30 day Challenge. Return to The Zone.

October 1997.  Jerry Dodgen, a rock climbing guide from Atlanta, was a lean, fit, energetic 64 year old mountain goat the first year The Chick and I climbed with him.  

The next year he was even more impressive, nearly flying up and down the rock, setting toplines with incredible energy.  I'd never seen anything like it.  The difference, he said, was this new book someone had given him, The Zone.  He lost thirteen pounds.  Being plenty lean and fit all his life, it was thirteen pounds he never knew he needed to lose.  Plus he had gained energy he never knew was possible.  

I could see it in him, burning bright.  A remarkable fitness high.  We flew home the next day.  I bought the book in the airport.  I wanted that high. 

And the Zone delivered.  

June 2012.  It feels like home.  Just a couple of back to back spaces in a storage facility, opened up to the outdoors. Rows of weights.  Sturdy frames.  Big rubber bands.  Coaching timers on long cords hanging from nails in the wall.  Regular looking folks, just getting it done.  No frills, no nonsense, no fancy clothes.

Just for a second, a wave of nostalgia gives me a squeeze.  It's been a long, long time since I first paired the Zone with the diverse (and brutal) home workouts in Mr. Keo's garage.  What a high.  A Jerry Dodgen sort of high.  I thought I'd never see the like again.  But I see it here.  The very same high, in these regular folks, just getting it done.

Last Tuesday Northstar invited me to see the gym she attends, CrossFit 26.2 in Rockledge.  It's like being invited into a secret clubhouse.  Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?   There’s even a secret language.  It's total gobbelty gook to me, but Northstar reads the workout marked up on the whiteboard with ease.  I wouldn't be surprised to see a secret handshake.

I am not dressed for it, but I wish I were there to work out.  So much so, that I risk my sweat-switch being turned on, and flip flop along behind Northstar when she heads out to the street for 400 yard runs between bouts of overhead squats.  Neighborhood kids, old hands at this game, full of chatty advice, trot along with me.  I'm glad I arrived early.

When Northstar asked, "Do you want to do the Zone with me for thirty days?", it couldn’t have come at a better time.  I was tired of going it alone, and tired of my own cavalier half ass nutritional ways, especially since I know better.  But somehow I had missed the fact that it was an official CrossFit challenge. Choose Zone or Paleo, stick to it for thirty days, and see what happens to your fitness.

To my surprise, I am not only welcome to sit in on the nutrition discussion, but Allie, the trainer conducting the challenge, welcomes me into the group.  He checks to be sure that I have signed onto his pledge list along with the other gym members.

The Zone is an old friend.  But I am curious about Paleo.  I browse through the literature Allie hands out.  My first thought is, Uh-oh, what are these people into?

Paleo has the look of a detox.  Thirty days, and then what?  But I agree completely with the basic premise.  No manufactured, fake foods.   If you can’t catch it, or pick it, it’s probably not good for you to eat. 

The drawback is, Paleo is super strict.  Which, in my experience, reduces the chances of success for the average rule-allergic adult to about zero.

I am very glad I have read The Zone, and lived loosely in it ever since that 2nd climbing trip in 1998.
  
I don’t know about anyone else, but when it comes to dieting, it's the Pirate’s Code for me.  No rules, more what you'd call guidelines, really. 

So, thirty days in the much-more-versatile Zone, it is.

But this is a challenge.  An official challenge.  In what happens to be a month pretty much devoid of other preoccupations.  Maybe it should be done right. 

Probably wouldn't hurt to follow a few rules. 

Oh hell.  Find the food scale.  I can do anything for thirty days.


*Just in case you have thirteen pounds you didn't even know you needed to lose, here's the CrossFit link for getting started in The Zone:
    http://library.crossfit.com/free/pdf/cfjissue21_May04.pdf 



 

Bandits at the Hammerhead

Deciding the night before.

Racing to the race.

Some people just can't bring themselves to plan ahead.

That would be Popeye.

And I am beginning to see his point.

Friday at lunchtime, Popeye calls home and says, “So, are we going to the Hammerhead 100?”

Huh? I had written that one off 2 weeks ago, when I sent out an email and got no interest from anyone, Popeye included.

“Um, it’s tomorrow.” I say.

“What time does it start?”

I laugh.  7:30? 8? Does it really matter?

We talk ourselves out of it. He’d miss the Saturday road ride. My bike was having rear shock issues. The drive to Ocala is two and a half hours.  It would be late before we could even leave. We’d be out a hundred bucks for a hotel.

Nah, we decide before we hang up.  Too much money.  Too much trouble.  Maybe next year.

Later, the place is sparkling. The realtor has been and gone. Even the laundry is folded. I am finally ready to get myself out the door.

The card stash on the desk catches my eye. The number of the Tile Market is right on top. Good idea. Before driving forty miles to Vero, I will call first. The solo shop owner is a mom. You never know. I turn the card over. On the back, Diane has written her hours: Monday through Thursday, 10-4. 10-2 on Fridays.

It is 2:05. Suddenly, my errands for the day just got 80 miles shorter.

What would you do with an extra two hours on a Friday afternoon?

Go for a ride?  Start a blog post?  Finish reading The Kitchen House?

Or, prep for an all day race on Saturday?

I decide to surprise Popeye, instead of the other way around for a change.

When he gets home, I am pulling energy muffins and sushi rice bars from the oven.

The ever-unflappable Popeye walks into the kitchen.  Seeing the muffin tins and the open cooler he says, “All right!” and goes for the bike repair stand.

We decide to get everything into the car, eat and sleep at home, and drive to Ocala in the morning.

The alarm is set for 4 A.M.  We’ll be cutting it close, but I just can't bring myself to set it any earlier.

5AM. Still dark, up to speed, heading for the Turnpike.

Wham! Bam! Bam! My side of the car lurches up, then drops from under me. I bite my lip hard and taste blood.

We roll, tires thumping, to the Beachline’s grassy median.

A Kia Soul and a pick-up truck come flapping to a stop opposite us on the right shoulder. Popeye hops out to run back and see what we hit. A passing cop stops and helps him roll someone’s abandoned spare tire and rim out of the middle of the highway. Both our passenger side tires have long slices. I call Triple A. We wait for the tow truck.

5 hours and 2 new tires later, we pull in at the Land Bridge Trailhead.  The day is bright and beautiful.  It is 10 AM. We have missed the start by exactly 2 hours.

Popeye’s stubborn resistance to pre-registering seems more rational all the time.  We may have already spent $400 this morning, but at least we haven’t wasted the price of two non-refundable entry fees.

We have never been to the Hammerhead 100 before.  It is a mountain bike endurance race held on a 25 mile loop.

In mountain bike racing, especially when there are loops, the toughest obstacle is often not the course itself, but passing slower riders on narrow single track.

Being passed is not easy either.

Your ride gets progressively slower and harder when you have to repeatedly ride to the side, or pull completely off trail, in order not to be blown off by some race-fevered, wanna-be leader.

How do I know this?   Don’t even ask.  Unless seeing a bunch of scars interests you.

Today, in spite of our good intentions, we are technically bandits, about to go out on the course with no numbers.

Popeye’s speed pretty much guarantees he won’t be in anyone’s way. But as a back-of-the-pack rider on my best day, it’s hard not to feel guilty about cluttering up a race course, especially when I am not officially racing.

When in doubt, rationalize.  I tell myself everyone is all spread out by now. The fast guys should be out on their second lap.  I vow to pull completely out of the way for anyone with a race number on their bike.

It’s easy to blend in with the racers just a few yards past the cameras of the GoneRiding trailer.

I see no reason for Popeye to wait for me every couple miles. He goes on ahead, and I am soon with my peers toward the back.

Just before the 49^th Ave underpass, a slim young man in a blond ponytail is standing over his bike at the side of the trail. “You OK? Need anything?” I ask.  He says no thanks.  I swoop into a dip and leave him behind.

In hindsight, I probably could have been a little less accommodating about letting every rider with a number pass me.

After the underpass, I hear two riders coming up from behind and decide, since I’m in a good spot at the top of a rise, to wait for them to go by. I realize my mistake when the wait is longer than I would have taken to cover the same ground.  Quite a bit longer.

It is the ponytail guy.  He is following a strong looking woman in a blue jersey.  She has a number, 30-something, in black marker on her calf.  Other than off road tri’s, where they race in age groups, I’ve never seen body marking at a mountain bike event before.  But I have never been to the Hammerhead 100 before either.

I sit up, moseying along behind. Although it would almost hurt to go any slower, it’s tempting.  Ponytail Man talks non stop to the girl ahead.  Since I’m right on his wheel the chatter is loud and clear for me as well.

He says he’s in sales. “You gotta go for the younger ones, you just can’t sell anything to old people.”

So true, we don’t fall for just any pitch.  And today it looks like nobody’s buying it.

The woman keeps plugging. Ponytail Man’s pass isn’t working but he’s still not passing.  My ears are tired.  It’s almost a relief when an old guy, on a bike so tall in the front I think at first it’s a hybrid, fetches up behind our little train of pain.

Hybrid guy has 70-something on his leg. He's riding well, but the riser bar and white tube socks reinforce my age group theory.

I am happy to pull up and let him pass. At least he will provide some insulation between me and the ponytail guy’s chatter.

Finally we get to the crossing at 484. The woman in blue stops at the sag. Ponytail, still talking, pulls off after her. Volunteers stop traffic. 70-something is quick to jump across and leave them behind.  I follow tight on his wheel.

We have reached Earn and Burn, the section of the course I have heard about, but never seen.

Almost the moment we are in the woods on the other side, 70-something starts to yell at the top of his lungs, “Granny gear! Granny gear!”

I look around. Who is he yelling to? And why? There are some ups and downs but it’s not especially steep.

A few people flicker through the woods up ahead but no one is nearby except me.  I leave my chain on the middle ring and follow along, ready to shift any second should we come around a bend and see a surprise uphill.

Eventually, there is a rocky spot on an incline. A woman is pushing her bike. 70-something, his granny gear strategy paying off, pops up over the rocks and goes by her.  She has a race number.  I wait for her to top the little rise.  Her leg is marked 140-something.  So much for the age group theory.  The woman in blue comes from behind and I let her pass too, and then a petite young woman on a full suspension 29r, which makes her appear even tinier.

When I look up the Hammerhead results later, I realize these women, whom I have just allowed to pass, represent the female leaders of the fifty mile and relay categories.

Of course, even if we had been there in time to sign up officially, I would have done my usual delusional thing, and entered myself in the hundred.  Even after all these years, my old high school swim coach, Simon La Grif, still wields influence. “You can always do more than you think you can.”

After seeing the course I realize that, even if by some miracle I were still upright after 75 miles, it’s doubtful I would have made the cut off time to go out on the last lap.

As it was, it only seemed easy.  I was on my first loop.  While these folks were on their bikes at 8 o’clock this morning, I was on my phone checking directions from Ryker’s Tires back to the Turnpike.

I think about next year.  50 miles might well be enough, especially if it’s dry and sandy.

I find myself drafting behind two of these women on the return route to the Land Bridge, which is a gravel road. Suddenly I realize duh, it’s a road. There’s room to pass.

In fact, I not only avoid hindering them by passing, they hop onto my wheel and I pull.  Fast.

We shoot the last couple miles topping 20. What the heck. What else is a bandit good for anyway?

So next year will we do the Hammerhead 100?  Absolutely.

Will we plan ahead?  Probably not.

I still won’t be fast enough to complete the hundred.  And knowing Popeye, we won’t pre-register.

But I do have one plan in mind for next year.  Only bandits have to be this nice.  And next year, I don’t plan to be a bandit.  

The Case for Multisport

Weird tan lines. 

That's what you get when you do one sport for a month.

Zebra stripes - pretty Keene, huh?

Strange stripes.  A white trunk. Tan wrists.  White hands.

Biking, and biking only, is stressing out my skin.  Not to mention what it's doing to my enthusiasm.

I am pared down to one sport, and I don't like it.

But we're talking survival here. 

When we first signed up for Bike Florida's week long tour of the Apalachicola area (60-something miles a day for 6 days), it sounded like fun.

Then it didn't.

I realized that, although I can go out and ride sixty fat tire miles any day of the week, I have never, ever done sixty miles every day of the week.  

And so the weird tan lines.

Do you like training plans?  Do you like lists?

Me neither.  But I use them.  Sometimes.


I make a general survival plan for the next six weeks: 

Start moderately. 
Simulate the Tour - ride early in the morning. 
Build for four weeks. 
Taper.  
By week #6, the Tour will be easy-peasey-lemon-squeezy. 

Week #1 of 6   
Feb 13 - 19

Goals:

Start easy.
Ride early at least three days in a row.
OTD (out the door) by 7:30. 
Ride the other three days whatever time I choose. 
One rest day.

Following these rules, I see in my notes that I made it out the door by 8:30 on Monday, 9 on Tuesday, 8:30 on Wednesday. 

I rode six days, and took a rest day Friday.

The mileage total for week #1 was 220 miles.

I also see in my notes, that my iPhone slid out of my back pocket and into the toilet at The Mansion on Saturday. There is a frowny face drawn in.



Week #2 of 6    Feb 20 - 26

Goals: 

Ride 4 days in a row. 
OTD (out the door) by 9am.  (7:30 being futile, I guess.)
One 50 mile ride, 3 whatever length.
Ride the other two days at whatever time I want.
One rest day.


There are no notations for times departed.

I rode seven days that week. 

Tuesday was the fifty: 57.5 miles.

Total mileage for the week 200.5.

The rest day turned out to be Saturday's ride.  

Sauce and I rode 16 miles.  He had just given blood and wasn't up for 40.  I had not given blood, but I wasn't up for forty either.  

Physically, I was starting to feel strong.  Mentally, all this biking was wearing me down.  I was surprised to realize I missed running.

All bike and no run.  And no writing.  And not much email either.  Or Facebook. All morning activities.  The last notation of the week says: BORING.


Week #3 of 6    Feb 27 - Mar 4

Goals:
Ride 4 days in a row - early.  (No specific time mentioned.)
At least two 50's.  A 40, a 50, and a 60 would be ideal.
No particular time of day or distance listed for the other 2 days.
One rest day.

Monday and Tuesday started out well with 51 and 45 miles.

It wasn't until Wednesday, the sixty mile day, that the plan went south.

The light turned green.  I stood up on the pedals to cross Babcock St. at Melbourne Avenue at the front of a line of cars.  The chain hung up - ooof - at a dead stop for an instant.  Then it gave completely - what the?  It's like a judo class with Uncle Grand Master.  With nothing suddenly under my feet, the world flips in swift reversal.  Me on the bottom, the bike on top.  

Here's the miracle.  Every one of the cars - all four directions - even the right turners - came to a dead stop.  

I lay on black pavement, in the middle of an intersection, surrounded by the heavy breathing of metal engines so close I could smell their heat. 
 
I jumped up faster than Spooky the time Tiger chased her over the seawall. (Well, no human could actually jump faster than the Spook, but you get the idea).  Picked up the bike.  Ran for the curb. 

I was on the sidewalk before even the guy in the yellow Mustang could honk. 

One lady rolled down her window and asked if I was OK.  (Like I said, miraculous.) 

I admit to being a little shaky.  At least the chain went back on with no trouble.  

I rode quietly, embarrassed and subdued, down to the river side park, and futilely chased the blood running down my arm with the dinky little square of paper towel I carry to wipe my glasses.  I wiped chain grease off my hands onto the grass.  I ate my snack.  I did not want to ride another 40 miles.  My knee and elbow drip blood all the way home. 

Total miles for Wednesday: 28   

My notes say:  Road Rash.  (Frowny face.)

Thursday the notes say: Madone - 51 miles.  

River Road times two.  (Not quite trusting the Superfly.  Or the traffic.)

Saturday was the real endurance test, though.

Actual ride time: 3 hours, 29 minutes.  41 miles.  An average speed of 11.7 mph.  11.7?  The notes say: Windy.  They also say:  Real time - 8:45am to 2 pm. 

What happened?

Pie Man, Frank, and Michael happened.  There were friends along the way to stop and chat with.  We had a nice lunch.  With beer.  And ice cream ten miles after that.  Delicious.

Happy?  Happy what?

Happy Pie Man. 

This, I realize, is the true touring simulation.  It's fun having companions, but I am not in any kind of shape for this sort of riding.  (Not to mention the kind of shape I'll be in after a week of this kind of riding.) 

Total mileage for the week:  238

My notes are summarized on Saturday with three letters:  OMG. 


Week #4 of 6   March 5-11

Goals:

Ride 5 days in a row - early - 7:30?  (As if.  But it gives me a chuckle to see that I wrote it down.  Again.  Only questioned.) 
Three 50's required. 
Ideally 50, 60, 50 plus 2 more.  
One rest day.

For the first time, I do not make the week's mileage goal.  Total miles for week #4:  194.7

At the top of each and every day is written WINDY.  Two days say RAIN.   I ride the Paragon (aka, Bruiser).  I am very tired of riding.  And wind.  And Bruiser.

By mid week the new chain and cassette has arrived for the Superfly.  Popeye puts them on for me.  Saturday is easier, less wind.  I do 64 miles, throwing in some off-road trails to keep my spirits up.

Sunday's notation says: STORMY - ZERO MILES (There is another frowny face, even though it is the rest day.  Maybe because it is the rest day.)


Today is Friday, getting toward the end of Week #5.

We have had a time change.  Morning hurts.

On Wednesday, determined, I somehow got out the door at 8am.  My earliest departure so far.

This morning, Friday, on A1A in Cocoa Beach, the rear tire on the Superfly acquired a slit big enough that the Stans wouldn't hold.  I never saw what got it, and there is nothing in the tire but the hole spewing a white Stansy mist.

An older gentleman riding up off the beach on a Trek 4300 offered me a spare tube and his Schrader pump.  Thank you for the offer, I say, but my wheel is 29 inches.

With my spare tube in place, I don't say anything about the presta valve, just load up the CO2 inflator.  POOF.

"Wow, that's it?" he says.  "How much do those cost?"

So far this week, the easier mileage goals are being met.  Tomorrow I can go long if I want.  Some of it off road.

Next week, more rest.  Figure out what to pack.

Leave for Tallahassee on Friday, one week from today.

Tour the Forgotten Coast for a week.

Come home Saturday.

Sunday is April Fools Day:  The Cross Florida.  Cocoa Beach to Weeki Watchee.  Popeye is riding.  I am driving.

And then...  Monday.

Monday I am going for a run. 

And a swim.

I hope I don't get a weird sunburn.

Withlacoochee Weekend 2012 - Scouting the Rail Trail

OK, so where was I?

Oh yeah.  Bonk recovery.  Ahhh.

After our Croom ride, the bike shop team of Popeye and Cap'n Bligh went right to work fixing my pedal. 

Miraculously, all the pieces had hung on for the entire fifty miles.  They just had to be coaxed back together. 

An hour later, when the hammer comes out, I make for the showers and follow with a drink.  I can't believe how lucky I am to have such excellent (and tenacious) mechanics in house.  They finally got it - in slightly less time than it took to do the ride.

Popeye and Cap'n Bligh

 in the captain's La Casita Bike Shop.

  

After the pedal repair, the guys got right on the air mattress problem.  Hole located.  Hole fixed.  Tire patches sure come in handy.

Then, hooray, time to light the campfire and bring out the snacks.

One of the many excellent reasons for riding is eating.

Zucchini Bread fit for a vegan.  But omnivores like it too.

Scout and Pie Man have the fire going, so we mosey up to their site.  On the table is a jar of pretzels the size of a pony keg.  PieMan and Breeze are dipping them into peanut butter.  

One of the most frequently asked questions of the evening is "So, what's this about a detox?" 

My reply, around a mouthful of Sailor's delicious hummus, is, "The most important thing to remember about detox is, don't do one."

The snacks just kept coming.  I don't think anyone but Popeye and me took a break to eat an actual dinner.

It's amazing what eating as much as you want, and the luxury of a well inflated air mattress, can do for ones ability to ride.

After a nice alarm-free sleep, we get up with the sun - not before it, for once.  Birds sing.  Coffee steeps.  Sailor comes out of the camper with a big pot of steel cut oats, laced with nuts and cinnamon and cranberries, and we all dig in.

Popeye and I will be packing up soon enough, but for now it sure is nice to sit around in shirt sleeves, sipping our coffee, watching someone else do it.

Cap'n Bligh and Sailor

Ready to go with the sweet new bike rack on the sweet new Tacoma.

    

Scout and Popeye are ready to go too.

Go ride the Rail Trail, that is.

Geographically, the off road trails and the rail trail are adjacent to each other.  But this Sunday ride on the Withlacoochee State Trail could not be farther in character from Saturday's Croom crush.

Did I ever mention how Pie Man got his name?   How about Scout?

Wherever Pie Man goes, there is spectacle.  He can't help it, his outgoing personality just seems to draw a crowd.  I'm sure Scout could tell this better since she was there and I wasn't, but the bare bones of the story is this: 

Once, on a multi-day ride in Wisconsin, Pie Man (who weighs maybe... 120? 130?) stopped in at Gina's Pies Are Square Cafe, and ate several enormous pieces of Guinness pie.  As usual, a crowd gathered, cheering him on.  For the rest of the week, riders all along the rail trail kept pointing him out.  "Look!  There goes the Pie Man!"  

Scout, on the other hand, is the quiet one.  She is the one with the plan, always scouting out the next job, the next purchase, or the next great adventure.

Today Popeye and I have no mileage goals and no agenda.  Except maybe to head north toward the little bakery in Floral City.  We tag along after Scout, along the trail, then off the trail, as she checks out the local real estate possibilities.  We not only follow along, but egg her on shamelessly, since we'd love to have a place to come visit in this neck of the beautiful Withlacoochee woods.

Scouting for land.

The property along the Withlacoochee River has my vote.

6 baby alligators flop into the water as we wheel up.

Scout says from here you can get all the way to the Gulf of Mexico...

...in a shallow draft vessel, of course.

Back to the trail and on to the bakery. 

Why I didn't think to take one picture at the bakery, I don't know.  Could have been the distraction of freshly baked brownies, though.  

The very nice lady who owns the place is out front on the porch.  She puts down her newspaper to come inside and wait on us.

Speaking of real estate regret, I realize this appealing little bakery is literally one house south of a property that Scout and I scoped out a couple years ago.  We had decided then that it would make the perfect, trail-side, square-pie type shop.

Potential Pie Shop - 2009

When the brownies and streudal are history, we go to the next block and see that the beautiful potential pie-shop, along with its beautiful oak trees, has been bulldozed.  Coulda shoulda woulda....  sure hope this isn't a condo next time we ride here.

Back on the road again.

But which way?

It really doesn't matter which way you go.  The trail is full of surprises.  On the adjacent horse trail, these (Menonite?) folks stop to chat with Scout.  They are on their way home from church.

Off they go...

One thing there is no shortage of along the Withlacoochee is variety. 

Pie Man calls to tell us he is on his way to a biker bar called River Ratz for lunch.  OK, now we definitely know which direction to head.

We find paddlers, motorcycles, cars, horses, and Pie Man already there.   Neither Popeye nor I ever thought to bring locks.  We just don't normally stop when we ride.  Luckily both Pie Man and Scout are well equipped for this sort of relaxed riding, and we add our bicycles to the  assortment of rides in the parking lot.

As I am taking pictures, the horse lady comes over.

Her half-Arabian, half-Chincoteague Pony gets a root beer to slurp.

Bridge over the barely moving Withlacoochee.

Pie Man, bless his heart, has found us trail-bikers a table

far away from both the vroom-vroom variety of bikers, and the band.

After a couple weeks of eating carefully, the salad and burger I split with Scout sits pretty heavy on the ride back to the campground. 

This is the part of relaxed riding that I would need to come to terms with.  I can barely bring myself to pause for a sag snack, let alone a full-stop lunch of sandwiches and beer.

We will need to practice though.  We had such a good time on our relaxed ride that day that we went and committed to the week-long Bike Florida in March. 

Yikes.  Although, it's good to have a new and different goal. 

Six long, relaxed, 60-something mile days.  Camping. 

And don't forget lunch.  

You can come too.  There're still openings for a few more good eaters.  I mean, riders. 
http://www.bikeflorida.org/bf2012/2012.php

So.  Who's up for a lunch ride?

Gosh, it's good to be back in training.

  

BikeLaCoochee, 2012. Croom 50. Withlacoochee Rail Trail.

According to Wiki...   Coacoochee was a Native American chief and the term coochee is used in various Florida place names including the Withlacoochee River. The river named "Withlacoochee" may be from a Muskhogean dialect compounded of we (water), thlako (big), and chee (little), or little big water. 

I like the big picture, so I love maps.  Not the little blue polka dot view on my iphone, or those plastic, easy-fold variety.  I love big paper maps that unfold to cover my co-pilot's side of the dash all the way to my knees, all noisy and rustling, and annoying the heck out of the driver. 

Without the big picture, how would you know that not only is there a Withlacoochee, but also a Lacoochee, a Trilacoochee and a Croom-A-Coochee?   

I decide our weekend at Croom is a BikeLaCoochee.  A little-big ride.  I realize as I scan the map what a huge tract of land this is, and how little preparation I have made to ride it.

Almost no effort, thought, or planning on our part, goes into the actual ride at Croom.  Once you've endured initiation-by-Felasco in January, riding Croom in February should be no big deal, right?   

Oh, there's plenty of effort, thought, and planning.  Just nothing to do with training for the ride.  

Layers and tights and gloves, sorted and packed.  Food ready.  Camping equipment organized.  Cooler full.  Lights charged.  Sailor and Cap'n Bligh saving a spot at the campground.  PieMan and Scout right across the road.

Easy-peasey, right?   A full schedule.  Good friends.  The perfect weekend. 

Friday night ride.  Croom 50 on Saturday.  Rail trail on Sunday. 

All we had to do was show up and pedal.

Ah, the best laid plans...

Sparing everyone the details of detox, let's just say one should probably refrain, especially in the two weeks before a weekend with a fairly demanding ride schedule.  

Popeye gave himself a week to get his energy back.  I wasn't that smart.  10 day detox = sick + tired = blowing off the night ride = my own darned fault. 

The rest of it was just bad luck.  The midnight surprise of a bottomed out air mattress.  Busting my pedal on a rock with 47 miles to go.  Unexpected warm temps instead of the cold I had prepared for.

OK, so it wasn't my best Croom ever, but it's still in the running.    Because well, there's just no ride like the ride you're on.

There's nothing better than paper when you're off road.

Except big colored arrows stapled to trees, of course.

Mudcutter Jim and Cap'n Bligh at the start.

At first it seemed a minor annoyance, whacking my pedal on that rock. 

The guys were out of sight in a heart beat or two.  Oh well, I am accustomed to riding solo.  This time it was sooner than later, that's all.  

Besides, I was busy.  Persuading my shoe to clip in was taking all my attention.  I stop to look.  The cleat is secure on the shoe.  OK, good.  But a chunk of the pedal is flopping loose.  Uh oh, not good.  I'll be hard pressed to finagle the shoe back in and get it to stick. 

By the time it finally snicked in, 20 minutes later, I realized this  same old ride had a new found challenge. 

I really believe that anyone with a decent bike can ride the Croom 50.  Some folks up the anty by riding it hard tail.  Some, like Mudcutter Jim, ride it single speed.  But, has anyone ever ridden the Croom 50 without unclipping?  Probably not, right?  

Ok, so it's not a realistic goal, not for me anyway.  But as Master Chung used to say, "When there is something to strive for, make effort."

Sinkhole

Uh oh.  Neither of the two guys ahead of me made it up the other side without unclipping.

I was motivated, though.

  

Sag#2

Alien's ahead!

Area 51 at Mile 23.

Jello shots mid ride?

These Aliens must be hashers.

At mile 23, I unclip.  Alien hospitality is just too hard to come by on this planet. 

Besides, I'm overheating. 

I am always drenched, but I am surprised to look down and see wavy white salt lines crisscrossing the fabric of my black shorts.  My arm warmers have been down around my wrists for miles, and the long fingered gloves should have been stashed in the Camelbak long ago.  

I collect my alien lollypop for later, and grab some radioactive-green Gatorade.  Then it's back to the slow job of pedaling with the right foot, and scuffing away at the pedal on the left, until the shoe finally clips in and I can get on with it.

I am lucky.  The burned sections of the forest are unexpectedly un-sandy.  It's pretty smooth sailing through most of it.  Which is good, because my calves are firing their first warning shots.  Cramping will follow, and soon.

The goal of never unclipping is forgotten.  Mile#...  I don't know.  I'm standing over the bike, at the top of a little rise, stretching out my right hamstring. 

Riders pass, a lot of riders. 

"You ok?" 

"Yeah, I've been cramping too."   

More than one person wonders where the heck sag #3 is.  "It's gotta be soon," someone moans. 

Then a guy in a red jersey says, "Vicky?"

The pedal clicks in fairly quickly this time and I keep up with Gobbler - for awhile. 

Eventually, like a good hasher, he takes the hard route, even though he's lost his rear brake.  I opt for easy.   It's not long at all til he catches up again.  We finally arrive at Sag#3, the Red Neck Rest Stop.

Mile 38 - The Red Neck Rest Stop

Canned beer and Conquistadors.

(Oreo cookies with peanut butter and banana on top.)

Gobbler, with hasher fuel. 

(Back at home, I decline Popeye's offer to crop my finger out of this photo.  I dunno.  I like it this way.  It's way more focused than I was at that point.)

    

Gobbler's had his beer and bananas.

I've re-upped my Gatorade.

Time to git to it.

Somewhere in the next ten miles my bonk sets in for real.  I stop for breath at the top of almost every rise.  I can't focus.  Gobbler gives me two of his Endurolytes and they help.  I've lost track of him though, which is good, there's nothing more he can do anyway.  I don't want to throw up.  But I kind of do. 

With mile 48 showing on my computer, I decide it would feel better to walk.  Just to the next bend.  Seemed rational at the time.  Moving forward.  No arguments from a stupid pedal.  

I enjoy the novelty of being off the bike for a minute.   I walk around the bend.

And there's the parking lot.  Riders, tents, lots and lots of lovely, salty food.  Popeye has my dry clothes.  Gobbler hands me a cold one.   

About everyone had 48 miles on their computer for the Croom 50 this year. 

So, our Croom ride came up a little short.  Which probably saved me riding in on a stretcher.  

Croom, I apologize.  You got my attention.  I won't treat you lightly again. 

It's amazing what some salty pasta and a friend with a well stocked cooler can do.  By the time we say good bye to Gobbler, I am feeling much better.  We even remember to pick up our tee shirts, which, yippee, aren't tee shirts at all.   

Perfect ending.

Because you can't drink out of a tee shirt.

*6pm.  Time to locate my lights and meet Popeye on his evening commute.  Tomorrow, the rail trail.   

Food for Thought - and the Croom 50 - Protein Bites

Croom is coming up on Saturday!  50 miles of fun easy singletrack in the Withlacoochee State Forest.  A similar ride to San Felasco in the fun, easy, single track department.  Different in the added challenge of tent camping and campfire cooking instead of staying at the cushy Cabot Lodge and eating out.
 
We learned a lot in the last ten days on our abbreviated version of a detox diet.  Mainly don't do one.  But that said, all of the recipes from the detox were delicious.  We just wanted more.  More recipes, more food, more protein...  But that was the point, I suppose.  (Personally my biggest lesson was that I actually can say no to myself.  At least for ten days.)

One of the recipes on the snack list of the detox diet (Whole Living Magazine, February) was for Dried Fruit and Nut Bites.  Pretty basic, pretty tasty, and super easy.  Although this much fiber and fat on long sustained efforts, like a 4-5 hour bike ride, could be trouble, we thought these were great snacks for when you're feeling empty on sedentary days.  

Left:: recipe as written 

Right: with a touch of chocolate

Whole Living's Dried Fruit and Nut Bites:

1-  In a food processor, pulse 2 c. dried fruit.  Transfer to a bowl. (I recommend sticky fruits, like dried cherries and pitted dates.  And if you are done detoxing, and have some organic dark-chocolate coverered raisens to throw in with the dates and cherries, all the better!)

2-  Pulse 2 c raw mixed nuts and seeds until finely chopped.

3-  Add nuts to fruit, with a dash of cinnamon and pinch of salt.

4-  Knead together and form 1 inch balls.  Roll each ball in sesame seeds.  Makes 20, serves 5.


These tasted pretty darn good when all you had to eat so far that day were a kale smoothie and a salad.  They provided sweetness, plus the hunger squelching fats from nuts during our week of restricted  dieting and (resulting) low effort. 

Delicious, yes, but the high percentage of nuts seems a little too tough on the digestive system to risk taking along on a lengthy physical effort.  For long rides, we have found that we need more easily digestible carbs, with a little protein and some stuff to help with electrolyte transport.

The look of this snack reminded me of the protein balls we make for long rides.  And since the Croom 50 is this weekend, it's time to switch out the detox recipe for our distance version.

* You might remember that Just Plain Mike wanted to name these snacks Popeye's Balls.  Suggestions for a better name are welcome.  Let's just keep it PG though, ok?

Biking Bites, Protein Balls, whatever...

Distance Bites

(especially if you don't eat enough)

In a food processor, pulse up:

2/3 c. pitted dates (no added sugar)


1/2 c. tart dried cherries (no added sugar)


1 tsp honey


1 tsp apple cider vinegar


1 tsp lemon juice


1/8 tsp salt


1/2 c. high quality protein powder (about 40 gr. protein)


1 c. Kashi Oat Cereal


1 T. all natural peanut butter (no hydrogenated fats!)

Pulse until the mix is coarsely chopped.

Grab up a bit, smash and roll it into a ball in your hands. It should form a firm ball and hold together.

We thought ours was just a little dry, and added water a tsp at a time. 2 tsp water, perfect!

Yield: 16, 1" balls


Serving size: 3


Protein: 9.75 gr.


Carbs: 38.4 gr.


Fat: 1.5 gr.


Calories: 189

original post, January 2010:
http://bikeeatsleeprepeat.blogspot.com/search/label/protein%20balls