Sorry for the late notice… I meant to do this when I changed locations. I feel like such a jerk.

The RSS feed has changed as well – you can subscribe to the new feed here.

Things should be back to normal by Friday and the change is going to enable me to do even more cool stuff here.

Thanks for your patience,
The Management

You can’t beat Portland for this – this trail is 3 miles from my office.

Sal shot this while riding, with a very old Canon Powershot (not a true digital video recorder). Never fear – I just used my iPhone rebate to purchase a spankin’ new Canon DV Recorder so I can capture all of the remaining 2007 cyclocross mayhem.

When I step into the light outside the front doors of the hotel to catch the airport shuttle I am stunned.

This is the first sun I’ve seen in all those days. The first fresh air. And I use that term loosely because I am in LA, after all.

My flight is delayed after we board. We sit on the runway for an hour. I don’t get home until 1:00am.

And then, on Monday, there’s Forest Park. And my new riding buddy (who just placed 2nd in the B field!).

The day is clear and bright. Portland hums at that low vibration that characterizes a large town as opposed to a city. The bridges glimmer in the sun outside my office window as I change into my riding gear and load my back pockets with supplies.

I head over the Burnside bridge and up into the NW to pick HG up and then we’re off.

Forest Park is alive with color and mud. We spin up, up, up and up, talking as we go. I get the full race report. I find out that HG used to be a competitive half-pipe snowboarder – spinning circles in the air high above the icy white.

I’m impressed.

I find out that she’s a gear whore in the truest sense of the word. Her boyfriend, like mine, obsessively shops for bikes and components on ebay and Craigslist. She likes the best shit, and she knows exactly what she’s talking about. (Have I found my female cycling soulmate!?

We ride up Leif Erickson about eight and a half miles, talking all the way. As we get into the 6th and 7th mile the mud gets thicker, the path more narrow, and the obstacles more numerous. We’re skipping over fallen branches and scattered debris, slogging through mud puddles, and ducking low branches.

It smells like fall. Damp and crisp. The sunlight beyond the trees that surround us is inspiring as it starts to slowly fade.

We descend Saltzman, ride quickly from Highway 30 to St. Helens Road, and then roll up Vaughn and back to her apartment.

It’s 6:30pm and the sun is almost gone as I get back to my office to pick up my backpack. I ride home to a house filled with candles and incense, and a bath that has already been drawn for me. My heart is big and full of cyclocross.

I kiss my bike and throw my cycling gear into a pile outside the bathroom door. In the bath I scrub the mud off my face and think about how lucky I am to live in this town, with this sport, those trails, my team, and a fall to rival any season anywhere… ever.

Here’s to muddy trails and hot baths.

xo
Hs

Everyone is a fitness expert, right? Every new website has a different plan an opinions on strategy shift drastically from month to month. It can be frustrating.

I’ve spent a lot of time online sifting through all the information out there, and at the end of the day, it’s John Berardi that rises to the top. His free articles like The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Nutrition Plans are diamond mines of rock-solid nutrition advice from a guy who has been formally studying exercise science and nutrition for years.

In the following weeks I’ll be featuring 27 tips from Berardi: starting today!

Tip #1
Eat Pasta… Carefully
by Dr. John Berardi

As a God-fearing Italian, I have to admit that I love pasta. But, as a gut-fearing weight lifter and athlete, I definitely have to choose the lower GI, nutrient dense whole-wheat variety. During training phases that require or allow for higher carbohydrate intake (higher volume training) I’ll eat one whole-wheat pasta meal per day. During other phases (like where I’m trying to lose fat), the pasta stays on the shelf in favor of a higher lean protein, good fat, and fruit and veggie intake.

This tip is sponsored by Precision Nutrition – my pick for the best nutrition and supplement resource currently available.

I’ll be honest with you, I am one of the biggest pasta fiends around. When I moved to Portland, I made it a point to try the Mac N Cheese at every restaurant that offered it (what’s with P-Town and Mac-and-Cheese? It’s everywhere!) I think the important part of what John is saying here is the distinction between training phases, maintenance phases and fat loss phases.

Know your goal and plan. Nutrition plans should be adjusted according to your activity levels.

Watch the trap that many endurance athletes fall into and be honest with yourself about the intensity of your workouts. Most endurance athletes that I know eat way more carbs than they need (and usually they’re eating crappy ones according to the “I’m a cyclist/runner/triathlete… I’ll just burn it off!” philosophy).

Julie Berg is an ultra-distance runner who understands this. Check out her daily food log here and keep in mind that she is running races at distances of 100+ miles and usually running 100+ miles per week! (Then subscribe to her blog for cripes sakes, she’s awesome!!)

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I’m stuck at a marketing seminar in LA through Sunday.

Do you realize what this means? Do you realize that I am separated from my bike during ‘cross season? Do you realize that I am actually going to miss a cyclocross race? DO YOU KNOW HOW SAD THIS MAKE ME?

Ok, let’s assume you do. Now, add to that the fact that this Sunday’s cyclocross course is supposed to be a mud fest.

Still not choking up the pity for me? (You stingy bastard.)

Ok, let’s add to that the fact that this marketing seminar runs from 8:00am until 11:00pm every single day. You did not mis-read that sentence. I did, in fact, say 11pm.

Yes. Yes, I do want to jump out the hotel window, thank you.

Speaking of the hotel. Because each of the meal breaks is only 1 our and 15 minutes long, and I am stranded in the Westin LAX, my nutriton plan has been moderately compromised.

Sure, the client that is sponsoring me at (and invited me to) this event is buying me meals in the restaurant, and the meal are actually (surprisingly) quite healthy, filled with good protein sources and fresh green vegetables. But, dude. These people expect me to be able to go 5 hours inbetween meals.

That is stupid!

Of course, I made a little jog over to the only remotely viable food source within three miles (the Circle K) and stocked up on almonds and protein bars, so I’m able to feed my little body while listening to presenters after the be-witching three-hour mark has come. Then at meal-times I hit the buffet and steal apples to satiate my need for sugars, carbs, and fiber.

I really am stealing them. As in, carrying a big purse and stocking up. I do not feel guilty in the least.

The only saving grace here is that the workout room in this hotel kills – free weights for grueling upper body sessions, treadmills with televisions for mile intervals run at a fast clip, and an open area for the ass-kicking tabata exercises that I love to hate – like burpees, mountain climbers, thrusters*, and more.

What’s the lesson here?

PLAN!

I should have packed protein shake producing materials. A simple Shaker and a few travel packets of Jay Robb would have made my life a hell of a lot easier for this trip. Like they say, proper planning prevents poor performance! Plan, people, plan! Plan as you’ve never planned before!

*From AlexanderBecker.net :
The thruster is one of the greatest lifts no one has ever heard of in the gym. Take two dumbbells and hold them at shoulder height. Squat down, keeping the dumbbells on the shoulders. As you rise up, press the bells to the overhead lockout position. You can either press as you rise or use the momentum to help “kick” the bells overhead. I find that I do a little bit of both in the four minutes.

Thrusters do things to your heart rate and breathing that I honestly can’t describe. Go light! A 35 pound dumbbell in each hand is a very difficult thruster workout! Check your ego at the door for the first two minutes.

Spent.

We’re recovering.  Neither one of us really understands this “recovery ride” thing, but we’ve learned to have faith and take chances.  We’re giving it a shot.

We are alone.  At least so far as cyclists are concerned.

We pass one or two runners coming down, ducking out of Forest Park just in the nick of time.  Outrunning the setting sun.

We’re riding straight into the darkness and we don’t care because we have lights.  And a mission.

I don’t know you, but we talk without interruption, jumping from one topic to the next seamlessly.  You don’t know me, but it’s comfortable, so we keep spinning our feet in ellipses as we handle the sometimes ridiculously slick terrain.

You’re more fit than I am, but it’s a recovery ride, so I’m not getting schooled tonight.  I can tell that on another night, with fresher legs and more ambition, I risk getting schooled.  I imagine you probably realize this, too.

It doesn’t matter right now.  And it probably won’t matter then – I’m happy to go to class any night of the week if it means I’m growing and getting stronger.  If you’re going to school me someday then so be it.

We turn down Saltzman and start to descend.  You drop like a rock and I follow like a snail.  “Try the drops,” you say.  I know you’re right, and I appreciate your knowledge and your willingness to share it.  I try the drops and sail a little faster.

Highway 30 is dark and sketchy but we ride two abreast regardless.  We talk until the wind comes at us like an attack and then we put our heads down, find the drops, and spin through the uproar.  When we can hear each other again, we resume conversation.

The miles pass quickly and my lessons are sinking in.

Maybe I love cycling more than I think.  Maybe I’ve only scratched the tip of the surface.  Maybe there’s more potential to this crazy, two-wheeled sport than I am willing to admit.  Maybe I just needed someone to remind me.

*

This is quintessential Sal.  The Sicilian take on one of the healthiest protein sources out there: yes, but can you deep fry it??? 

I have no idea if you can fry cottage cheese or not (and I don’t plan on finding out anytime soon) but I do know that cottage cheese is one of the most excellent protein sources out there.  I would die without it.  I buy multiple tubs at one time.

Contrary to popular belief, you can use cottage cheese in everything.  In the recent barrage of healthy casseroles I have been whipping up, I puree cottage cheese with two eggs to form the “casserole glue” that holds the whole shebang together.  This is just one of many tricks I picked up from the Gourmet Nutrition Cookbook that came as part of the Precision Nutrition program.

You can use it in salads, blintzes, pancakes, lasagne, waffles… you name it.

There are two great cottage cheese resources that I’ve come across in the past few months, both of which provide tons of ways to incorporate more glorious, gloppy cottage cheese into your diet.

Check out 101 Ways to Eat Cottage Cheese.

The second link is from Stumptuous, which by the way, is an amazing resource for women’s weight training.  This woman is whip-smart (has a PhD in Womens Studies) and witty as hell.  She writes well and knows what she’s talking about.  She can also lift you under the table, so watch out and don’t say you haven’t been warned: Stumptuous cottage cheese page

*

Yesterday I proved that:

At 5:00 in the morning an alarm goes off on the other side of the bed and I lay perfectly still. There are rules in this household and one of those rules is that the The Princess doesn’t move on the weekends until a warm cup of coffee is placed in her hands. I consider this my just desserts after a full week of waking up at 4:30am. Luckily, I have a boyfriend who agrees with me.

My coffee arrives at 5:15am and so begins what we now refer to as another “Cyclocross Sunday”. Gear in the truck. Nutrition supplies double and triple checked. Pre-race clothing donned, raingear packed, warm-up kit on the ready, race kit tucked into a nice pile with gloves, glasses, and cap. Headphones packed and ready to deliver my weekly dose of warm-up music: NWA, Eminem, Ice Cube, JayZ, Bone Thugs N Harmony, Junior Mafia, and the Westside Connection.

We roll out in the debt of the morning among neighborhood streets shrouded in thick fog. Heading west on the Ross Island Bridge we can hardly see the sign for our exit.

I’m quiet and tired. I crank my seat-warmer to the “Leave grill marks on my ass” setting and snuggle in.

I’m nervous.

I’m more nervous than I’ve been for the past two races and the only explanation is that this course and I have a history. Horning’s Hideout was my first cyclocross race ever last year and, not only did I cry on the start line, I also DNFed after crashing hard and sustaining substantial injury to bike and body.

So, I have some unfinished business to take care of and it’s weighing on me as we drive down, down, down the gravely driveway. We’re among the first to arrive and the place is eerily quiet. Fog is giving way to an immaculate sunrise and we have a good 10-15 minutes to enjoy the peace before the other cyclocrossers start to arrive in earnest.

Now I have 6 hours to kill before I can even start warming up for the race. This part kills me. The waiting drives me insane.

I walk the course.
Then I ride the course.
I carry my camera with me but cannot muster the motivation to really shoot it.
I talk myself off of on nervous ledge and then another.

At 11:00am I have the pleasure of watching my teammate, Steve Brown, blow the Masters B field apart with an absolutely crushing performance on his mountain bike. This is his third ‘cross race ever. He kills.

In the same race another teammate, Ben Johnson, battles for an impressive 20th place finish all while smiling and making funny faces at me during the race as I screamed after him, berating him to move up and pick people off.

For those that are unaware, I am hugely loud. To the point of being obnoxious. If I am cheering for you in a cyclocross race, you will know it.

Sal is also in this race and he’s looking good in the first lap. Riding strong, looking comfortable and in control. He’s 3 places behind Ben when he passes me and then, suddenly, he’s dropped 30 places the next time I see him.

“That has got to be a mechanical.” I say to Sherry.

Indeed, minutes later we see him in the pit, throwing his bike down in disgust. After dropping his chain three times, he was finally unable to fix it as it was hopelessly jammed down between his bash gaurd and bike.

So much for that.

After 9 years I know that the only way to deal with a pissed off Sally is to leave a pissed off Sally alone, so I make haste back to the team tent to get some carbs down and change into my racing kit so I can warm up.

Eminem cranks in the headphones. Some of my all-time favorite lyrics:

He’s nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready….

No more games, I’ma change what you call rage, tear this mother-fucking roof off, like two dogs, caged.
I was playing in the beginning, but the mood all changed…

Success is my only mother fucking option, failures not…

Feet fail me not, this may be the only opportunity that I got.

Fast forward to the start line. Girls on bikes. Everywhere. Girls who look fast. Girls who looks slow. Girls who probably don’t take kindly to being called girls.

I find a girl I know. The start-line chatting is the only thing that keeps me from going completely out of my skin with nerves. Heather Gunderson is racing B’s today and nervous about it. I don’t think she has anything to worry about and I tell her as much.

Before the day is over I’ll be proven right.

Two minutes before the gun goes off I realize I am running the same tire pressure that I’ve been commuting on and I’m about to go take on the bumpiest meadow that I’ve ever seen in my life. I take the pressure down to something that feels about 35psi and replace the caps.

30 seconds later the whistle blows.

I find the pedals right away and punch it. It’s an uphill start that bottlenecks into a left-hand turn and I don’t feel like trying to find my way around people. Start at the front and make people pull you back, that’s the idea. Unbeknown to me, getting off the front also allows me to avoid a massive 6 person pile-up. Just one more good reason to get to the line early and get a good start position.

I go into the left-hand turn in 10th and pass a few more people to get into 6th position going into the first single-track section.

I’m holding my position until the first big right-hand turn into the meadow, which I overshoot by a mile, nearly taking me completely off course. This simple mistake costs me four positions and suddenly I’m in 10th instead of 6th.

Note to self: you still need to work on your handling skills, homegirl.

The bumpy meadow section is an exercise in survival. I employ the strategy Heather and I discussed just before the start: get in the drops and pedal pedal pedal. I have no intention of dropping my chain today.

I get passed mostly on downhill or grassy sections in the middle and then spend time back in the woods making up positions on the runups. Women are walking up run-up sections that have no viable passing lane so I just come charging through calling out my position. The short, steep climbs through the woods challenge my lowest gear (42-26) and my legs. I muscle up them in the first lap, making sketchy passes as people pop and stop to run in front of me.

My friend Gregg is in the woods, cheering me through these sections. He’s an amazing and extremely competitive mountain-bike and ‘cross racer and hearing the excitement in his voice as I power through the searing pain in my legs is incredibly motivating. At the top of the final climb in the woods my legs are throbbing and my lungs are on fire. I can feel my heart smashing into the front of my body.

There is only a short downhill section for recovery and it leads to the longest climb of the race – a steady grind on gravel. Shooting down off the trail into the start of the climb I am thinking, “Fuck – I am so overgeared.” I hit my lever one more time just to make sure I can’t get one more goddam gear out of my bike.

I know it’s not there, but I hit the lever anyway, praying for some kind of cyclocross miracle.

No dice. It’s me and the 42-26 and this hill that looks impossible. It’s the only gear left so I am sure as hell going to make it work.

The only trick is that I have no idea how.

And this is when I start to hear them. A gaggle of my teammates at the top of the hill. A few friends who made the drive out to the country to see me race. A chorus of voices screaming for me to move my ass. A group of people that I absolutely cannot let down. No matter what.

I channel their voices and dig.

Gregg appears to my left (how did he get out here so fast?) and screams, “GO INTO YOUR PAIN CAVE!!! Get in there nowww!”

Little does he know that I am already in every pain cave that I have access to: mine, Steve Brown’s, Sal’s, Ben Johnson’s. I am crashing pain caves left and right. I am a veritable pain-cave couch surfer.

I put my little, blue hammer down and start climbing. I pass people. I make the right hand turn and climb a few more yards. I can feel my life pulsing in my ears. I can see every doubt I ever had about myself in front of me and I am crushing them.

I want to die and puke and fall over and stop.

But I don’t.

I keep pedaling. For three more laps.

I laugh as I hear Sherry behind me on the course, cheering my name at the top of her little Sherry lungs. I laugh internally, choking back a dry heave, and wish that I could return the favor. I want to tell her, “Thank you!! Now stop yelling and race!!!”

I don’t. Instead I hit the god-forsaken Meadow of One Thousand Lumps, grab the drops, and pray. There is a guy that I don’t know standing in the middle of the meadow, cheering for everyone. I love him.

On the final lap I turn the dial up and hit every section as hard as I possibly can. Coming out of the woods for the final climb, I see a group of riders ahead of me and put my head down.

Mike Kender’s voice comes barreling at me through the end of a cone-turned-megaphone. I catch the group ahead of me at the very top of the hill, right in front of all of my cheering teammates. I gut out the pass, swinging wide on the left-hand side to take all 5 riders at once. The crowd at the corner goes crazy and their volume is enough to propel me to the finish without getting caught.

Coming into the barriers I am flying. I suitcase my 23 pound Poprad and leap over them, taking one more position and then shouldering my bike, at a sprint, through the finish line.

Then I find a patch of grass big enough for me and my bike and I lay down.

I know it’s the wrong thing to do. I know I should stay upright. But I can’t.

Sal and my other teammates find me a few minutes later. Steve Brown is ecstatic and we are reliving my last-push pass at the top of the hill.

The endorphins start to hit me. Oxygen starts to course through me in normal amounts again. Gregg shows up and shoots a post-race picture that is probably horrific. I am disgusting and sweaty and ass-kicked and elated.

Later I’ll get the results and find out that I placed 11th in a field of forty-something.

I’m a nobody. I’m 11th place in the beginner women’s category. But I raced my guts out and that’s all I ever ask of myself. It’s all I ever ask of anyone. It’s everything I’ve always loved about watching the Portland Velo boys race. Go for it. Every time. No matter what.

I left it all there and earned the respect of a team that carries me and loves me for everything that I am, and everything I’m not.

Portland Velo forever,
Hs

Steve Brown warms up before crushing the Master B field.

PV cyclist ass that shall remain unidentified.
This photo is the result of a special request by Iride.

Sherry picks up her winnings from last week’s race. Mmm… Beer.

Start line of the Mens C Category.

Brown delivers.

Gregg. He took fourth in the Master B’s.

Horning’s at dawn. Deceivingly peaceful in appearance.

*

My diet is typically about 30% carbs, 30% fat, and 40% protein. If you know your macronutrients well, you’ll notice that it’s a pretty low-carb plan. I’ve tweaked the ratio several times over the past years, but I’ve found that this works pretty well for me, leaving me with enough energy for my workouts but allowing me to stay lean and support and build muscle structure.

Eating for ‘cross races demands something a little different.

Cue to the glycogen load.

Dinner pre-cross race always contains some form of complex carbohydrate that I usually don’t get to indulge in. I add a heap of wheat pasta or brown rice to my usual dinner of lean protein and leafy greens. Since I don’t race until 1:00pm on Sunday, race day nutrition is even more important for me.

Sal and I usually wake up around 5:00 or 6:00am, begin packing up the truck, and eat a breakfast of steel-cut oats and eggs. Sal’s race is a little earlier than mine is (11:00am) and recently he’s found that the oatmeal is a little too heavy, so this morning he kicked out some buckwheat pancakes (or, as he says, “butt-wheat”).

Since we ate today at 5:30am, I’ll have another meal at 8:30am (probably a peanut butter and sugar-free jelly sandwich or engergy bar, depending on how my stomach feels), and then I’ll eat again at 11:30am (just easily digested energy products like Gu Energy Gel, Hammer Gel, or Clif Blocks.

I’ll eat twice more, once about 30 minutes in front of my race (Gu) and then probably 2 or 3 Clif Blocks on the start line before the gun.

Because my body isn’t used to getting this kind of glycogen all the time, topping off my liver this way really gives me the punch I need to go balls out for 45 minutes (plus one lap!)

Now… it’s time for Horning’s Hideout!  Bring the hills!!!

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