The Claire Went Over the Mountain, Part II

Okay, I've used this title before, but that was over a year ago, and it was on the old blog anyway. I think I'm so damned clever that I'll use it again. I reserve the right to use this title whenever I damned well please, so there.

Several weeks ago when Anne and I climbed Mt. Wachusett, I shot my mouth off about climbing the tallest mountain in Massachusetts. Then, some anonymous little birdie whispered in my ear that Mt. Greylock, with a vertical drop of nearly three times that of Mt. Wachusett was the tallest mountain in Massachusetts. As I normally do when someone points out an error of mine, I beat myself up more than was necessary (picture Chris Farley banging his forehead yelling "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!!!"), and bitterly promised myself that I would climb Mt. Greylock, sooner rather than later if possible.

Admittedly, deciding to climb a mountain in New England in mid-November wasn't one of my most shining displays of good sense. We have had a mild fall, but the day's high was projected to be only in the mid-40's, and what this fall has lacked in low temperatures, it's made up for in wind. But this was likely my last chance for an outdoor ride for the next four months. Never one to listen to the voice of reason, I planned one last century ride up Mt. Greylock and through the Berkshires and Catskills of Massachusetts and New York.

I packed everything the night before and woke up early to make sure I had plenty of daylight. I don't know why I thought that a drive that normally takes two and a half hours would only take an hour and a half, but that's how I budgeted my time for the morning. So even though I left ahead of schedule, I was still running nearly an hour late when I arrived in Pittsfield two (not one) and a half hours later. I was a bit apprehensive about the weather at first, but the first little hill warmed me up quickly and it was a beautiful day. It wasn't even all that windy, for once. All the pavement was smooth, and there was very little debris on the wide shoulders. Still, there was the occasional shattered beer bottle, and I spent the whole first 20 miles of the ride convinced that thousands of tiny shards of glass were working their way through my tires to give me a flat. I rubbed my glove against my tires, just like you're supposed to, but wouldn't it be just my luck to get a flat...? Does that ever happen to you guys? Where you spend an entire ride convinced your tire's about to blow at any second and you'll be stranded 3 hours from your nearest lifeline?


I found the road that goes up the mountain without much fanfare and started climbing... right away. You know those roads that look more like vertical walls? The ones you look at and you think, please, oh PLEASE don't be the road I have to turn on, please don't be this one!? Well Notch road was that road. It didn't waste any time in showing me what it had in mind for me, opening with a roughly 12% grade before settling into about 7 or 8% sprinkled with double digits at the curves to keep things interesting.

Before long the houses had bigger and bigger yards, and eventually they disappeared completely. I passed a trailhead, turned a corner, passed a parking lot, and saw a big chain across the road with a big, old orange barrel smack in the middle of it. A big, reflective sign said, "ROAD CLOSED."

Clearly, they didn't mean me.

Note: The AVERAGE grade is 6%, but there are several spots that linger well above that, and even reach grades of over 20% in places.

I ducked under the chain and hopped right back on my bike. The road surface was PERFECT, newly paved and glassy smooth. It was a little bit wet and slick from yesterday's rain, with some debris and branches in the road from recent storms, but all in all it was the cleanest road I've seen in a long time.

Fucking steep though.

The average grade for the 8.8 miles to the summit is 6%, but that means STEEP segments interspersed with milder spots for recovery and a relatively flat mile across a the crest to the summit. I can push some pretty big gears for a peanut my size, and there were times that I was in my easiest gear, climbing out of the saddle, and wondering if I was going to have the strength to keep turning the pedals. For the first time I wondered if I should get a triple chainring before I go to Europe. At one point I my breathing and heartrate got so out of control that I did have to stop and stand still for a minute before I could go on. But I rode every inch of those 2,776' up the mountain.

Despite the cold temperatures (it must have been in the mid-30's by the time I was getting close to the top), I was sweating bullets. My sweat smelled unfamiliar, like my asshole brother whose stench can knock you down 3 rooms away: something like organic hippie moisturizer or something. I kept snorting my own sweat droplets and felt like I had the ocean in the back of my throat. I wondered if the sweat in my ponytail would freeze. Isn't the back of your neck one of those places that you have to keep warm because it affects your perceived temperature throughout the whole body? The whole second half of the climb I kept thinking, Fuck the true summit, I don't need those last 300 feet! When I get up there I just need to get down as quickly as possible so I don't freeze to death.

But then suddenly I came out of the woods, and I was in the middle of the sky and I could see EVERYTHING. The Berkshires were below me off to one side, the Catskills off to the other, and all these little towns nestled in through the valley. It was the kind of view that is impossible to describe without sounding cheezy. You know, when you can see for so far that you can see the shadows of all the different clouds that have the diameters of whole mountains? I am not one to be taken in by scenery, but I was taken in by this view. So when I reached a crossroads where I could go up to the summit, or just continue back down out of the park, I rode the rest of the way to the top. It turned out to be the mellowest slope on the mountain.

As I was climbing the last chunk to the top, I thought about how sad it was that I didn't know anyone else who would have been able to make this climb with me. They had no idea what they were missing. The ones who might be physically strong enough don't have the time to make such silly trips. I kept thinking about how great I was and went back and forth between feeling smug and feeling sad. It sure is lonely at the top.

Then there was nowhere to go but down, down, down. I rode slowly not because of the slick roads, or because of the sharp, hairpin turns, but because it was fucking COLD and I wanted to cut down on the wind as much as possible. Gone was the pompous satisfaction in knowing that I and I alone was badass enough to do this ride. All I could think about was whether my lips were blue or not. Ten miles and about 20 minutes later I reached the road block on the other side of the park. I had to walk my bike around the metal gate, and I was shivering so badly I had trouble walking at all. On the other side was a Visitors' Center, and there must be a God, because not only was it open, but there was a fireplace inside.

"How many of you guys are up on that road?" the ranger asked when I got in.
"I only saw one other nut case up there," I said, shivering violently.
"Road's closed. You're not supposed to be up there, but my boss hasn't seemed too upset about it so far," he said. This ranger gig was clearly how this man was spending his retirement. He was probably around 200 years old, and what coffee-colored teeth he had left were falling all over each other trying to fill the gaps that the missing ones had left. His official jacket had what looked like an ancient soup stain down the front, and he was wearing gators over his boots despite a clear lack of snow or calf-deep mud anywhere in the visitor's center. "You'd better get next to the fire," he told me.

So I rotisseried myself in front of the fire for about 20 minutes until the shivering subsided and from time to time he came over and talked to me. "You doing a loop 'round the park?" he asked.
"Sort of," I said. I pulled out my directions and read the major roads I'd be following.
"You going all the way over towards Troy?" (New York) he asked. "You know, there's an honest-to-goodness mountain range between here and there..."
"I know," I said. I'd seen the elevation profile, and had specifically planned to go off in that direction to get a little more climbing in. Now that I was out here, though, it wasn't the climbing I was afraid of, it was the descending. I wouldn't be climbing anything half as tall as what I'd just gone over, and I still had four and a half hours to do the next 60 miles before it got dark.
Despite running a hilly 17 miles yesterday, my bike and I felt great and I was mentally ready for an all-day ride. I was just so damned cold! As I walked out the door, not quite finished shivering he called after me, "You'd better cut your ride short!"

It was the last straw. I've mentioned before how the naysayers can shake my confidence and make me convinced that suddenly I can't do something that every experience in my life has told me I can. As I rode the last couple of miles down the hill to the highway I started shivering so violently that I was afraid I was going to start jerking around my handlebars. I knew I was only about 10 miles from the car, so rather than turning off towards New York, I just rode back. Of course within about 5 minutes of pedaling on flat ground I was more than warm enough and feeling like a million bucks.

As I drove back home, I was furious at myself, furious at the sunny sky, and furious that there were clearly hours and hours and hours of daylight left. I was even more furious when I looked at my thermometer and saw that it was nearly 60º outside. What a fucking loser! I know that I'm a strong cyclist, but for some reason I forget. Sometimes I convince myself that I'll never, ever be able to do things that I've done dozens of times, just like riding 100 miles today. I was really, really in need of a good ride to bolster my confidence. As you might have noticed, I've been a bit glum lately, and it's seeping into everything. I've kept up my bike volume this fall, but for some reason I don't believe I will ever be able to reach the level I was at this summer. I know it makes no sense, but I'm convinced I'm going to wake up a 15-mph rider next year and that my running and swimming are going to fall apart at a similar rate. I just really, really, really needed a good ride to feel strong again. I was feeling good today, but all the confidence I built going up the mountain had evaporated by the time I got back down.

You fucking loser, I kept telling myself on the ride home. You fucking slack off at EVERYTHING! This is one of the reasons that long drives can be a bad thing. I think too much. No wonder you suck so bad, I was convinced now that I had crossed the threshold now from being paranoid about sucking to ACTUALLY sucking, you always take the easy way out! Don't feel like doing a run? You just don't do it, you loser. Everyone ELSE is out there working their little tails off, and you're just sitting on your ass eating macaroni & cheese until doing a workout suits you. I knew that I'm in my offseason, and there was no reason to be beating myself up for going home after only 47 miles, but I was anyway. What are you even DOING going for a long ride today? It's not your biking that's the fucking problem. It's your running. Has it even occurred to you that you have a MARATHON in 2 months, and that you're supposed to be trying to qualify for Boston in 3? Don't you think you should be spending your energy actually RUNNING rather than climbing up fucking mountains in the dead of winter?! Didn't that idea fucking OCCUR to you?! My inner voice can really be a douchebag sometimes. But he's right (my inner voice is a man). If I'm so scared of sucking when the snow has melted and I'm finally set free again, maybe I should be taking this time to work on the things that I REALLY suck at, rather than wasting all my energy doing the fun stuff.

I know, I know. Lighten up.

Allez, allez, allez!

It's that time of the year again. While I should be training like crazy for Disney right now, I've conveniently put up a blinder in my mind around that topic (marathon? what marathon? ...and a half?! I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about). Instead I'm spending all my mental energy planning for next summer when I'm going to be a cycling monster. I love planning. In many ways I like it better than the actual training and racing itself. I could (and have) sit there for hours planning out my training, mapping out the minutia down to the last detail, and getting ready for anything. I feel like the planning itself will make me faster. Like simply the act of writing down fast interval times will somehow make them attainable. It makes me feel excited. It makes me feel safe with all the workouts in their tiny little boxes on a calendar or excel sheet.

Often half the plan gets thrown out the window, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. Just the act of thinking it through the first time will help me come up with an even BETTER plan next time. I realize what parts were unrealistic and which parts were too easy, where I need more work and where my strengths really lie. I have a whole notebook devoted to evolving plans for plans for plans. I know, I know.

*** NERD ALERT ***

I have lots and lots of outings planned for 2009, ranging from 10-mile time trials to 400-mile weekend trips to Canada and back. But the most exciting one of all, and the one that requires the most planning is my trip to Europe. Shane, my brother from another mother, is going to be my date for my friend Emily's wedding in London on May 24. But as long as we're going to be in Europe, we might as well make the best of it. So after dropping some presentable clothes and bulky non-essentials in London, we are going to go across the channel and spend a few days in Paris, before setting out for Barcelona... on our BIKES!!!

And we're not going in a straight line either. No way, José... or pas de tout, Joseph! We may never get this chance again, and we're going to make the best of it, dammit! From Paris we're going to ride southeast to Lyon. From Lyon we'll continue southwest through the Alps along the Italian border over such climbs as l'Alpe d'Huez, until we hit Nice. From Nice we're going to take some flat days along the coast through Marseilles before turning back inland to hit the meat of the Pyrenees. We'll ride back northeast as far as Toulouse so that we can ride through Andorra and over the Port d'Envalira, the tallest peak in the Pyranees, before riding down into Spain and south to Barcelona. It works out to be about 1,400 miles in 14 days.


Shane is a planner. I am a planner. And ever since we committed to actually making this happen a couple of weeks ago, we've both set to work furiously planning and planning to our little hearts' content. Shane bought maps and books with titles like "France by bike", and I've been studying google maps of France locating every famous Tour de France climb I can. We both speak Spanish and English, but we're setting about learning French. Shane is taking a French 2 class at community college and I'm digging around on my shelves looking through old French books from high school and college to see if I can resurrect the few years of French I took. I'm re-reading all 1300 pages of Les Misérables (no better way to get acquainted with France than Victor Hugo). We've both downloaded and started listening to every Learn French podcast on iTunes. I've already gone to the bike shop and grilled them on the advantages of various bike and component combinations.

(Well-intending commenters: Unless you've done a similar trip, don't worry about giving advice. We've got enough advice from people who know from experience to cull through for the time being.)

Six months out we're trying to figure out all the details. Should we bring our crappy bikes or our racing bikes? Panniers or backpacks? Where will we get food and water? (Shane wanted to bring iodide pills, but I pointed out that we were going to France, not India, and we surely would never go more than an hour without seeing a bar of some kind). Hostels, or camping? (probably a mixture) How would we find camp grounds? Are sleeping bags too bulky? What clothes would we need? (or more specifically, what clothes WON'T we need?) How are we going to get our bike boxes around? (cardboard most likely) How are we going to get our bikes back to London? How much money will we need? (Lots) While I'm wishing we had a French-speaking third musketeer who had unlimited resources to follow us in a fully-stocked RV, Shane has already begun mentally packing and re-packing his panniers.

So without further adu, here's the porn. Day by day, here's the plan so far. Of course they'll most likely evolve over the next 5 months:

Day 1 - Paris to Auxerre - 116 miles

Day 2 - Auxerre to Chalon-sur-Saône - 108 miles

Day 3 - Chalon-sur-Saône to Lyon - 83 miles

Day 4 - Lyon to Grenoble - 80 miles (into the Alps now)

Day 5 - Grenoble to Embrun - 118 miles (including l'Alpe d'Huez and Mt. Dauphin!!!)

Day 6 - Embrun to Nice - 130 miles (Last day in the Alps)

Day 7 - Nice to Toulon - 109 miles

Day 8 - Toulon to Marseille - 43 miles

Day 9 - Marseille to Montpellier - 119 miles

Day 10 - Montpellier to Castres - 112 miles (Into the Pyrenees now)

Day 11 - Castres to Toulouse - 42 miles

Day 12 - Toulouse to La Seu d'Urgell - 135 miles (The hardest day of the trip. We start in France, go through Andorra and over Port d'Envalira, the highest peak in the Pyrenees, and then down into Spain.)

Day 13 - La Seu d'Urgell to Montseny - 94 miles

Day 14 - Montseny to Barcelona - 65 miles

Bushwhacked: The Sequel

Note: Some data is missing from the last paragraph or two of this post. Numbers will be made available when the results are posted on coolrunning. I'm too lazy to wait, and I'm sure you didn't actually care in the first place.

One year ago I had just run the Cape Cod Marathon, and thus my unhealthy relationship with coolrunning.com bloomed. Back then I was in this phase where I loved running, I loved life, and I was perfectly happy to suck at running and bring up the rear in every race I ever ran. I guess a year can change a lot of things. The first weekend in November last year, with the new lease on life that Cape Cod had given me, I showed up at the Busa Bushwhack, a "9.3"-mile (turns out it's only about 8.7 miles) trail run. This is where I met Gadfly Thom and Grandpa. Like I said, it was the beginning of an era.

I've never done the same race more than once until this morning. This year I showed up to the Busa Bushwhack in shape, having PRed in a marathon again within the last month (this time nearly 45 minutes faster than last year), and with a much more pessimistic view of my own running. Rather than being content to bring up the rear, I wish that I could maintain the same relative standard of running that I can with my cycling and swimming. This year Thom wasn't there, but I did have a friend (a change from last year when I didn't have ANY friends at all having just moved back to the US). Michelle had come along for her first trail race, and only third trail run ever. On her first run in the woods, I had had to stop and wait for her a million times as she picked her way cautiously over roots and rocks. The second time we did an even more challenging rout and she fell... twice! (I only fell once that day.) Maybe it's because of my low center of gravity compared to hers, but I tend to have pretty good balance off road, and I was pretty excited because this would probably be my only chance to post a faster time than Michelle at anything that involved running.

Grandpa was there again this year, and I was glad to see that he was wearing his Pineland Farms 50K t-shirt, which meant they actually had let him finish last May (despite not making the cut-off). I pointed him out to Michelle. "Michelle, look! There's Grandpa! The one sitting over there on the floor!"

"Does he actually know that he's your nemesis?" she asked, incredulously. While I was shooting knives with my eyes, Grandpa seemed oblivious to my existence.

"It may surprise you to hear this," I said in an ironic tone, "but most of the drama that happens in my life only occurs in my own head."

"Oh really?" she said, just as ironically. "I had no idea."

There are several things that I like about this race. First of all, it's FREE. You get a packet, a t-shirt, numbers, and everything, but you're not obligated to pay a penny. Secondly, the t-shirts are recycled from other races. This year, the mediums were from some 5K back in May and the larges were from a local Jewish community center. Third, you can get your t-shirt signed by Rick Busa (for whom the race is named) for free. Who is Rick Busa? Just a local guy in the running club that does Western States every year. Forth: for every $5 you donate to the local running club, you get three raffle tickets, and at the end of the race they keep calling off raffle ticket numbers until everyone's won something. The whole thing just seems so tongue-in-cheek to me, giving the finger to all the races that take themselves so seriously. I love it!

Rather than holding the pre-race meeting in the school gym where everyone was hanging out before the race, they had us stand outside in the 30-something-degree weather while they explained how the course was marked: excessively. Pink ribbons along the whole course, before a turn there would be 2 pink ribbons AND a dinner plate with an arrow on it AND if you went the wrong way, there were yellow ribbons all over the wrong trail. "So if you get lost," said the race director, "you're stupid." They would have two sweep runners AND a sweep EMT running the course behind us in case anything went wrong. "And I don't want anyone enjoying the scenery!" Rick Busa announced. "Keep your eye on the trail!" On the subject of iPods the race director said, "And if you feel like you need to run with an iPod while you're trail running, you're a total idiot!" Have I mentioned I love this race? I gave a strict look at Michelle who often races with her iPod.

"I left it at home!" she beamed.

I must not have charged my Garmin right after yesterday's ride, because it wouldn't even turn on. Oh well. As we ran the first block or two on the road before hitting the trailhead I was pretty out of breath. "How fast are we running, Michelle?" I gasped.

"7:10," she said.

"Good thing we warmed up, huh?" I said. We hadn't warmed up at all. But I knew it would be important to be as near to the front as possible once we hit the single-track trail. If not you get stuck behind the pokey people and it takes forever before you can run a pace that you want. Once we hit the single track I started passing people comfortably. The trail was covered with rocks and roots, which in turn were covered in leaves, hiding some of the perils that lay beneath, but I was able to pick a path easily without modifying my pace much. I knew I was cooking, but I was feeling great so I kept right on going fast. In no time flat we'd hit the turn-off for the 5-mile race and I'd noticed I was breathing kind of hard. Then we hit the first serious hill. That's when I knew I was in trouble. As the trail started climbing I realized that if I didn't slow down considerably I was going to "lose 3 minutes", aka "become reacquainted with breakfast", aka puke my guts out. So I slowed to a walk on the steepest part of the hill and the people that I had been following up until then pulled irrevocably ahead.

My legs were burning when I reached the top, but my stomach had settled down a bit, and I started feeling good again as I picked my way back down the hill. Often on trail I slow down a lot on the downhills because I'm trying to find good footing, but on this trail I was able to pick a line easily and was making pretty good time... Until I mis-judged a root that was hidden under some dried leaves and slipped. I hugged a tree with my right arm to catch my fall and had just enough time to wonder if I was going to tear my shirt as I swung around it. I wound up swinging around 180º and facing back up the hill before my feet found the ground again, still upright. I saw there was another runner a ways up the hill behind me. I righted myself and kept running, but he passed me anyway. "I hope you didn't see that," I said.

"See what?" he said in that way that meant that he'd seen the whole thing.

A cool person would have said, "Oh, nothing..." here. Instead, I said, "Me almost eating it and wrapping myself around a tree."

I was alone for awhile, which inspired me to pick up my pace again, but pretty soon I was feeling breakfast again. Over the next several miles I tried to keep my speed under control in order to keep my stomach under control, but I did have to walk twice more. This course was way hillier than I remembered. One of those times, as I warned the people around me that I might blow chunks at any second a woman in a pink top ran by me. She was way too old to be in my age group, but I didn't care. No woman in pink passes me THIS far into a race, dammit! For the next several miles I stalked her like an animal stalks its prey, and finally, just before we pulled out of the woods, she slowed down on a slight uphill and I saw my chance. I pressed down on the gas pedal and passed her at the crest of the hill. We congratulated each other as we passed, but as I tried to settle into a pace in front of her and was hit by the strongest wave of nausea of the morning. I slowed down a bit, but I guess the psychological damage had been done, because she didn't make a move to pass me. Ha! I sure showed her!

As we hit the road to run the last quarter mile to the finish line a man passed me. "You look like pure power!" he said.

"I feel like pure vomit," I groaned back.

For miles I'd been hearing footsteps and heavy breathing behind me, and had yelled over my shoulder for the guy to pass several times, but he was still there. I thought that now that we were on the road he was sure to make his move. When I turned around, though, he was still there, several paces behind me. I couldn't believe that it was a fit-looking guy well over 6 feet tall who had been drafting off of little old me for at least 3 miles. "Hey," I yelled. "If I puke will you tell me what your time was at the finish?"

"We've been running 9:21 pace," he told me. It wasn't really what I'd asked, but I guess it was nice to know.

Somehow I didn't puke. On the uphill in to the finish (where Grandpa out-sprinted me last year), I eased off just enough to keep my breakfast down, and miraculously the tall man didn't pass me. I finished in 1:19:46, roughly 9:10 pace, but not nearly as impressive as the 8:35 pace that they had me marked as on the results. "Man, thanks for letting me follow you through that last half," the tall man said. "Sometimes I find it so hard to pick my way through all those rocks, but if I can watch someone who's a few paces in front of me, then I'm okay. You were great. I hope I wasn't bothering you," he said.

"No, you kept me running scared," I said. It was true, but not for the reason he might have thought. When I had do-si-doed with the tree back at mile 3, I was pretty sure a drop or two of pee had escaped, and I was wearing the grey running tights where you can see moisture patches easily. Even if I hadn't actually peed myself, I always get a sweat patch in my crotch that LOOKED like a pee stain. The last thing I wanted was someone running behind me for 4 miles, looking at my pee stain. It turns out I didn't even have one, sweat OR pee, so I had no reason to worry.

Michelle only crossed a couple of minutes behind me, but I already had a Straight Man Over 40 talking my ear off. I hadn't even said anything to him, hadn't even looked his way, he'd just come up and started talking to me. I had to yell over his chatter to cheer Michelle on as she crossed the finish line. "I fell!" were Michelle's first words after she finished. The newest member of the Straight Men Over 40 Claire Fan Club then joined our post-race conversation and followed us back into the cafeteria for the raffle and took a seat at our table. After some time Michelle and I finally escaped to go to the bathroom and I whispered, "Michelle, I want him to go away! See what I mean, though? I don't have to DO anything, they just find me!" I'd never had a witness to my charming of the Straight Men Over 40 before. Some people can charm bees, others snakes, I charm older men.

"Well, it looks like he's not going anywhere, so you might as well get used to him," she said.

In the end I got third out of eight in my age group, compared to third out of three last year. Still, I was well outside the first place needed to win a log with a little plate on it saying the race name, date, and your age group. I finished almost 16 minutes ahead of my time from last year (or nearly 2 minutes per mile!) and in the top 58% (65/112) of the overall field, compared to only 87% (77/89) last year. For a second I wanted to be disappointed, because if I hadn't felt like I was going to puke, I wouldn't have slowed down so much. But then I realized that if I hadn't felt like I was going to puke, I probably wouldn't have been running so fast in the first place. Maybe on a perfect day I could have run about 2 minutes faster, but that wouldn't have been nearly enough for me to close the gap between me and the next chick in my age group anyway. I ran a good race. I ran hard, and for some of the time that I was running hard, I felt good doing it. But I also ran just hard enough that I didn't feel TOO good. I'd suffered. I'd felt strong through the whole thing and didn't start tripping over rocks and roots at the end, which meant that my form had held up for the full 8.whatever miles.

And best of all, this year I beat Grandpa by 24 and a half minutes. Michelle thinks I need a new nemesis. I THINK that all the women I'd seen in pink at the starting line were accounted for, and finished behind me, so that was good enough for me.

FUCK

My Garmin has bit the dust. I don't know how I can live without it. Seriously, I could part with my iPod before I could part with my Garmin. I might even be able to live without my car before I could live without my GPS.

Yesterday it was working just fine.

Today I grabbed it off the computer, and when I went to turn it on, no reaction.

When I got home and put it in its cradle, nothing happened.

I made sure the computer was on, the USB was plugged in firmly to the computer, the cord was firmly plugged in to the cradle, and the watch was firmly in place in the cradle. Nothing.

I plugged it in to a different computer. No reaction.

I dug out the wall plug and tried it that way. No reaction.

I plugged the cradle into my phone charger (which is the same kind of plug; I've charged it this way before). No reaction.

Either the watch is dead or the cradle is dead, no idea which yet.

Garmin customer support is closed, will find out more tomorrow. The thing should still be under warranty, but they say they need an original sales receipt. It was a Christmas gift last year, fat chance I can track THAT down. I can't afford a $300 piece of equipment right now.

I can't live without my Garmin.

If any of you have had problems with your 205's or 305's, or had any experience with the Garmin customer service department, can you please let me know?

Thanks.

Update: Okay, never mind. I spoke too soon. I found this on a message board, and I'll share the solution with you, rather than taking down the post. I hope that it comes in useful to someone someday. Here's the secret:
Hold down the MODE and RESET buttons together for about 3-5 seconds. Then try to turn it on again. Don't ask me why, but it worked. I didn't even lose my last workout.

Still alive

I'm still alive. I'm just sorting through some shit that has nothing to do with this blog.

I'm sorry I haven't been following up on all your blogs, I really have wanted to.

I know that Rocketpants did a triathlon recently that I haven't read about.
I still don't know how Katie B's first half ironman went.
I'm sure I'm missing developing drama in Iron Bob's to-go-to-NZ-or-not-to-go debate.
I know Angry's been saying some pretty controversial stuff that I haven't had the energy to read.
I want to see what insight and training tips Bree Wee has to impart on the world.
I want to see how Judi is healing up after spanking her first 50K.
I want to see how Iron Matron is holding up to the final taper before Clearwater.
I hear Leana's getting even more serious about training and want to read about it, and the food that surrounds it.
I want to hear about how Damon's precise preparations for a BQ are going.
I want to know if there are any new developments with Nitsirk's fetus.
And if your name wasn't mentioned here, I want to read about you, too.

But right now I've gotta sort through some shit. I'll be back soon, I promise.

And no, I'm not drinking.

Fragments of posts that will never see the light of day

This morning I woke up and thought it was Friday. It's not. Is there anything worse than thinking it's Friday and then finding out that it's not?! I think not.

Things have been kind of ho-hum in Claire world. Nothing really interesting has happened, and work has been a bit crazy, so I haven't had much energy to devote to my blog or yours. Sorry. Here are some things that I considered posting about, and then lost interest:

I did a 90-mile ride last Saturday with over 6,000' of elevation gain/loss. It was supposed to be 110 miles with an additional 500 feet or so, but I missed an arrow and cut out 20 miles by accident. I'm really excited to find so much hilly terrain in my own home state, even if I do have to drive over 2 hours to get there. You should do this ride with me.


With fall comes running in the dark again. I did my first dark run on Tuesday. I thought that since I was going to be running on the same sidewalk with no major intersections and lots of lights that I could get by without a headlamp and crossing guard vest. Wrong. A car slowed down for a stop sign and then rolled right on through, almost over me. I thought they'd seen me crossing, I was staring right into their windshield, I was only a 2 feet in front of their bumper... and then 1... They kept rolling. I'd already passed half their car when they started accelerating. They almost hit me. I hate wearing my crossing guard vest, but I love having use of my lower limbs.

I'm running again, by the way.

Anne broke 1:50 in a half marathon. Damn, now I have to go beat her or admit defeat. Fuck. Shortly after Anne finished, the youngest competitor in the half marathon came busting in for the final lap of the field before the finish. He was 8-years-old. He broke 2 hours. A few minutes later, with just over 2 hours on the clock, his 10-year-old sister came in. Both looked strong, but I kind of think their parents should be arrested.

I mapped out my cycling season for 2009. It includes a lot of road racing, but even more brevet-style ultracycling. I'm going to try to qualify for RAAM. I'd have two chances:
1. Do the Saratoga 12/24 race (I did the 12-hour last year) and complete 400 miles in 24-hours.
2. Win or come in within 15% of the first female finisher in the Adirondack 540: 4 loops of a 135-mile course that overlaps with the Ironman Lake Placid course, plus another 79 miles for extra credit. I've done 90% of this loop before, and it made me cry.
Once one qualifies for RAAM, they have 3 years to actually do the event. So qualifying doesn't mean that I'll have to drop my life immediately to ride across the US in a little over a week right away next June.

Should I do Timberman? I need to decide by Friday.

I was going to write this next part in Spanish to discourage careless commenters, but after actually SEEING what an online translator would do to my beautiful writing, I decided to just write in English. So if you're a careless commenter, just comment on the shit above, okay?
So anyway, I'm slipping. I don't know why I've been wanting to get absolutely plastered recently more than ever. On a scale from 1 to 10 (with 10 being "dropping whatever I'm doing and running to the liquor store for a 12-pack of microbrew"), I've been hitting an 8 – "I'm too lazy to get up for it, but if it were placed in my hand I wouldn't put it down" – at least once a day. For the last six months or so, most days I usually top out at about a 5 (a long hesitation, then, "No thanks, I've got to be up early tomorrow").
Maybe it's because for the first time in over 3 months, I finally have a driver's license again (I lost mine 4th of July weekend and for a whole chain of fucked-up reasons I couldn't replace it). Every time I see it smiling up at me I think, "That's my ticket into any bar in the country!" It's pretty pathetic when you're 25 years old and still excited that you're over 21.
Maybe it's because the days are getting shorter, the temperature's getting colder, and I have no choice but to sit around and think more. There's no better supplement for thinking (and for feeling) than alcohol.
Maybe I'm lonely and depressed and just don't know it. Anyway, for whatever reason, every day I'm finding myself completely absorbed in the thought, There is absolutely nothing stopping me right now. If I were to drive to the liquor store, buy a 12-pack, and drink it, there would be NOTHING to stop me. I could do it. Addicts relapse all the time. It would be so great to be drunk again... When I say "completely absorbed", we're talking "stopped to think and forgot to start again" absorbed.
Whatever the reason, I need something, some new challenge, some obstacle, something (other than everyone I know telling me that they would kill me) extra to get me through this little micro-phase. I'll let you know when I find it, but for the last time, it's NOT going to be AA...

So that's it. Bye!

Aaaaw! Baby animals!!!

Long-winded post below. If you don't want to spend like an hour out of your life reading my training philosophy, then this post is for you. If all you want is for me to come to your place and read about something great YOU did this weekend, then just leave a cute/funny/obnoxious caption for this photo in the comments and I will come read your blog.

See ya!