Bike Florida - The Forgotten Coast Tour

We did Bike Florida's Forgotten Coast Tour the last week of March, arriving home from Tallahassee that Friday night.  Saturday we went straight back into food and bike prep mode, since Popeye was signed up for the Cross Florida on Sunday. 

Just this once I had tied him for mileage, 332 so far that week.  The next day though, Popeye added 167 more by riding the Cross Florida in 8 hours and ten minutes.  His grand total for the week: 499 miles.

I didn't escape the additional mileage altogether though.  I drove the support vehicle both ways, made sandwiches, handed off bottles.  The next week, I drove a friends car to Colorado.  The day I flew back from Ft Collins, I realized there were only a few short weeks until The Wickham Park Marathon.  So the mileage quest continued, only around and around Wickham Park instead.

Although we did not forget the Forgotten Coast, the sheer mileage of those few weeks had me wondering more than once, where did our spring go? 

Here's how a tiny piece of it went, anyway.

Bike Florida

The Forgotten Coast Tour

Not my idea of fun.

Alarm going off before dawn.  Getting dressed by headlamp.  Packing up in the dark.  The hardest part of the Tour, by far. 

6:30 AM.  Out and shambling about.  There's too much action for me.  Air mattress plugs pop with a whoosh.  Tents collapse on all sides.

The shower truck - a wonderful thing - shines, well lit, from across a field of tents.  Outside sinks with mirrors.  Contacts making actual contact with eyeballs instead of stabbing guesses in the dark.  With sudden clarity I see in the mirror the flash of red blinkies, riders already departing on the dark road behind me.

Back downfield toward the bikes.  There is one more pre-dawn hurdle I am forced to overcome each morning.  And it is the worst one yet.

Gatorade is an essential that we dare not neglect.  Maybe there is a reason that some riders get up at five, even four, in the morning.  By 6:45, I must dip into a huge canister of powder with a scoop that everyone else has already touched and then thrown back into the can.  And although porta potties now come stocked with sanitizer, the thought sits worse than any of the hydrogenated fats offered at breakfast. 

The thought of having no other morning hydration alternative for a week nearly makes me nauseous.   The ever practical Popeye says to get over it.

It's cold.  Popeye and I establish what will become our morning ritual for the week.  We dawdle over hot coffee and do not leave breakfast until we are actually kicked out.  There is no day we do not start dead last.

Of the 500 cyclists on this tour, I am the only one on a full suspension, fat tire, mountain bike.  Some might feel that to be a disadvantage.  I disagree.  Out in front of Killer's big 29r front wheel, I have a secret weapon.  Each morning I sit in behind Popeye's old commuter bike and stick like a tick for a sleigh ride of a day.

Day one.  We are politely asked to leave the breakfast area, so we head, shivering, for our bikes.  They are the only two bikes left.

The St Marks rail trail goes by in a mad blur of passing.  Bike after bike after bike.... and continues on into the Florida countryside. 

The first stop is Wakulla Springs. 

I make straight for the coolers of Gatorade on a table set up under huge oaks, first stepping stealthily behind a tree to dump what I made that morning (and couldn't bring myself to drink).  Selfishly, I reach around behind the coolers and pop the top of one of the huge unopened cans, so that I am the first to dip from it.  I look back over my shoulder to make sure Popeye hasn't seen.

Springs in Florida have more clarity than any water in the world.    So we are delighted to see an old diving platform around the far side, and we run up the stairs to admire the view. 

Right after this moment of hamming for the camera, I look straight down expecting to see clear cold spring water and maybe a fish or two.  What I am not expecting to see so clearly is a skinny dipper. 

Brr!

Another phenomenon, much more common, is the habit of the lunch time nap.  I just don't get why anyone would roust out early enough to ride for an hour in the dark, and then later sleep away an hour (or two) of perfectly good daylight.  But Pie Man swears by it. 

There are some interesting rigs on this Tour.  Every possible form of recumbent, bike decoration, and method of conveying baggage.  

Although there are plenty of what we would consider normal road bikes, and normal road bikers, they seem to just fade into the background.

Here's my favorite.

Tandem recumbent.

She steered.

He played the ukulele.

And sang.

Every day.

All day.

Because our friends leave earlier than we do (everyone leaves earlier than we do), we usually catch up to them at some point during the day.

Frank is the first to flat.  And also the second.  Here I am unintentionally giving him the finger.  As if two flats weren't enough. 

 

Gulf Coast weather in March.  Wow.

From the bridge entering Wewahitchka.

Sunset from Port St. Joe

Port St. Joe again, in daylight.

So, why were we in Port St Joe for dinner and again for lunch the next day?   Because of the mullet. 

After a 71 mile day to Wewahitchka, there is no town.  There is a ball field on which to pitch tents, and some sort of community center building for the indoor campers.  The dinner offering, by a local men's club, is a fish fry.  They are deep-frying mullet tails. The very end, flipper-part of the tails, in fact.  I must have made a face.  One of the men says to me, "Go ahead and help yourself to a beer - right over there in the cooler."  

Popeye and I hang back a bit.  We each have older brothers, after all.  Sure enough.  Soon someone else eagerly grabs the lid off the cooler and reaches for the free beer.

Look out!

It's the old, fake snake tied to the cooler lid trick.

Ok, so redneck humor can be funny - especially when it's someone else's heart attack.  Out of earshot though, I voice what we are all thinking.  Mullet is bait, not food. 

Luckily Popeye, Frank, Michael, and PieMan agree with me, and we hop a bus for the 22 mile ride down to Port St Joe.  It is a school bus, driven wildly by a woman named Josie and we are the only passengers.  

Josie is prone to talking with her hands.  Both hands.  When she imitates the draw bridge by throwing both arms in the air, the bus lurches insanely, sending me scurrying for the exit row.  This is a woman whose day job is driving children to school.  Nonetheless we make it to Port St Joe and have a fantastic Gulf-caught, non-mullet dinner, and get treated to a magnificent sunset.

We have agreed to meet Josie and her school bus back on the corner across the street.  We are there with plenty of time to spare, and wait in the quiet twilight.  And wait.  And wait.  It is full-on dark.  No Josie. 

We discuss the possibility of having crossed into the Central Time zone as a reason for confusion.  Finally we call the ride director.  No, the bus should be there.  But it isn't.

It's one of those adventures that turns out kind of like a shark story.  If you're around to tell it later, it just wasn't that interesting, right?

The next morning, a bit of delay, and a route change for wildfire smoke, has everyone leaving at the same time.  Our time.  9:30.  If only we'd known.  But we had gotten back from our bus adventure too late and never got the word.  So we still got up in the dark.

But the mass start does put us up front with the roadies for once.

Popeye, on his old beater mountain bike, pounces on the tail end of the line to chase, and I glom on behind him. 

We get a few looks.  I hear someone mumble, "Nice mountain bike, lady."  But no one tries too hard to shake us.  Most are barely hanging on for themselves.  

I am tense - pacelining with 20 or more strangers - but I manage to remember my rusty road manners. 

We fly toward St Joe. 

When we come to the steep rise of a bridge (in fact the same drawbridge Josie had described for us by flinging her hands in the air the night before), the group slows on the uphill, and me with it.  Popeye glances back at me.  I say, "Aw, just go for it."  And he puts us all behind like he was on his Madone 6.9 and not his old beater with the rack and pack. 

Ah, that was fun.  And amazingly, all was quite friendly after that.  But, new friends or no, I really didn't want to get tangled up in road riding for the rest of the day (or week).  There's so much to see when touring, why spend it staring at someone else's behind?

So, off we go on our own again. 

I love the shoreline cottages.  House colors are on my mind, and the gulf coast sure has some pretty combinations.

Maybe because of the paceline boost, or maybe because of our anti napping policy, but Popeye and I are among the first to arrive in Apalachicola. 

Our luggage has arrived, but our tent isn't up yet.

Under the Apalachicola bridge.

Padre's guys are on it.

Only fifty or so tents to go.  Plus canopy.  And luggage delivery.

Have I mentioned Padres tent service?  OMG!  Awesome!  

Rent a tent from Padre.  Do not hesitate.  Do not ask how much.  Just do it. 

Not only is your tent set up when you get there, but your bags have been placed inside, and your air mattress is pumped to your softness/firmness preference.  The guys also set up a canopy, chairs, and a table with snacks and icy drinks at the end of each day's ride.  

This is livin'.  Every day, we relax in the shade within minutes of finishing, instead of struggling with luggage and tent set up. 

Every day except Apalachicola, that is.  But it's easy to spot our bags in the pile.  We raid them for dry clothes, and head straight downtown to the long row of waterfront restaurants.

Cold beer, and Apalachicola oysters broiled with Parmesan and butter.  After 68 windy miles, only one word comes to mind.  Ahhh.

Just as we return to the tent from our late lunch, Pie Man, Scout, Frank, and Michael arrive, ready for an early dinner.  So we go with them to do it again.  Waterfront.  Beer.  Oysters.   

But with two full meals under our belts on the walk back, the ahhh feeling is a little more like owww.

Maybe someone can remember the name of this restaurant.  I can't.  But I'd go back again  in a heartbeat.

As a matter of fact, I'd do this whole trip again. In a heartbeat.   Mornings and all. 

A long look back at Apalachicola....

Postscript: 
Many people got sick on this trip, from what exactly, we never heard.  But suddenly the sag stops all had manditory hand sanitizer.  (Right next to the Gatorade.)  I never got sick, but it sure made me feel better, just having it there.
Thanks, Bike Florida! 

B2B Swimming from Bridge to Bridge.

July 1st.  7AM.  Eau Gallie boat ramp. 

I take one last look around at the above-surface-level view of the Indian River Lagoon. 

About 4 miles to the south, the Melbourne Causeway looks exactly the same as it always looks from here.  Small and far away.

Popeye, my kayak-sherpa for the day, has already launched.  He waits, floating out beyond the boat ramp ready to drop in beside me once I settle into a pace.

The river, beyond the initial ruffling of 50 swimmers jumping in off two docks, is a glassy calm.  My turn comes.  I step up to the end of the dock.  Whoa, I can see bottom.  I hesitate.

A woman right behind me looks over my shoulder, "How deep is it?"

"I don't know," I say.  "But the guy ahead of me just jumped right in."

"I wouldn't do something just because a guy did it," she says.

Hmm, she has a point.  I look around at her.  She also has fins.  She is obviously smarter than me.  So I sit down and jump shallow.  The water looks about four feet.

I go straight down, over my head, and never even touch.  Every pebble is clear on the bottom.  Wow.  This is going to be one glorious day.

With ear plugs in, goggles on, and the bright yellow cap from last year's Richmond XTerra, it's all sort of isolating.

My head is wrapped up in a world all it's own, while my arms and legs settle just fine into doing their thing, without any particular direction from me.

Even Popeye, never more than a few yards away, floats on a different plane.  He breathes when he wants, hears what is said, and sees where he's going.  He's up there, being a regular human.  I am down here, one with the glassy surface of this endless water.

So what do you think about, alone in your head, on a 3 hour swim? Your kick?  Carving the perfect S stroke?   Catching up to that woman with the fins?  

Or maybe something more like, "Oh god, when is this going to be over?"

Nah.  Not really.

Thoughts float by at the same leisurely pace as my swim.

I think of...
Pancakes.  
Scrounging the dresser drawer last night for a swim cap and finding the one from Richmond. 
Scrub Jay.
Trilady.
How we used to give each other mature and friendly advice.
Like "Go soak your head."   
Was it really fifteen years ago, the first time I ever heard of the bridge to bridge swim... 
Is that a jellyfish?
Digging the kayaks out from under 4 feet of dune sunflower growth yesterday - wow that stuff grows fast.  
Am I conceited to assume I can do this when I haven't swam in over a year? 
Am I last? 
Yes.  Yes, I am. 
Oh well.
Pancakes. 
Are they really waiting for everyone at the first sandbar? 
Oh no, I hope not. 
Is Popeye bored? 
Is he mad? 
Why does he keep zig zagging across my line? 
Pancakes. 
Pancakes with syrup.

Back when I lived aboard our first quirky sloop, Corsair, there were plenty of times when I would ask myself, "What am I doing here?"  Mostly in rough seas, with no sleep, while strapped into a safety harness.

On this beautiful Sunday morning, with nothing but the slow lapping of river water sliding by for company, "What am I doing here?" takes on a different tone, more mellow.

I am taking it easy, which is my favorite way to swim.  Better to be cautious and last, than first to the mile mark and bonked.  I haven't trained in forever, and I have never done this distance.

I think of the last time I swam.  Not counting the warm mucky pond crossings of the Tribal Challenge last summer, the last time I really swam was the Richmond XTerra, over a year ago.  Across the James River and back.  As the crow flies, .9 miles.  But then, there's always a little bonus mileage when there's current.

Rocks, banged up knees, curses.  Waves of swimmers, fetching up to wait their turn through passageways of just-deep-enough-to-swim water, backflowing between submerged rocks.  Kayakers screaming at people, whatever it is that kayakers scream.  Tight inside my ear plugs, I have no idea, just follow whenever the gesturing gets really frantic.

There is no taking it easy in Richmond. You have to dig.   Hard.  Scrub Jay is out in it somewhere, and Popeye too, but there is no keeping track of anyone else.  Except maybe the guy with the wide, lashing kick, zig-zagging alongside. 

Last year's swim at Richmond was not the longest, but it was certainly the hardest swim I've ever done.

Now, rocking along in the morning sunshine, I forget I am underwater and smile at how easy I have it.  Salt water flows through my teeth like a baby bull shark.

Which makes me remember to look around for baby bull sharks.

Except for the kayak slapping quietly alongside, I am alone.

We reach the first sandbar.  1.25 miles.  In an embarrassing 50 something minutes.  I remember not to berate myself.  I am not the slightest bit tired.  But that could change.  There's a long way to go.

We stop.  I catch up on my Gatorade intake, eat half a banana.  Popeye jumps out of the boat to cool off. 

I experience just a tiny glimmer of jealousy as I stand up in waist deep water and see the main pack of swimmers churning at least a quarter mile ahead.  I am antsy to get started in after them, but reign it in.  I can wait a few minutes.  It's not a race, I tell myself, for the tenth (or twentieth) time.  I hold the kayak while Popeye gets situated.  We strike out for the second point, which is just under 2 miles away.  My Timex shows 1:03.

Clunk.  I swim into the back of the kayak.  I pull up, surprised.  The sudden stop shoots a cramp from my little toe all the way up through my hamstring.  Hey!

Two hours down.  Two thirds of the way to the 2nd point.  Closer now to the shoreline, I feel a hint of current tugging at me.  Travel over the sandy bottom is slower now, not so easy.

Popeye cuts across my course again.  "You're swimming for Front Street," he says in exasperation.  OK, I am a little off course.

But then I also remember he never had a chance to look at the chart.  He is trying to steer me into the long dock on the point, which from this distance, looks just like the pier at the finish.

I call for a stop and hang on to the back of the kayak where my camelbak is stowed, taking a drink.  So I can't see his expression when I say, "That's not the pier, it's just the second point.  We have to go out around it."  The pier, our destination, is completely out of sight, almost another mile beyond the dock he's been aiming for.

Strangely, the idea doesn't bother me at all, except that in another hour this most pleasant of all swims will be over.  My only concern is that I am testing Popeye's patience.  I am a bit afraid he will say never-again to sherpa duty, and I am already looking forward to next year.

True, I banked a bit of karma driving across the state, handing off food and bottles while he rode the Cross Florida in April.  But he did do me the courtesy of being among the first to finish the 167 miles.  A courtesy I was not returning today.

So, what am I doing here?  Why tackle a distance I've never done with absolute zero training? 

Because I am curious. 

I am not a hundred percent sure I can do this, but I don't think it's impossible. 

The distance intimidates me just enough to drop speed completely out of the equation.  Today, I am putting my faith in a different drug.  LSD.

Long slow distance.  

Just find a pace you can live with and keep going til you get there.  

And if it happens that some pina coladas are left when you do get there, so much the better.

Five strokes, look.  Five strokes, look.  We are suddenly close enough to distinguish cars moving up the bridge, people strolling on the pier.

A few strokes later, I lift my head again and make out the ladder that Rob Downey put down early this morning for everyone to use.  It seems silly to climb all the way up on the pier and wiggle through the railing, but the reason comes clear when the water shoals up suddenly, and it's too shallow to swim any farther.

Popeye says see ya, and paddles on under the pier toward a sandy strip between the rocks, while I climb the ladder.  Wedging myself between the rails at the top shoots a cramp up one leg.  But clumping down the dock, on feet suddenly heavy again after nearly three hours of float time, shakes it out again. 

A few folks, early for church maybe, lean on the rail, chatting.  No one pays the slightest bit of attention to me.  

I turn back for a last look toward the point.  The dock that looks like a pier is completely out of sight. 

Nearly four miles to the north is the Eau Gallie Causeway.   It looks the way it always looks from here.  Small and far away.

I thump barefoot down the long wooden pier, and go looking for Popeye.  The little green park is bustling.  Paddlers pull up their kayaks, loading them on roof racks and pickup trucks.  Swimmers gather to chat.

I do not jump or shout, but inside I allow myself a little jolt of elation.  I may be dead last, but it has gone completely undetected. 

OK, maybe I was a little too cautious.  The "what if" question will be with me, at least until next year.  But for now I have managed to slide right back in among the real swimmers.  I could not have imagined a better finish. 

Until suddenly, somewhere close by, a blender whines, still whirling up pina coladas.      

My Favorite Jersey. Mango Season.

OK, it's old.  And getting pretty beat.

But this is my favorite bike jersey. 

Not just because it's sleeveless.  Or because it's made from technical, wicking fabric.

Or even because it's bright pink.  

But because it has pockets. 

Really big pockets.  Big enough to fit a phone-in-a-ziploc, and keys, a few dollars in Gatorade money, and...

...mangoes!

Put a dollar in the tin most anywhere along Tropical Trail, and help yourself.

3 block Zone lunch, coming right up.

 

Whew.  One mango yields one cup.  I don't know if I would have had the willpower to save any extra slices for later.

Lunch in the Zone.  Simple as it gets.  And no way could it be sweeter - or fresher. 

All you need is a bike and a dollar.  And the perfect jersey.

7 Hobbies for the Apocolypse

I believe in the zombie apocalypse.

Only the zombies won't be Zombies.

Because if the big EMP happens one day on a large enough scale, there will be mobs of hungry, wandering humans.  Conscious humans.  Desperately clever humans. 

Not at all like Zombies.

But not entirely unlike Zombies either. 

Movie Zombies are scary enough.  No matter how fast you run or how far you go, there are always more of them.  And more and more and more of them.  And they are always hungry.  And then, there's the scariest part of all - you are the food.

Hey, I hear ya.  Nobody wants to think about a zombie apocalypse.  Especially not me.  I cover my eyes during the Walking Dead.  I haven't been able to stomach a video game since my Frogger got squished.  I am the worst kind of ostrich.  So far, I have blithely postponed taking up a single hobby that might be of use when all things electronic cease to function.

Well.  No more. 

Think about it.  Not that we have enemies or anything, but should an electromagnetic pulse be released, everything that depends on electronics stops dead.

Forget taking videos of the chaos with your iPhone.  Or calling 911.  Don't bother checking the time.  Even your Timex will stop.  Along with my cute little Tidewater Blue 2009 Honda.  Mine, and everybody elses, unless they own an antique.

The refrigerated trucks that bring our perfectly plastic-wrapped chicken breasts down from Delaware will stop out on I-95 without ever reaching a Publix.  Tractors will grind to a halt in the field.  Machines that spin out things like plastic wrap and light bulbs and Prozac, all dead and done.

And my absolute favorite pastime of scrounging around in the refrigerator when I'm bored?  Absolutely zero fun anymore without electricity.

Everything will stop.  Everything electronic, anyway.  The things that feed us and makes us comfortable.  Every. Thing.  Except biological processes.  Those will keep going.  Hunger.  Desperation.  That won't stop, until, well...

And I gotta admit.  I'm kinda worried.  If it happens today, I am not at all equipped to survive. 

I'd be the first one on my block to get et, I just know it.

All because I just don't have enough hobbies. 

Swim-bike-run can only take you so far.

So I'm thinking a few new hobbies might help me feel more secure about the future. 

Here's the short list so far.  See what you think.  Hey, whether the Zombie Apocalypse happens or not, it's good to try new things.  You know - just in case you're bored with the same old yoga, tennis, or golf.  Or - just in case.

1- Archery.  First order of business, self  defense.

2-  Fishing.  There is a real lack of venison in this neighborhood.  Yes, people-meat should be plentiful, at first anyway, but the idea is to avoid going there - or being caught by anyone who has. 

3- Sailing.  Thank goodness for all those years of sailing.  And a room full of bikes. 

*Note to self:  Acquire sailboat.  And maybe just one more bike.  For survival purposes, of course.

So, transportation not too problematic, at least until spare parts run out. 

Same story with guns.  Not having the temperament for hoarding, my ammo would likely run out way before I could ever figure out how to make my own.

Yup, it's gonna come down to fishing and arrows. 

*Note to self:  Stock pile hooks, or at least save safety pins off old race numbers.  Get a fish cleaning knife.  And a whittling-sort-of-knife to make arrows.  Oh yeah - and a whet stone.  Learn to whittle.  Learn to sharpen knives.  Remember to compost.  If the fish won't bite, fried worms are supposed to be OK in a pinch.  Oh yeah, learn to make a fire to fry fish and/or worms.

4)  Upper body strengthening.  Have you ever tried archery?  Not for weaklings.  Or the wobbly. 

*Note to self:  Augment archery muscles. Start push up program, weight training, or better yet, CrossFit.

5)  Edible landscaping.  (Not a bad idea in any case, especially for the unemployed. Or even if you just hate to grocery shop.)

6)  Paleo dieting.  Fish.  Nuts and berries.  Like a detox.  Takes getting used to.  Like fried worms.  Just sayin'.  Start now.

7)  Learn organic chemistry.  Brew beer.  Make wine.  Rediscover the lost art of bathtub gin.  (Just remember - go easy.  The Excedrin factory will be out of commission.)

Well, the list could go on of course, and probably would, but suddenly there is so much to do!  

I am itching to get this going.  But where to start? 

I know.  I promised to check on Scout's mango tree while they're on vacation. 

*Note to self:  Put rack on bike.  Take a sack.  Be watchful.  The neighbors could have sacks of their own.  Who knows, they might have tennis rackets.  Or, oh god,  golf clubs.

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.