Mindfuck

This week I came back to Boston for the first time since I moved to San Francisco about 16 months ago. In all that time I had never had the desire to visit, especially since I was afraid that seeing many of my old friends would reopen wounds that were still tender. But it had to happen eventually, and so last Friday night I boarded a plane to revisit the site of the worst 6 months of my adult life. I had mostly put the past out of my head (fresh starts are good for that), and it wasn't until the week before my flight that I even let my mind return to everything that's happened over the last 2 years. I hardly recognized myself in that confused, anxious, downtrodden version of Claire that suffered through January until June 2010. I was happier, optimistic, much more self-confident, and richer. I had also started wearing "girl bras" rather than walking around with the sports bra "boob loaf" all the time, which makes me feel like a lot more of a grown-up (even though the bras come from the girls' section of Target). Life was good and I had moved on.

One of the first things I did once I'd landed was to contact Michelle for a trail run. Talking to her and then Big Red the following morning gave me the warm fuzzy feeling that you get from hanging out with people who truly love you and bring out the best in you. Red, Michelle, and I had a synergistic summer in 2008 where we all pushed each other to the best fitness of our lives, and reliving those days was nothing but sweet. Once I saw Michelle and Big Red again, I couldn't believe how much I realized that I missed them.

That night I went out to dinner with the Rockstar Housemate who kept me from cracking up completely in those months after the break-up. It was an unseasonably warm night, and I was feeling all warm and fuzzy inside knowing that Rockstar Housemate was one of the people who had seen me at my worst and still seemed to enjoy hanging out with me. "How's the house?" I eventually ventured to ask. "Is it still a shithole, or have you guys done some work on it?" To be honest, I didn't even know if he still lived with Lindsey. Did I care?

"That ratty blue couch is still in the living room. With the third housemate came another dog, so there's room for two people in the middle of the couch with a dog on each side." It didn't take a genius to deduce that Lindsey's new girlfriend had moved in to the shithole house. I decided that what I was feeling was more than not caring. I really, really didn't want to hear anything about it. Not that I was jealous that her new girlfriend had slipped right into my spot in the shitty life that Lindsey was stuck in, but more that hearing anything about her filled me with so much revulsion that I wanted to run out of the restaurant screaming. I changed the subject.

But the flood gates had been opened. As I visited people over the next few days, everyone wanted to tell me about her, talk shit on her new girlfriend, and in general relive my former disgraces without my even asking. "Have you been seeing Lindsey since you've been back? Because if you have, I'm going to punch you in the face," said her former housemate (the one she lived with before we moved in with the Rockstar. I find it gratifying that people who lived with us in both houses all came down on my side.) "She really downgraded on her new girlfriend," he offered. "Have you ever seen Pink Floyd's The Wall? You know those people with no faces that they put into the meat grinder? She looks like one of those. NO! You know what she looks like? Did you ever watch the Muppets? You know that Muppet with the long blonde hair that sings in Animal's band? She looks like that!"

"I don't care, Rich," I told him (I don't remember what nickname I gave him in the past).

"Have you been to the shop yet?"

"I don't want to go to the shop. No one works there anymore that I can't see outside the shop." He paid me no mind and called. "Hey, is 'One-Bike Lindsey' working today? No? She's off till Tuesday? Great! Thanks."

So despite my protests, after pumpkin shopping Rich took a left out of the parking lot rather than going straight back to the house and dragged me to the shop. I hardly recognized anyone on staff other than twiggy and an annoying little compulsive liar that they called Gnome. Not to let things go by unnoticed, Rich gathered everyone around and said, "This is Lindsey's ex. Isn't she hotter than the new girl?"I wanted the earth to swallow me up.

"Yeah, her new girlfriend is weird. So you dated Linsey, huh? How did that go? I thought you moved out of state," said the new retail manager. Really? After all this time and all the hours in the saddle with all these people, this is who I am? Frankly, I was surprised that I'd come up at all. I was under the impression that I was a subject that just wasn't brought up around Her Royal Highness anymore.

"I came out ahead in that transaction," I said. "I got to move to California and be happy and she got to stay here with her shitty life." And then I refused to answer any more questions. It came out bitter, but sheesh, is there a way to come out of that situation sounding classy and gracious?

When you haven't seen someone in awhile, it turns out that they don't want to know about all the cool things that are going on in your life since you left, they want to fill you in on what's been going on in the place that you left in your absence. Piece by piece, people started telling me more and more about Lindsey. Slick told me that he had seen her at a cyclocross race and she was interested in buying a cross bike, but then had wandered off when he was trying to introduce her to reps. Typical, half-baked ideas and no fucking follow-through, my mind griped before I noticed how pissed I was getting and changed my mental subject. King of the Bike Geeks asked me if I'd seen her, and then told me it was probably a good idea that I'd called ahead to make sure that she wasn't working that day. Do you still believe the fucking ridiculous lies that she told about me? Do the years of riding next to you and chatting with you over a work bench mean nothing to you? You used to respect me and be one of the biggest advocates of my riding back in the day, I thought, and then made myself stop before I got too upset. Michelle told me that she'd named her new dog after Michelle's own dog. I don't know why this made me furious, but it did. Teen Idol told me that after his bike accident a year ago that put him in a wheelchair, she had basically dropped him. How can someone be such a fair weather friend that they can't even come see their best friend every once in awhile, just because he's in a wheelchair? She didn't even spend her dad's last Christmas with him! What kind of soul-less person does that? my mind screeched. Instead I gave him a hug and told him to keep on his physical therapy because the next time I was home, I wanted to go on a walk with him. And when Rockstar Housemate told me that her new girlfriend is a personal trainer I absolutely lost it. "Listen! I don't want to hear about her anymore! I don't want to hear that she's doing well, I don't want to hear that she's doing badly. I have moved on, and I just don't want to go there anymore!" It was true. I really, really didn't care what she was up to, but hearing that she was the same old flakey, lazy, condescending, unreliable, entitled, retarded douche that she'd always been just put me back into a head space that I never wanted to revisit. The thought actually crossed my mind to egg her house, although I knew it would be more fun to fantasize about than to actually do it. It just didn't seem fair that someone should be allowed to hurt another person so much and then have absolutely no repercussions on her life, and just replace me like an old iPod. I had to get out of here!

On my second-to-last night home it was all getting to be too much. I'd been hanging out with people nonstop since I landed and I just needed some quiet time. While we were visiting my grandmother, my mom must have asked me 5 times over the course of the afternoon whether I was coming home for dinner. "No, mom, I don't think so."

"Oh? Who are you going to see?"

"I don't know, Mom." Which she heard as, 'I'm still free, why don't you invite me for dinner again.' Finally I told her, "Tell you what, if I haven't called by the time you've made dinner, then just assume that I'm not coming." I'd hung out with her every day since I arrived, and my mom's not the kind of mom that you can be best friends with. You've always got to filter what you say to her so that she won't worry or pry.

I finally broke free from my mom, and ignored the 2 voicemails she left in quick succession, "So will you be coming home for dinner?" A few hours later drove to the Whole Foods to get a salad before I hunkered down in the hotel to watch some Netflix. It was 7:45, so I figured she would already be at home cooking or eating, so there was no chance I'd run into her. And then I looked up and... there were my mom and dad coming right for me. Are you serious?! I had to get out of this small town as fast as I could. "Hi hon," mom said. "What are you up to tonight?"

"Just chilling." Now this is the point where my mom should have figured out that I was here in Whole Foods getting food for myself because I would rather spend the night alone than come home and have an uncomfortable dinner with her and dad.

"Are you coming over for dinner?" she asked. Oh my god, I'm never coming home again! I thought.

After three days of revisiting my old life, it was time to check out of the hotel and spend my final day at my parents' house. The hotel was about 8 miles from my mom and dad's house and right smack in the middle were Lindsey's house and Lindsey's work. I couldn't avoid one without passing the other. My luck couldn't hold out. After checking out of the hotel I stopped by a Starbucks that I never go to. I swung into the parking space, and in the second before my car came to a complete stop, I looked into the car facing me, and there in the passenger seat not 10 feet away was fucking Lindsey with her girlfriend in the driver's seat. In a flash my eyes registered her smile and the familiar way that she sipped her coffee and then my fight or flight instinct kicked in.

Before my eyes even had much time to focus, I threw the car in reverse and gunned it out of the space and across the parking lot. I didn't know what to do, but priority number one was not having to see her or have her get a good look at me. I couldn't be trusted not to be a total bitch and my hands couldn't be trusted not to shake. In fact, they were already shaking like crazy as I threw the car into drive and floored it across the parking lot to where I hoped there was an exit. There was no exit, so I just parked in the far corner of the parking lot with my hands shaking until I was pretty sure they would have left. Who cared if she recognized me, who cared if she walked into work and said, "I think I just saw Claire," and someone said, "Yeah, she's been coming by all weekend." Had I run away because I was ashamed of anything that had happened over a year ago? Hell no, she was the one that owed me an apology.

The reason why I sat in the car behind the dumpster in that parking lot was because if we were face to face and she asked me, "How are you?" Or even if she saw me at a distance, there would be no way for me to express to her how well I'm doing and how much I now despise the despicable life that she's still stuck in. And I realized that until I can face her without shoving in her face what a loser she is, I wouldn't be fit to face her at all. So what if I make three times what she does? So what if I live in this beautiful place? So what if I'm out doing all the types of events she only talks about? There is absolutely no way to express all that stuff without undermining it by being obviously boastful and bitter.

Hiding out in the Starbucks parking lot made me realize another thing, too. That I still wasn't as confident as I would like to be. You can make all the money in the world and your phone can be ringing off the hook with people who want your time, but until you have the confidence to walk past your ex girlfriend and not even care if she's looking, then you've still got some work to do.

Hectic

This was one of those weeks where I had to just put my head down and hang on for the ride. You know those weeks where everything happens at once? Vacation and visitors and an event for work and a whole buttload of minor work drama? Well that was this week for me. I tried in there to hit my swimming, biking and running targets, but I think I fell short on each. I didn't record any of it in my training log, so we'll see what I can remember.

Monday: Nothing

Monday was supposed to be a swim-Spin class combo, but that fell through. I was sitting in the kitchen at work frittering away my free hour between clients when another trainer who I'll call Peter Pan walked in with my backpack on his back, and a very worried expression. I looked at him for a long moment with alarm on my face. He looked at me with eyes that softened from concern to sympathy. "Your window's broken," he said. "This was sitting upright on the sidewalk." Motherfuckingsonofabitch! How could this happen again?!

This time I hadn't parked down the alley where no one goes, I'd parked right on the corner of the main road, in front of a loading dock that is kind of the centerpiece of the room at work. (The door to the dock is usually open, but it was a chilly day.) I'd taken my bike out of the car. There's a breakfast place right across the narrow alley where cops hang out. And yet the junkies had smashed my window in broad daylight between 7:45 and 8:15 in the morning because I'd stupidly left a backpack full of gym clothes on the passenger seat. I knew there was nothing of value in it, but they didn't. Junkies will break into your car for the change in your ash tray.

I called around to autoglass places, willing to go the extra mile to get a cheap price. The first guy I called quoted me $200. "Yeah, I was hoping to get a better price. I'm going to call around and see what I can find."

"What are you looking to spend?" he asked.

"$150 at the most."

He stifled a laugh, "Good luck with that. I'll be here when you call back."

I called another place: "$250." I called the dealership, "$250 for the part alone." I called a place in Oakland: "$300." I called a couple more places, but everything was between $200 and $350. Apparently I have a very "special" window, with some "attachments," and for some reason it was significant that it was a "new car." My feelings of rage and frustration were mounting. They hadn't even stolen anything, and it still was going to cost me a couple hundred dollars (money I didn't have after draining my savings on the tow truck a few weeks ago).

I called back the first guy, talked him down to $180 and dropped off the car. I could have still made it to Spin class on my bike while they were fixing the car, but I just couldn't bring myself to get up the aerobics teacher pep, so I called it in and said that I would be waiting for the autoglass guys on the street during class and sorry, I couldn't come. It goes without saying that a car can't sit without a window for several hours in downtown San Francisco. Instead I walked some 15 blocks to the SFMTA office to try to finance the tickets I'd been planning to pay off with the $200 I just spent on a window. I just knew that knowing my luck I would wind up with a boot on my car next week. I walked all that way and... fuck! It was Presidents' Day. I threw a mini temper tantrum right there on the street, but because I was still in Junky Town no one seemed to notice or care. I hoped that every junkie I passed in the 15-block walk back would start shit with me so that I could beat the living shit out of someone. I wanted vengence, and then I wanted a chance to bitch my whole sad story to the cop who came to take my statement. But unfortunately no junkies were feeling as pugnacious as I was.

Note: I'm sick of people telling me that I need to ditch my car, so if that's what you were going to say, then I'm going to nip that in the bud right here. I live 20 hilly miles outside the city-- a 1.5h bike ride. I often work from 5:30 in the morning until 7 or 8 at night, and am not willing to tack on a 1.5 hr commute onto that. Add to that the fact that I often have 4-8hr breaks in the middle of the day; I can't get work done at work because there are too many distractions, nor can I nap at work. Riding home on these split shifts would be 80 mi of commuting. Renting a spot at a garage is about $200/mo and that still doesn't prevent break-ins. I would love to move to the city, but to do that I need a deposit on an apt; which I can't get together because fucked up shit keeps happening to my car. Add to that that I even looked into returning my car. No dice. I'm locked into a lease and can't give it back without my credit taking a 300 pt dive. Not that I would anyway; you couldn't pay me enough to be stuck in the city and miss races and rides. I am doing the best I can with the resources I have and if you tell me to "go green" I'm going to punch you in the teeth.

Tuesday: Ride 50 mi

On Tuesday, Judi's friend Annie Mac (I use her real name because I have nothing but good things to say about her) was in town for a conference and we had plans to go on a ride together. I had no idea where we were going to go since I'd long ago stopped trying to get over the Golden Gate Bridge on my own, but she said she didn't mind if we got lost and I had nowhere to be from 9:30 until 5:00, so I figured that we'd be alright.

At the bike rental place, I vaguely recognized Annie from the shiny flowery shoes that I thought I remembered seeing at a crit that Judi brought me to when I was in Cincinnati en route to San Francisco. The bike shop guy described the Paradise loop, which I have actually ridden before and I recognized some of the landmarks that he was describing. Maybe we'd be alright after all... if we could ever get out of the city. (I still had yet to find the Golden Gate Bridge on the first try.)

With less drama than usual, we found the bridge and began riding over. On weekends, they open the western side of the bridge just for bicycles so that they're not sharing the narrow passage with foot traffic in both directions, but for reasons that I will never understand, they close the bike side on weekdays and force everyone onto the same walkway. A couple looking off placidly over the railing unexpectedly took a step backward, almost taking me out. Because I'm used to and have a short fuse for such things I yelled out, "Watch it!" or "Don't do that!" or something else snappy.

Because he was used to such things happening as well he screamed, "USE THE FUCKING BIKE LANE!"

"It's closed, asswipe!" I yelled back.

Annie, on the other hand, who is from a much less bike-friendly city where there is not as much accustomed animosity toward cyclists preferred the much more polite, "On your left." When Judi introduces you to someone you never really know what to expect, and Annie surprised me by being that genuine kind of nice that in my cynical moments makes me wonder if she's got a crop of dead kittens buried in her basement but usually just makes me realize what an asshole I am by comparison. I am not a nice person.

My legs were still blasted from the 50K on Sunday, but for some reason I always feel stronger when I'm tired. I was surprised at how good the ride felt. It was a flat to rolling route over lightly trafficked roads with beautiful views of rich neighborhoods.

When we hit the bridge again, now it was later in the day and more tourists were out: People backing up into the middle of the sidewalk without looking to get a better picture, Commonwealth citizens on rented bikes riding on the wrong side of the sidewalk, annoying lovers holding hands red-rover style, one particularly obnoxious dumbass walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk with a video camera in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other (I got as close to him as I possibly could to scare the shit out of him and almost knocked his coffee out of his hand on purpose, but couldn't waste the Starbucks, even on this moron). (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog) A pair of 50-something women was up ahead with their backs to us and one was telling a story, gesticulating heavily. "ON YOUR LEFT!" I yelled. I slowed down. "ON YOUR LEFT!!!!" The woman gestured wildly as I passed her, swinging her arm out and almost hitting me in the face. "ON. YOUR. LEFT!" I said, practically in her ear. She screamed and jumped... LEFT, narrowly missing me.

"Oh my god," Annie said. "That lady almost hit you! Is it always this bad?"

"Are you kidding me?! It's 1:00 on a Tuesday, this is tame! Imagine at 3:00 on a sunny Saturday during school vacation week!" I felt validated.

As we finally got around the last blind corner at the end of the bridge we saw another pair of cyclists going in the other direction. One of them had a whistle in her teeth. THAT'S WHAT I NEED! I thought, A WHISTLE!

Wednesday: Run 3.1 miles, Spinning

I planned it so that I would have lots of time to either run or swim before my Spin class on Wednesday. I went back and forth 100 times about which one I should do, but when it came time, I'd forgotten my class outline in the car and had to ride the 10 minutes in each direction back to get it, not leaving enough time to get in the pool. I hopped on the treadmill and ran a 5K as fast as I could. "Fast" is relative. With the stress of the 50K still in my legs topped off with a 50 mile sauce from the ride yesterday my legs were reluctant to turn over. I wound up taking an unimpressive 26 minutes or so to get through the run, then ran off to teach my class without even cooling down.

Thursday: Run 10 mi, Swim 1000 yd, Spinning

I was going to Phoenix this weekend, meaning that I really had to get my shit together if I planned to do an Ironman a week. I was going to have to fall short on the swimming, but I could make it all up if I ran some 10-13 miles today, put in as many yards as I could in the pool, hiked in Arizona, and then did a quick bike-run brick when I got back on Sunday.

I got on the treadmill to bang out a half marathon, starting at 9:13 pace and trying to run each mile faster than the last. When the treadmill reset itself after an hour and I'd covered some 7 miles, I decided two things: 1) I was too tired to run 8-minute miles, and 2) I was too tired to run 13 miles. I ran a deathly 3-ish more miles and headed for the pool. In the pool everything felt terrible. The water felt heavy and my arms had no power in them. I felt uncoordinated and stiff. I decided that I probably should eat something and quit being a stubborn idiot. I got out of the pool after 1000 yards.

Once I got to my Spin class I perked up. When I used to take Spinning classes they were always miserable clock-watching sessions, but when I'm teaching, the time flies by for some reason. Partly because I'm yelling and mostly because I love what I'm doing, I always wind up in the upper end of my aerobic zone while I'm teaching, even if I've resolved to take it easy that day.

Friday: Trail marathon in a Camry

I was visiting my friend... let's call him "Flipper" (for reasons I won't explain) in Phoenix while he was visiting his grandparents before he deploys to Afghanistan for a year. Flipper is the kind of guy that makes me wish that I were straight so that he could be my boyfriend. He's just got such a great head on his shoulders, and we have so much fun together. Before I'd left Boston we'd risked our lives on the Zipper, which hadn't seen a maintenance man since 1926 and screamed like little girls as the door moved noticeably and our weight (way more than most middle schoolers) caused our cart to flip and flip and flip. This time before I came out he had texted me to see if I liked to play catch and would I climb the Agrocrag with him? (Who thinks of these things?!)

I rented a Camry (as you do) and drove the hour out to his grandparents' house on the edge of a golf course in the middle of the desert, where we got directions to the mountain. We were going to pick up lunch on the way, but we just didn't pass any restaurants in the desert. Finally we saw a sign off the freeway that said, "Four Peaks" and an arrow. I pulled off. A giant pick-up full of angry looking Mexicans was headed straight for us. "OH MY GOD, THIS ISN'T IT! This is private property and they're going to shoot us!" Flipper yelled, mostly to get me flustered. Much of this was reservation, and they could have been Indians or Mexicans, angry or bored. So we got back on the freeway. Flash forward about 20 minutes; no, this was definitely the turn.

We pulled off onto the dirt road and started bumping and rolling up what was for all intents and purposes a fire road in pretty tough shape. "How far is this going to go?" I asked. "It had better be right up here." A few miles later we passed a burned-out car with bullet holes in it. "Oh my god, we're going to get stuck out here and we're going to die!" I said. Suddenly an ATV buzzed around the corner followed by 3 more. All of them stared at us in our Camry like we were elephants at a tea party. "Flipper, this isn't a fucking road, its ATV trails!" Several miles later on we saw a Jeep. "I'm going to ask them if we're even on the right track," I said.

"No! Don't do it! They'll kill us! They probably have guns!" Flipper seemed semi-serious, but when he saw a Vietnam vet bumper sticker he said it would be okay to talk to them. Yes we were on the right trail, and the trail head was several miles up.

The Corolla was starting to slip on the sand as the trails got steeper and narrower. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked. "AAA will never come out here, and even if they could, how would they turn around once we got hooked up. I haven't had anything but a Starbucks muffin since 2:30 this morning (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog), and by the time we get to the trailhead, hike 5 miles, and get back to civilization it'll be 7 at night." And still we went on. "I'm getting really worried," I said a bit later. "I'm such a bitch when I get hungry, you don't want to be around me. I usually keep at least some Chewy bars or something around so I don't starve." Flipper broke out some grapefruits that he'd picked in his parents' yard and started peeling them, throwing the peels out the window as we ate them like oranges. "You expect me to live all day off of grapefruit?!" I asked. Now my phone was dying from searching for a signal.

We passed Pathfinder coming in the other direction at a wide point in the trail. "Is this the way to Four Peaks?" I asked.

"Sure is, but it gets pretty slippery up there. Do y'all have a cell phone, because you're going to have to call for help if you get stuck."

"Flipper, that guy said we're going to die. Can I please turn around now?"

"No, come on. It's just up the road. I'm sure there will be food."

"There is no fucking food, Flipper! We're 10 miles out in the desert!"

"I've got a survival book about edible roots of North America!"

"Fuck you."

Finally, finally we found a trailhead and pulled over. A few minutes later the Jeep pulled up. "Y'all giving up so soon?" one of the vets asked us.

"You mean this isn't it?!" I asked.

"Nah, it'd be a long hike from here. If you're looking for the 5 mile hike around the amethyst mine, then you still have another 5 miles to go."

"How far have we gone?"

"About 13 miles."

When they were gone I turned to Flipper. "I'm done," I said. "We've seen lots of scenery, and I don't feel like getting stranded in the desert at night and it's going to take us almost another hour to get up there and then hike, and then we're going to have to drive back down. I'm sorry, but I'm turning around." He gave me shit, but I think that he was relieved that someone had done what we both wanted to do.

As we were finally approaching the freeway again, I saw something sticking out of the dirt on the side of the road. "Flipper! It's a Chewy bar sticking out of the ground!"

"What are you talking about?" I kicked the car into reverse and backed up about 100 feet. "Oh my god, I see it!" he said. There, half buried in the hard dirt that was piled at the side of the trail was a Chewy bar sticking straight up out of the ground. "See?" Flipper said. "I told you that there would be food in the desert."

"Don't touch it," I said. "It's a booby trap. They'll probably shoot us."

Saturday: Nothing

Sunday: Nothing

I got back into San Francisco at about midnight on Saturday, which canceled out any chance of me getting out for an early workout. Then I had to go into the City to do a health fair at work. Then I still had all my Sunday chores. Yeah, there was no way.

Glass Elevator

Side note: On my Christmas ride I told the story of a particularly irritating trashy lady in the local Escondido Starbucks (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog!). Well, the following morning I walked into the same Starbucks and who was behind the counter ready to take my order, but the yelling cup lady with the good dye job! She worked there (making it even tackier that she was last-minute gift shopping at Starbucks on Christmas). I tipped her well and got away from the counter as fast as I could, telling myself there was no reason why she would recognize me, and that even if she did there was no way for her to know that I hated her guts. I walked up to the table with the cream pitchers, and as in many Starbucks there was a bulletin board above the little island introducing me to my local Starbucks baristas. There at eye level was my friend with the dye job. Her name was Marsha, and in big, swoopy handwriting she had written that her favorite day of the year was the day that Starbucks comes out with their Christmas cups! This was too weird. I fled.

On RAAM, there was one descent that everyone was talking about for the whole trip. It was a 10-mile descent just outside San Diego called the Glass Elevator where our guy hit speeds of over 60 mph. If there's anything that catches my attention, it's a free 60 mph descent. Of all the roads across the whole country, it was the Glass Elevator that everyone said was the coolest. We in the RV hadn't gotten to see the Glass Elevator because of the steep grades and narrow road. It wasn't until my descent off of Mt. Palomar on Christmas that I remembered about the Glass Elevator and decided to take the time to check it out.

Much more to my delight, I found out that the Glass Elevator, also known as Montezuma Grade was alongside a place called Hellhole Palms. Clearly, this was something that I couldn't pass up, despite the 1:30 drive I would have to take to get there and the fact that I had no clean shorts. Oh well, a few pustules on my ass from humping a saddle in filthy shorts never hurt anybody, right? Maybe I could even snag a picture of a sign that said "Hellhole."

When I woke up, though, there was wet on the ground. It's never supposed to rain in San Diego, but there it was all over the streets. I wouldn't be so worried about the rain, except for the fabled 60 mph descent. I did not want to die smeared across the road in some place called Hellhole. I was having vivid mental images of how far my teeth would be thrown from my mouth if my wheel slid out at 50 mph or I got a blow-out on a straightaway. Okay, I'll drive out there, and if it's too wet at least I will have seen it, I told myself. When was I ever going to find myself in East San Diego again, anyway? As you can see, there's nothing out there.
Funny thing about California is that the climate can change so much if you just cross the street. The hills trap all the weather systems where they are, creating completely different weather from one town to the next. I drove nearly due east through an hour of cows and drizzle, and as soon as I reached the top of the ridge, the road was dry and KAPOW! just like that I was in the desert. On the other side, the sun was out.

I had the choice to either park at the top of the hill and do the descent first, or drive over to the other side and earn my descent. I decided to park at the bottom of the valley and ride up, mostly because I wanted the air and my body to get as warm as possible before I started whipping down the hill tucked into a tight ball. I hopped on my bike and immediately began pounding back up the way I'd come. If all I was riding was one measly climb just to come back down, I might as well ride it hard, right? For the next hour and 20 minutes I motored up the 3,700-ish feet to the top as fast as I could, maintaining a heart rate that started at around 155 and slowly drifted up to the low 170's by the time I reached the top (my normal "steady" climbing heart rate when I'm warmed up is 165). It wasn't until much later that I realized that this could actually have been considered a pretty hard workout. I wondered again at how my mental space could make something seem completely daunting or like a piece of cake depending on how I framed it. Maybe reading all those books was bad for me. There is, after all, an angel that watches out for the stupid and makes sure that they achieve everything when if they'd known any better they'd know was impossible.

The road was a steady 6% grade for 10.5 miles. If there were steeper sections, that's when the full-face wind decided to come through with a royal Fuck You! By the top I was pretty ready to be done with the whole thing. I was chilly, I was tired, and I had been climbing balls out for 1 1/3 hours. That was a lot for a ride that I was determined not to notice that I was doing. Despite some anger at the mountain for not cooperating and ending early as I'd hoped it would, I realized that when I rode, my inner monologue was totally different from when I was running. When I run, I tell myself what a piece of shit I am. My inner monologue during a road race usually sounds something like this:
Don't fuck this up, Claire. You can hold this pace. Don't fucking slow down, and don't fuck it up by speeding up either. Just keep running. God this sucks! When is it going to be over? Why do I suck so much at running? My stomach hurts. Is there anyone around me? If I fart, will anyone hear me? Can't fart. Push. Nope, still nothing. No relief. God, will this ever end? 1.5 miles to go. That's just six times around the track. How much is left now? 1.48 miles to go. God, this sucks. Why do I do this shit to myself? When is it going to be over?

On the other hand, as I slogged my way to the top of Montezuma Grade, as cold, tired and thirsty as I was, my inner dialogue sounded something like this:
Don't stop, Claire. You can do it. Just keep pedaling. Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam. Just get to those rocks up there. Just keep pedaling. Then you'll be falling down, down, down, down. Just keep it up. You got this, keep it moving. Whatever you do, just don't stop pedaling. Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgggggggg! Why won't this wind leave me alone? Just relax. Just keep spinning. You got this. You just have to get up there...
Not that I was feeling full of joy and love of life. I was feeling distinctly miserable and if the Flying Spaghetti Monster had blown me off the mountain, it would have been a welcome break from my misery. But The Voice is much kinder to me when I ride than when I run, coaxing and cajoling me to the next landmark rather than yelling epithets, insults and abuse at me the whole way. Interesting...


I reached the rocks that I had given myself permission to call "the top," put on a jacket, and turned around. I didn't actually hit 60 mph on the descent. I doubt I even exceeded 40. It was just too cold and I wasn't feeling loose enough to take switchbacks at 40 mph. So I just rode down, feathering the brakes lightly and watching my hard-won mile markers flash by seconds apart.

That was it. There wasn't much of a story. I didn't see a single other rider all day. I had gone to a cool place, I had ridden the cool part of it, and then I had gotten off my bike. The whole thing had taken less than 2 hours, but I felt neither mentally or physically exhausted. I just felt... glad I'd done it.
I suppose I must have gotten some kind of high from it, because as I drove the 2 hours to Coronado, I was filled with that old, familiar I love San Diego! feeling. It's really gotta be the best riding in the United States, and the best climate... I will live down there someday. Grad school perhaps?

Green Christmas

Merry Christmas, everyone! 2011 is almost over, and in keeping with tradition of distilling 8,760 hours down to “good” or “bad,” 2010 has been a pretty “bad” year. A year is never made up of 100% "bad" or "good" moments, but my "bad" was pretty weighty this year, while the "good" is only just beginning. So I’m ready to be done with the old, bad shitty year and get started on the new, “you’ve earned it,” good year.

One of the more superlatively shitty parts of 2010 was the fact that I haven’t spoken to anyone in my family except my mom since I was accused of ruining Christmas last year. I did not ruin Christmas, but that didn't change the fact that no one is willing to admit that they are wrong, and so I will be excommunicated until pigs fly (for the sad, lurid “Running with Scissors” type details, you can read this post). So I was relieved to have an excuse to not come home for Christmas.

I have never, ever in 27 years missed a Christmas at home. Wherever I was and whatever I was doing, my parents always bought me a plane ticket and made sure I came home. I've missed all the other holidays, but never, ever Christmas. I really like going home for Christmas, so it helped soften the blow that it never really felt like Christmas in San Francisco. Sure, there were lights around and you could see Christmas trees in people's windows, but it's never really Christmas until it's so cold that your nose runs every time you go outside, you've had to dig your car out of the snow at least once, and... well... you've gone home. So even though all the lawns in my working class neighborhood are so lit up that you can see them from space, it looks a lot more like "tacky" than like Christmas to me.

But what to do for Christmas? My Rockstar Housemate from Boston would be visiting his brother in San Diego the week between Christmas and new years, why not drive down a day or two early (I would never dream of interrupting his Christmas with his family) and get a hotel in the least wintery place in the lower 48 states: San Diego! Nothing to make you forget it's Christmas like a room with citrus trees growing outside!

My plan was to ride Mt. Palomar, and the rest of a 130-mile loop that brought me through Temecula and back to Escondido. There were some problems with my plan, I discovered in the morning. First, the sun is only up for about 10 hours a day around Christmas, meaning that I would have to haul ass to cram 130 miles and tens of thousands of feet of climbing into 10 hours. Also, I would have to leave before the hotel breakfast began, which meant no utensils to eat yogurt or oatmeal, and NO COFFEE! Even worse, I apprehensively drove by the nearest Starbucks on the way to the beginning of my route, and it was CLOSED! (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog.) This wasn't going to be a Merry Christmas after all.

I found a 711 (711, please don't sponsor my blog) and walked inside for some bad coffee that would stave off the caffeine headache, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? Two grown adults in red and green elf suits complete with tights and jester-style three-peaked jinglebell hats at the coffee island. The female elf was serving herself coffee, while the male elf was serving himself liberally from the hot cocoa dispenser. This is too rich! I thought. At first I thought maybe the elves worked at some department store and had been out drinking all night to celebrate the end of the Christmas season, but when the male elf looked at me and yelled, "Hey! She's wearing tights just like me!" the novelty and excitement he expressed about his costume made me realize that the outfits were just one of those things that appears in your life when you're drunk. Who knows where they come from, they just are. Never mind the fact that I wasn't actually wearing any tights, I was wearing black and purple shorts.

Once I started riding, I thought of another problem with my plan: I was woefully underdressed. Just because the highs were going to be in the 60's, didn't mean that the lows wouldn't be in the 40's. I guess I had been a little optimistic when I packed only shorts and a wind-permeable jacket.

A fifth problem (but who's counting?) was that I had pulled the cue sheet for my ride verbatim off of the MapMyRide's automatically-generated cue sheets. Have you guys ever used those things? I don't recommend it. They're terrible! Forget the fact that the mileages are wrong, the names of the roads are wrong too. (And while we're on the topic, WTF with the new MMR site, I can't make head or tail of it!) In the first four miles I'd already gotten off my bike to consult the maps in my phone twice and amended my route just as many times. What would I ever do without my iPhone?

As much as I wanted to be in a good mood, I was not. It was beautiful out, and I wanted to enjoy the beauty, but I kept coming back to the fact that I'd sent home gifts for my dad and even my thuggish brother, but only Mom had sent Christmas gifts for me. I had a suspicion that my gifts would go unopened again this year, just like last year, and father's day, and Dad's birthday. And damn there was a lot of climbing on this route!

As I rode through towns like Escondido ("Hidden") and Rincon ("Corner"), and thought about other California towns with silly names like Las Pulgas ("The Fleas") and La Mirada ("The Look;" not 'view,' 'look'), I wondered who was responsible for naming these towns and whether it was really just a dim 7th grader with a Spanish dictionary opening the pages up at random. How else do you explain a town called, "Rafts" (Cayucos), "Hellhole Canyon" (this one in English), and Coalinga which admittedly doesn't mean anything but bears more than a passing resemblance to 'cunnilingus.' I saw one street named "Whaaat" (3 a's).

I was also surprised at how many cars were on the road. Not like there was traffic or anything, but I just assumed that anyone who had someone to be with on Christmas wouldn't leave the house, and certainly not before 8 in the morning. But do you know the surest way to bring a steady stream of cars on a deserted country road, even on Christmas morning? Pull down your shorts to pee. That's when 15 cars will suddenly be driving through the orange groves toward nothing but a mountain whose parks are closed. Know the second best way to bring a whole bunch of speeding cars out of nowhere? Take your hands off the handlebars to eat a snack. And what were the only stores that were open? Why, liquor stores of course! So even though it was 8 in the morning on Christmas day, it was a perfect day to be speeding through switchbacks drunk.

I have to admit, this ad at a liquor store was a little bit beyond me.

After what was already much climbing (and a little more getting lost), I reached the foot of Mt. Palomar. I was probably already at about 1000' of elevation, so I just had about 4500' to go over the next seven miles. Piece of cake!

And it was. It wasn't a hard climb with the average grade only being about 6 or 7%, it was just lo-o-o-o-o-o-o-ong for someone who hasn't done that kind of riding in awhile and doesn't want to admit how out of shape she is. Thinking back on it, I didn't have any major melt-downs (the hallmark of a Claire biking adventure) but I was definitely counting down the distance to the top by tenths of a mile, so I must have been at least a little bit unhappy.

I was a bit confused by this one too. Sure, it's a mountain, but if in December it's about 55 degrees up here, are snowballs really a big problem? And a $500 fine or 6 mos in jail, isn't that a bit steep?

The real unhappiness came after I reached the top. First of all, I had been long out of water and sweating for over 3 hours of mostly climbing. There was a general store at the top of the mountain, but surprise, surprise, it was closed. Oh well. All I had to do was hold on for a 10-mile downhill and then there had to be something open at the bottom, right? Right??

I tipped my front wheel down the other side, but was getting a little lost in the signage. I was in the state park now, and stopping off at every camp ground to try to find a water fountain. All I found were picnicking Latino families, and I didn't really feel comfortable asking them if they had any water to share. Then all the "Exit" signs were pointing back the way I came. When I found myself at a dead end in the middle of a Christian Retreat center, I finally pulled out my phone again to plan my own retreat. No signal. Worst-case scenario, I was going to have to go another two miles back up to the top of the mountain and come back down the way I'd come up.

I climbed back out of the Christain colony and made my way back toward the summit. About half way up I stopped at an intersection with a clear view of the sky, and miracle of miracles I had reception! Praise the Lord! Thank you, baby Jesus! Find me, phone! I beseeched. The little blue dot showed me that I was back on the path to where I wanted to be. A Christmas miracle! Then I looked at the path where it wanted me to go: "Road Closed."

I briefly considered just riding around the "Road Closed" sign, but then if I figured that I got 4 miles down the road before I found the road was completely impassible because of a mudslide or something, I definitely would throw a temper tantrum if I had to climb back up again. Also, this meant that I wouldn't be able to get out to Temecula.

Okay, truth be told I'd given up on going all the way out to Temecula hours ago, and between rousing refrains in my Pity Party Anthem ("All I want is a fucking drink of water! Is that too much to ask?!" --in quotes, not italics because it was whined out loud), I started to beat myself up for being so relieved to cut my ride in half. Why was I so bent about riding the longest Palomar loop on MapMyRide? Why did I always have to do the longest option of everything? Surely I was long past that "I can't compete, so I'll just do events that I can be proud to complete" mentality. Right? I mean, I run marathons on a whim just to thumb my nose at those people. I see your marathon and raise it by not training, you pussy! What the hell was I trying to prove anymore?

Just like any drug, if you dip into the depths of your own stamina and self-control too many times then you start to abuse it. You don't get high anymore from it, you just kind of start to feel used up. But you can't stop. A 10K just isn't enough if you know there's a half marathon being offered. You know you're too spent to be able to push yourself in the shorter stuff anyway. If you doubled your distance last season, then you have to quadruple it this season, just to prove that you've still got it. No, fuck that. That doesn't sound like fun at all. The mountain was enough.

Didn't I say the mountain was enough? As I rode back, I tried to cut out all the hills between me and the hotel. It turned out to be impossible. No matter which way I went, there were hills. I had tracked down some fluids from an open liquor store, but every time I hit a bump my dehydrated, undercaffeinated brain was rattling around in my skull making me want to get off my bike and fall asleep in the broken glass, trash and cacti at the side of the road. Finally, 6 hours (only 5:20 of which were riding) and 70 miles later, I pulled back up to my car.

Driving back to the hotel I stopped at the 711 for more coffee, but then driving by the Starbucks (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog) I noticed that... are those people sitting outside Starbucks?! Okay, I'll admit it. I actually drove into the parking lot hoping it would be open before I actually saw signs that it really was. (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog.) I got out of my car and got in the ridiculously long line.

Rant Alert!

Now what kinds of people do you suppose go into a Starbucks on Christmas day? There was the woman who was ordering 15 complicated drinks for everyone in her family; a woman obviously unfamiliar with the whole Starbucks ordering procedure. Even though these 15 orders were all perfectly written in Starbucks syntax, this woman had to ask 5 questions about each drink to the lone register girl taking her order. Pet peeve no. 1: When there's a complicated order and the line's backing up, pull someone else to the second register to take orders!

Behind the woman ordering in bulk was the Impulse Buyer. This woman stepped across the aisle and was checking out every piece of syndicated crap that Starbucks had for sale. This was not just the casual glance of someone bored and flipping through products while she waited for the woman in front of her to order a truckload of coffee, this woman was engrossed in the children's books and sample gift sets. She was so engrossed that she was blocking the only path from the bar to the door and people were asking her to excuse them, then bumping in to her as they passed, and she STILL didn't move a muscle. Pet peeve no. 2: If you are going to be engrossed in a public place, step to the side and make sure that you won't be in anyone's way. If you do find that you have been inadvertently blocking someone's way, then excuse yourself, step aside, and find a less heavily trafficked place to be absorbed.

Then there was me. I stank. I was covered in salt and bike grease. If you know me well, you know that I am paranoid to the point of obsession about smelling bad. When I know I smell bad, I don't want anyone within 4 feet of me, which is hard when you've got a Starbucks full of clueless people.

Then behind me there was the type of mother-daughter pair that only southern California can produce. The mother was portly and frumpy, a fact that was not hidden by her impeccable dye job and expensive jacket. She was also obviously stupid, as evidenced by the conversation she was having with her 90-pound, 5'9" overly made-up 20-something daughter handling the travel mugs across the store. "Maybe we should get one for Alex. Do you think she has one? It's cute. Do you think she would like it? Well if you think that she's already got one like it...? I've also got some of those special Starbucks gift cards. We could put some money on that and put it in the cup, but if you don't think it's a good idea..." The conversation itself wouldn't have been so bad except that it's gouche to A) reuse an already-used gift card and B) be shopping for Christmas presents at 2:00 on Christmas afternoon. Not only was she yelling this whole conversation across the store, she also had her back to the direction of the line and was ever-so-slightly backing up... into me. Pet peeve nos. 3 & 4 people who bump into you and don't even realize it, and then continue to do it without apologizing, and people who violate your personal space and THEN yell into your ear... even if they're not talking to you. Pet peeve no. 5: people who yell conversations across public places.

For the hundredth time today, I missed Boston. In Boston, these people go to Dunkin Donuts (Dunkin Donuts, please don't sponsor my blog.) and leave the Starbucks to the far classier entitled set of rude people, who turn their nose up at yelling and distance themselves from people who smell.

Story Time

I have this story that I never told you guys. Gather 'round, children. This fairy tale takes place (as all fairy tales do) in Europe, and spans three years.

After about two weeks in France only speaking to each other, Shane and I were ready to be in a country where we could speak the language, so we crossed the border into Spain a couple days ahead of schedule. Puigcerdà is a little skiing town smooshed right up against the French border. I had been here before to ride the Tres Nacions bike race in the summer of 2007. We planned to ride the Tres Nacions route the next day: an 85-mile loop through Spain, Andorra, and France that took us over the Port d'Envalirañ at 2408m (7900') it's the tallest peak in the Pyranees and the highest mountain we'd be climbing on the trip. It was also my birthday.

Back in 2007 when I did the 3 Nacions with the dirty old men, I had been drinking like a fish. It was June and I hadn't been riding in months. I was smoking a pack a day. But I really wanted to do this ride, so I pretended I was in better shape than I really was and got on my bike next to the boys. Half way up the mountain I got off my bike and refused to move until I'd gotten my breath back and every drop of lactic acid had cleared from my legs. I was like a wounded ferrel animal. I threatened to bite anyone who came near me or tried to encourage me to keep going. Once we got to the switchbacks above the treeline I was in such bad shape that I was screaming swears at anyone who tried to come near me. "Llegue cuando llegue, puedo hacerlo yo sola, ¡cono!" I'll get there when I get there. I can do it alone, fuck! "Déjame en paz, ¡hijo de puta! No te necesito. Vete a la mierda." Leave me alone, you son of a bitch! I don't need you. Go to hell... That sort of thing. When I finally rolled into the finish line I was exhausted and passed out with my head back and my mouth wide open for the whole ride back to Barcelona.

This time around, I didn't have to prove to the dirty old men that a girl could ride a course like this. I didn't even have to prove anything to Shane. On the Alpe d'Huez, we'd figured out that it was always best to be prepared. On the Col de la Croix de Fer I'd proven that when it came to long, long climbs, I could hold on to a hard gear for longer than Shane (I didn't have much choice! I was riding a compact and he a triple!). On the Col de Izoard, Shane showed me that he could lay the smack down when he wanted to and I wasn't such hot shit after all. And on Mt. Ventoux we had figured out how to work together in the wind, and how to each ride our own pace and experience the mountains in our own way. I also had to admit that on the downhills, I couldn't touch Shane, who was used to riding the hills outside San Francisco. (Right: I never got to catch Shane on the Col de Izoard because half way up the climb, the road looked like this.)

Going up the Port d'Envalira we decided that we would ride together on the flats, but each take the mountain at our own pace. The first 30 miles were downhill, so we swooped into the valley together and then stopped at a cafe to get some breakfast. "Shane, did you bring your passport?" I asked.

"My passport? No, why?"

Oh shit! "We're going through Andorra!" I said. "I don't think Andorra's part of the E.U. We're going to have to go through two customs checks, and you don't have your passport!" They hadn't checked my passport three years ago, but that was because I was part of a race. Who knew what they did the other 364 days of the year.

"Andorra's like the size of a postage stamp. Do they even have a jail to put illegal aliens into?" Shane asked. We decided that if they stopped us, then I could ride on alone since I knew the route, and Shane would ride back the way we'd come and we'd meet up later that day. I really wanted to ride this course again now that my body was clean and my legs were strong. It was my birthday and I could ditch Shane in an Andorran holding cell if I wanted to.

The border is a big, mean-looking tollbooth-like structure with men in uniforms standing around checking ID's. As we approached the gate, another rider came up and passed us as we hesitated. He didn't even slow down as he rode through the arches. "Just ride through like you know what you're doing. If they look at you, just smile, wave, and keep on riding," I told Shane. "They're not going to get in their cars and chase down a bike." He didn't need my advice, but it made me feel better to give it anyway. He thought I was crazy for even worrying in the first place. The Andorran officials didn't even bat an eye as we rolled through.

As soon as we were in Andorra, the road started to climb. I remembered one stretch of road that was so steep that my lungs burned and my legs felt like jell-o when I reached the top in 2007 (left). When I hit it this time around, it really wasn't all that bad. I stopped at the top, but it was to take a picture of a weird sculpture in the middle of a traffic circle, not because I needed to get off my bike. We kept riding, and before I knew it, we'd hit the gas station where I'd stopped three years before. That day we were riding in the middle of a cloud and I couldn't see where the road went in front of me. Today it was sunny and I could see that the grade was relatively mild. I wasn't even in my hardest gear. I waited for Shane and pointed the spot out to him. "What the hell was wrong with you?" he asked. "This is nothing!"


On we rode. We passed signs for the Andorran University, the Andorran penitentiary (guess they do have one after all) and rode by smiling, waving police men on every corner. As we climbed higher, the discount outlets, car dealerships, and liquor stores gave way to skiing chalets. Riding through the last town, two old ladies and an old man were picking their way down the steep sidewalk. "¡Venga! ¡Ánimo!" they cheered. "Eres muy fuerte," You're very strong, one of them said to me. Then to the other woman she said, "Vaya, una nena delante del hombre," Would you look at that, a girl in front of the man. It made me snicker. The Spanish of that generation are still stuck in the era when they thought that if a woman ran more than a mile, her uteris would fall out. If women rode bikes, it was of the sort with a basket in the front. Come to think of it, the dirty old men weren't too far from that attitude either. "¡Es mi cumple!" It's my birthday! I yelled over my shoulder. I wanted to share my party with everyone, even the little old Spanish ladies in their orthopedic shoes that I passed on the street.

Just outside the last town we went above the tree line.

I still felt great. We were up above the snow line now, and about to hit the bald part of the mountain with the switchbacks. I told Shane I'd see him at the top and we both attacked the last chunk at our own pace. "Mush! Mush! Mush!" I would yell down to him when I saw him on the road below me. We'd adopted the dog sledding chant somewhere in the snow on Alpe d'Huez. It made a good mantra, but I didn't need anything to get me to keep pedaling. I couldn't have been happier. The mountain was disappearing under me and I barely felt myself pushing the pedals at all. I really didn't want the climb to end, I just wanted to keep winding up, up, up into the sky. Last year at this point I wouldn't let anyone within 100 yards of me.

There was a car that kept stopping on every switchback. Whenever I passed them, the guy in the car would be filming me. Then he'd drive past me, his wife filming out the window, and wait for me at the next turn. "¿Quién eres?" I asked the first time I passed him, giving a bit of a scowl. The next time I saw him I tried Catalan, "Qui ets?" Still no indication that he understood me. "Qui êtez vous?" I tried in my attrotious French. "Who are you?" I tried in English the next time I saw him. He gave me a smile and waved. I only knew one more language to try, "Chi sei??" I asked, dredging up what remained of my Italian from the dark corners of my memory. Still no sign that he understood me. I have no idea what he wanted to film me for, but if it was a lesson on how to say "Who are you?" in five European languages, he got it. I just pretended like I was going to be famous.

Getting to the top of Port d'Envalira again wasn't just a victory over the mountain. It was a victory over my past, and it was perfect symbolism that it happened on my birthday.

Finally I reached the summit and sat at the side of the road to have a snack. Of all the mountains we'd climbed on this trip, this had been the highest and the easiest. The cameraman came over and said something to me in a language I didn't understand. I smiled at him and waved. He was only three feet away, and I was supposed to say something back, but I had no idea even what language to speak to him in, so I just stuck my hand in his face and wiggled it around. He looked confused and walked away.

Shane came over the crest behind me, and we snapped a few pictures before launching ourselves down the other side. Riding downhill for some 10 miles is pretty chilly business when there's still ten feet of snow on the ground. As we descended, my muscles tightened up from shivering and my eyes watered from the wind. Up ahead in the road I could see someone walking. With my eyes watering she looked topless, but as I got closer I could see that she was wearing a flesh-colored skank tank. Still, it was 40 degrees up here, there was snow on the ground, and she was wearing a skank tank. She was obviously a hooker but how the hell did she get up here?! She was 5 miles from the nearest village on the French side, and about 10 miles and a mountain peak away from the nearest village on the Spanish side. I mean, I know that hookers in this part of the world hang out at the side of the highway, but shouldn't mountain hookers wear a parka or something?

We came around the final sharp corner and nearly rode up the ass of a Citroen as it slammed on its brakes for the border control. The Frenchies were much more diligent about checking incoming cars than the Andorrans, and if Shane got stopped now, he'd be stuck in Andorra until I could ride back to the hotel, get his passport, and ride 40 miles back up the mountain. We rode around the cars through the lane where they make suspicious vehicles pull over. Three French officers were staring suspiciously into one car's trunk. Doopy, doopy, dooooo... we rolled through the border trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. The French officials didn't even look up at us as we rolled through. I breathed a big sigh of relief and my muscles tightened a fraction (not much though, it was still cold!).

One final small climb and it was straight down for 20 miles back into Spain. Three years ago it had taken me almost eight hours to cover the 85-mile course. This time (not including stops) it had taken me less than five and a half. Later, when I told one of the dirty old men about it, he told me that I had only been about half an hour behind the girl who won the 3 Nacions this year. "And she rode in a pack!" he told me.

I knew I was stronger than any of the dirty old men gave me credit for, but now I was going to get a chance to prove it. Back in the day they had seen their role on our club rides as practically carrying me over the distance. It drove me nuts! As I'd gotten to be a faster rider stateside, I'd checked in with the club's web master from time to time, telling him my results. When I told him about one race, he told me I must have the conversion rate wrong. "34 kmph for 93 kilometers sounds too fast, but congratulations for doing so well," he told me. I was so mad I could spit, I sent him the results, but I don't think he ever checked them. Now I knew I was stronger than they'd ever seen me, and I couldn't wait to show those boys what a nena could do.

We drove into Barcelona that night, and the next morning I got up early to go on a club ride with the dirty old men. "You're not riding that old Decathlon anymore!" one of them said, sizing up my carbon bike and clapping me on the back.

"You've lost weight," said Domingo, who I don't think ever even knew my name.

"You came on the perfect day!" the webmaster said. "Today we're doing a hill climb time trial for club points." Perfect! This was my chance.

We rode about 20 miles outside of town. A slimy toad of a man named Miquel who was always grabbing his crotch and making cock jokes over lunch kept trying to break away. He did this all the time, just to show the rest of the club what kind of balls he had. Every time he did it, I would shoot off after him and pass him. I could never get much of a lead, though, because I had to stop at every intersection to make sure I went the right way. "Hey, Clara," a guy named Salvador told me, "slow down, we're all a bunch of old men!"
"Save it for the climb," the webmaster advised. I know how to save it, old man! Just you wait and see! If he thought he was escorting me up this whole hill, he had another thing coming.

Eventually we reached the spot. Everyone stopped at the bottom of the hill, and the webmaster counted heads. There were twenty of us, including me. "The first person who gets to the top tells the person behind him what number he came in and so forth," he explained. Remember your number and we'll write it down over lunch.

"Hey! Where are they going?!" Salvador yelled, pointing up the road. The club president (a 70-year-old ape of a racist troll) and crotch-grabbing Miquel had already taken off up the hill. "Disqualified! Cheaters!" everyone yelled. "GO!" someone else yelled. I was already clipped in and took off like a shot.

"Hey, wait up Clara!" the webmaster yelled after me. "Remember, this hill is 4 km long!"

The hill was a steady 6% grade from bottom to top, and I found my rhythm almost right away. Quickly we passed the two cheaters, and by the 1km mark, it was just me, the web master, and a guy named Lluis huffing shoulder to shoulder. Lluis had the reputation of being one of the best climbers in the club, and he had finished hours ahead of the rest of us three years ago at 3 Nacions. He was the one driving the car where I passed out and snored the whole way home from Puigcerdà.

We pushed harder and harder, and between two and three kilometers, the webmaster cracked and blew out the back. At three kilometers I started to pull ahead of Lluis, and slowly opened a 50-yard gap on him. I knew that the end must be near, so I thought I had it in the bag. My lungs and legs were on fire, so I decided to let up just a bit in the last 500m. Suddenly I looked behind me and Lluis wasn't there. I looked over my other shoulder and there he was, closing fast. We sprinted for the line, but he already had more momentum than I did and won by a couple of bike lengths.

"¡Me cago en la leche!" I gasped, patting Lluis on the shoulder. Me cago la leche roughly translates to 'I can't fucking believe it,' but literally it means 'I'm shitting myself in the milk.' "De verdad," Really, I said, clutching my stomach and gasping for air, "¡me estoy cagando!" I'm shitting myself. "That was a dirty trick!" "Quizás te hubiera ganado," Maybe I would have beaten you, I joked with Lluis, "si no hubiera hecho el recorrido de las Tres Nacions ayer" If I hadn't done the 3 Nacions route yesterday.

"The whole thing?" he asked.

"The whole thing."

Luckily I didn't shit myself, and I was feeling better by the time the webmaster turned up about two minutes later. "¿Quién ganó?" Who won? he asked.

"I took Clara in the last few meters," Lluis told him. "But I had to fight for it."

"I was leading most of the way up!" I made sure to let him know.

Everyone asked the same thing as they crested the hill. "¿Quién ganó?"

"Lluis, but the girl was right behind him," they said. "Lluis almost lost."

"¡¿La nena ya está aqui?!" The girl's already here? slimy Miquel said in disbelief when he saw me.

"Nos ganó a todos," She beat us all, the webmaster explained.

Now that I was recovered, I leaned on my bike watching the last of the riders reach the top. At one point I looked over my shoulder up the road and saw someone going off down the hill. It was slimy Miquel who didn't like losing to a girl. I got on my bike and went after him. "I'll meet you at the bottom!" I yelled over my shoulder.

Miquel was always one of the stronger climbers in the club, but where he always beat everyone was on the downhills where he was drunker and more fearless than everyone else. I pounded the pedals till my gears spun out and then crouched down over my handlebars and started closing in on him. Soon enough I passed him on a straightaway and swooped across his path to cut into a tight turn. When he got to the bottom of the hill I was already standing at the side of the road leaning against my bike. He gave me a look and rolled by to find the restaurant. I had him.

Victory was oh-so-very sweet. At that point in the trip I was desperately homesick and really didn't want to be in Barcelona, but to have zoomed up the Port d'Envalira so much faster than before, and then to have dropped all the boys who had been so adament about always trying to be footmen rather than teammates, it was the best birthday ever.