training Camp 2012

Sun. Worship.

For years, I have heard the mythical terms "training camp" and "cycling vacation". I did not know what those terms really meant. I only knew that in February and March, my Facebook page was filled with pictures of happy bike racers posing in sunny locales like Arizona, California or even Hawaii.

I would sit at my desk in my classroom full of middle school boy smell, look out my window at the dreary, dark day that it inevitably was and sigh. A really, really big sigh.

Then, the opportunity came up for me to do the same thing. Me! In the middle of the school year! To go to sunny Arizona!

It was on. It was so, so on.

Then I got pregnant and it was still on. Just with more vomiting and dry heaving, both problems that can be overcome with a little willpower because please. I got to ride my bike in Arizona. In February.

One cannot deny that fry bread and honey mid-ride will turn a great bike ride in to an awesome bike ride.

In 7 days, I rode 271 miles. I would have ridden more, but I had this whole exhaustion thing to deal with. First trimester really interferes with my mileage. I also swam. Thousands of yards. It was hard and painful but in a sadistically delightful way, maybe because the ceiling was the perfect shade of blue.

I'm 4th from the bottom, (not so) silently thinking, I have to swim HOW FAR???

I also had 4 hours to rest and recover each day (FOUR WHOLE HOURS!) and 9-10 hours of sleep a night. I did not cook one meal. I did not clean a damn thing (not that I do that on a normal basis anyway) and I certainly did not spend my time trying to get middle school students to follow directions.

I rode my bike, I swam, I ran once or twice and I rested. Repeat for 6 more days.

If this is what it's like to be a professional athlete, SIGN ME UP.

Heading up Usury Pass. Notice the lack of trees. And the abundant sunshine. And the short sleeves. In February.

The worst part of training camp? My two favorite people couldn't come. By Thursday, I was keenly aware how much I missed them. Talking to them on Skype almost brought me to tears, despite the fact that I was staying in a hotel room without any responsibility whatsoever. I didn't want to come back to Portland, I just wanted to bring Team Barker to Arizona. My favorite training partner will always be Barkernews and my favorite race cheerleader will always be Hizz. I neeeeeeed them.

The best part of training camp? Training with some really freaking cool people. I continue to be amazed and inspired by the mental and emotional risks people are willing take, all in the name of accomplishing goals. It occurred to me that there are millions of adults out there who choose to never challenge themselves and spend their time watching the millionth episode of the Bachelor or lamenting their ever-increasing weight problem.

Yeah, I don't get those people.

Janet dragged me and my ridiculously high heart rate up South Mountain. She rocks.

I currently think of training camp 5 gazillion times a day. I think particularly of the times when I was pedaling freely in the sunshine with good people, knowing that the rest of my day included eating, a nap, more eating and more napping.

The Portland winter is seeming very, very long right now.

I will OWN 2013.

Remember that post about big post about 2012 goals?

Let's just say I plan to "delay" those goals a bit due to a little something I like to call "Barker Baby II: The Raddening". (naming rights go to Mike Kurfis. Well done, Mike. Well done.)

In the meantime, I plan to continue training through the nausea, the fatigue and the general feeling that there is an invader in my body, slowly plotting on destroying my 6-pack abs.  As I write this, I am on the last full day of a 7-day training camp in Arizona. While I am obviously out of the running for the 2012 racing season, I am pretty damn focused on coming back better and stronger in 2013.  It's been a 250-mile week on the bike. They many not have been the fastest, hardest miles I have ever put in, but they were infused with Vitamin D, good friends and great scenery. And possibly some dry heaving sessions.

Honestly, you guys, I am so freaking excited about Barker Baby II: The Raddening. I already have one bike racing, skiing, dancing freak of a 3-year-old. The next one will be just as great in his or her own way, I am sure of it.

And you know I am eyeing those three months of maternity leave with big training plans.

Watch out, 2013. You are ALL MINE.

There was a lot of dreaming during the silence

  

                           

Look at me! Making a comeback! I know this blog has been silent for awhile and I decided (finally) it was time for a resurrection. Consider this that resurrection.

Since last we talked, we've been busy. Of course. We're always busy. But this kind of busy has been a heavy concentration of family mountain time and it makes me oh so happy. 

We have been on the mountain every weekend that we have been in Oregon and consequently, the Hizz has been on skis EVERY SINGLE WEEKEND since December. I wonder how many other 3-year-olds can say that? Not many I'm guessing, since it's pretty difficult to find her some shred buddies.

(hey you! Yeah, you. Do you have a 3-year-old who loves to shred? Can said 3-year-old rip it up on the mountain? Please, please call me. Please.)

Also consequently, I seem to have spent an exponential amount of time on the magic carpet, the rope tow, and the bunny hill chairlift compared to the black diamonds I prefer to frequent. 

It has been nothing short of magic, this cultivating a skier thing. Watching my child giggle in silly joy as she takes off before I can even put my own skis on- damn telemarks!- is exactly what I want to happen, despite my admonishments to her to "please wait for me". The moment when she conquered her fears and finally let go of that ski pole to ski down the chair lift line on her own? I couldn't stop screaming, not just because she was skiing, but because I know that fear. It's the same fear I have when I look down an impossibly steep face for the first time or I line up with the other chicks for a fast criterium race.  In a life well lived, that fear never abates because you are consistently testing your own limits.

This kid may not ever ski past the age of rebellion (at which point she will have to find her own ride to the mall because please. I am busy skiing.) but she will always have this: Fear. And taking the first step past it. And then the silly joy giggles that accompany such a triumph.

There has definitely been some fear in the Barker life lately. Nothing dramatic or earth-shaking, but just enough for us to pucker a little bit and question, "what if?" We've been talking a lot about our ultimate dreams. You know, those dreams that would come true if the world was perfect? Here are some of mine:

1. Live in a small mountain town with walking access to the ski lifts.

2. Be a pro cyclist.

3. Visit the Caribbean every year.

4. Retire and join the Peace Corps.

5. Teach half-time, spend the other half of the day evaluating student work and creatively planning, and get paid for full-time.

6. Spend my summers in Spain.

7. Own a motorhome. Live in it and drive around the world. (true story. I LOVE motorhomes!)

8. Rock climb 5.12c.

(Please note: I said if the world was PERFECT.)

And the list goes on and on. And on. Ask me tomorrow. I'll add 8 more. Number one on this list has definitely been on Barkernews' and I's mind and our agenda. Finding the right jobs that provide for fulfillment of that dream and still fund our daughter's college education has been the difficult part. We've had some opportunities that could take us to somewhere "like" a small mountain town, but not exactly what we're dreaming of. The question is: Is it worth waiting for the perfect place?

And therein lies the fear, right? We now have a kid and we own a house and we have good jobs and great friends and great community here in Portland. There's not a lot to complain about. Except the rain. I HATE the rain. But otherwise, we can't complain.

So, yeah. Looking down that impossibly steep face is hard. Pointing your skis downhill for the first turn is even harder. Hazel knows. She's got the huge grin to prove it.

                             

If you write it on the board, does that make it true?

My coach is a funny man.  And by funny, I don't mean HA HA, that guy is HILARIOUS! funny. 

I mean BAT SHIT CRAZY funny.

And I'm not just saying this because he regularly kicks my ass.  He really, truly is BAT SHIT CRAZY.  Here are some examples: when I describe an epic powder day on the mountain, he just looks at me blankly.  He regularly rides his computrainer indoors for over 100 miles and considers it an "average day".  He thinks that time trials are fun.

This is how he began December: "Look here, gang.  I've got a really big, almost unachievable goal for 2012.  I want you to come up with something similarly impossible and make THAT your goal."

I won't go in to the logistics of his goal, because that's his business, but...

WHO THE HELL MAKES SOMETHING IMPOSSIBLE THEIR GOAL?!

I wanted to say back, "Look here, COACH.  I have these things called LIFE RESPONSIBILITIES.  Like, you know, my jobby job and my kid and her upbringing and, oh I don't know, spending time with my husband every once in a while."

I didn't say any of that because I am a big, fat wuss.  I just put my head down and continued pedaling to nowhere on that damn computrainer.  I tried to avoid talking about it as long as I could.

The problem when you show up to regular workouts and the workout involves pedaling to nowhere?  You can't escape.

So now I have this ridiculous goal (which, NO, I am not going to share with you because that's my business and the 50 other people who train with our group) and CRAP.

Crap, you guys. I don't have time for this.  I don't have the fortitude for this.  I don't have the experience for this.

Just...CRAP.

Everyone had to write their 2012 goal on the white board.  Now it stares at me every time I ride my bike to nowhere.  And every single time, there is one less "don't, can't, won't" in my brain and one more "I am ALL OVER THAT" in my brain.

DAMN, I HATE THAT GUY.





DAMN.

Ski season '11/'12

Started in a seriously awesome way. 18 degrees, FEET of powder and perfectly blue skies.
Bring it.

Injured reserve

Let's see.  How did this all begin?

Oh right.  I know.  I went running.  And it hurt.  I thought it was a fluke, so I went running again.  It hurt more.

I took a little bit of time off.  And then tried running a third time.  It hurt even worse and I finally got it through my head that there might be a problem (I am just a tad bit stubborn).

So, between the doctor and the acupuncturist and the podiatrist and my coach, the problem boiled down to this: I have been running on really crappy, really old orthotics and now I have a nice amount of soft tissue damage in my lower shins.  It's quite boring actually and people's eyes tend to glaze over when I start to explain what the hell is wrong with me and why the hell I am not racing.

They want to hear about blood and gore and traumatic crashes and all I have to offer is this: I am an idiot who should have had new orthotics and new shoes eons ago. 

Initally, the doctor cleared me to bike race but not to run.  I raced.  I did not get better.  That's when the hammer came down: no racing OR I will not have a ski season OR I will be wearing a boot on both feet OR zombies might attack the world OR the world will spontaneously combust.

You know, any or all of the above.

So I gulped hard, held back my disappointment and nodded my head when my doctor asked if I would comply.

It's been over a month of no racing and over six weeks of no running.  I am still not better and therefore not cleared to head out to the trails, forget running two steps carrying a bike over my shoulder.

This injury thing is super annoying.  Forget the 30-minute workout.  You know, the workout you do when you only have 1/2 an hour between work and picking up the kid at daycare?  Yeah, that's gone because that was a quick run.  Also, cyclocross skills practice?  Adiós, amigo.  Track workout? Say hello to my new friend, Masters Swim Practice (also known as "Oxygen Deprivation at Ridiculously Early Morning Hours").

Then, to add insult to a real-life injury, I woke up on Monday morning unable to move my neck.  At all.  I thought it was a typical I-slept-weird-now-I-have-this-stupid-kink-in-my-neck-to-make-me-cranky-all-day kind of thing.  But of course, it wasn't.  It's now been almost 48 hours of excruciating "PLEASE GIVE ME SOME PAINKILLERS" kind of pain and after some chiropractic, massage, acupuncture, ice, stretching and kinesio tape, I can only hope that it's better tomorrow.  And pop some more painkillers.

(Yeah, seriously, I know.  WTF??)

Being injured isn't all negative.  I am turning in to super cyclocross supporter.  I am more rested than I have been in months.  I am posting some pretty damn good power numbers on the computrainer.

Yes, I am still allowed to ride my bike.  Just no running.  At all.  Period.  For real this time, NoPoGirl.

Anyway.

I still check the race results religiously.  I still secretly plot disobeying the doctor and racing the next weekend.  I still stare at my trail running shoes longingly.  

Things I tell myself: There will be another cyclocross season.  I will ski hard this winter.  I will be even stronger on the bike for road season.  

RIGHT???

Just call me Super Race Heckler

In the interim: Spooked

It's dark around here these days.  Really dark.  And as any veteran Northwesterner knows, it's not going to get better any time soon.

If you ride a bike or run or or do just about anything outside AND you have a kid and a husband and a job and about 5 million other commitments, you have two options: grit your teeth and continue your activities in the dark or move it all indoors to the gym, with its access to cable and fake lights and machines.

Lately, I have been choosing the darker side of things, mainly because I can't seem to motivate myself to sit on my bike trainer and sweat buckets in front of Jersey Shore.  Even the rain seems better than that.

The dark is usually cool with me.  By nature, I am not a scaredy-cat.  I attribute this to several things: My mom was the antithesis of the freaking-out-OCD-Mom.  With four kids, being scared of everything just isn't sustainable.  I have many years of experience in the outdoors and I am a ski patroller, where one must be prepared for the possibility of something going wrong at any time.  Lastly, I am a middle school teacher.  One cannot freak out constantly and successfully teach middle school.  At least not anyone who wants to maintain any sense of sanity.

Some years ago, when I was training for half-ironman triathlons, I routinely did my long trail runs in Forest Park in the dark, protected only by my headlamp and my Labrador Retriever.  While it justifiably scared the bejeezus out of my husband (and yes, even my mom), I barely gave those nights on the trail a second thought.

Many years later, I feel the same way about my current forays in to the dripping, pitch-black forest on my cyclocross bike.  A good 99% of the time, I am more focused on getting home in time to make it to work or to make dinner than I am on safety.  Besides, what kind of deranged pervert would hang out in a sopping wet and cold forest to take down girls on cyclocross bikes?  That would be some kind of deranged pervert idiot and I am pretty sure I can outride one of those.

But tonight?  Tonight, as I climbed Saltzman, I let my mind wander and then it decided to play tricks.  Lots of tricks.  Within a minute, I imagined people jumping from behind every towering tree (and there are a lot of trees in Forest Park), wielding knives or machetes or worse.  I plotted my escape, which would involve a 180 degree turn back downhill and wondered if I could make the turn in time.  The gravel beneath my tires crunched and I was sure someone was on my tail.  I could barely breathe without doing a scan in to the forest with my headlight to make sure no one was there.

Stupid, I know.  But once your mind runs away, there's not much you can do to catch it, other than safely arriving at your own front door.

When I showed up at the intersection with Leif Erickson, I didn't think twice: I turned right.  Instead of continuing my hill climb, I chose the safe route- towards home (albeit 8 dark, obscure miles away).  And I didn't feel even a tiny bit bad about it.  I don't really think I have much intuition about these kinds of things, but I knew that if I kept going, I would be so afraid, my workout would suffer tremendously.

On the way home, I shook my first at the park.  Score one for the rainforest and zero for NoPoGirl.

But I cannot let it remain this way.  It might just be the right time to apply for my concealed handgun permit.

Which I think might scare the bejeezus out of Barkernews.  So maybe not.  Maybe I just need to suck it up and get out of my own head.