Sometimes I think I worry my family too much with all of the fun, crazy things that I do. I would say that I worry my friends, but they're usually right with me when I am doing them. At least my family can't be surprised at my exciting tales: I've been encouraged to be independent and adventurous since the early days of my youth when I was climbing trees taller than our house and diving into a flood ravaged Blue River because it looked like fun. But, I wanted to take at least one post to let them know that I am not always off doing extreme things. Nature strives for a balance, and so do I. Even though I enjoy some pretty crazy adventures on the weekends, during the week, for the most part, I try to play it safe.
For example, Sunday night after a good full weekend of adventure, I took a shower, put on clean clothes, and cooked a roast with carrots and potatoes, using pot holders to protect my hands and making sure that the meat was fully cooked to kill any potentially harmful bacteria. I spent the remainder of the evening watching movies and afterwards, I said my prayers and tucked myself into bed, making sure to lock the front door to keep out any potential bad guys that could have been lurking around the neighborhood. On Monday morning, I woke up with the sun and had a breakfast complete with cereal, orange juice and a banana to start me off to a healthy week. I brushed and flossed my teeth, and then headed out to work. I waited for the light to change green before biking across Curry Road, and even looked both ways before I crossed. At the lab, I used nitrile gloves while handling neurotoxins, and even washed my hands afterwards to be on the safe side. I used caution when I was working with heavy metals and viruses, but wiped down my bench with alcohol anyways to ensure that I wasn't spreading the stuff all over the lab. I helped out my labmates when they needed a hand, and got everything done that I needed to accomplish in a safe, efficient manner. I even resisted the tempation to retaliate against Pierre after he sneakily shot me with a pair of latex gloves from across the bench (age old habit in our lab). In the afternoon, I stayed awake during an entire seminar lecture and then packed up for home after a successful, risk-free day. I was doing really well, having managed almost 24 hours without doing anything that would scare my family. And then, on the bike ride home, I couldn't contain myself. Ryan sped by me in his new Mustang and stopped at the light at Curry Road, idling just a few hundred meters in front of me. We often race home, but normally we start as soon as we walk out of LSE and I always win by a pretty substantial margin. The temptation to race home from only a mile from the house was too much for me, so I shifted into my highest gear and crunched the pedals up the hill to the intersection. I passed Ryan while the walk sign across Curry was still solid white, dodged a few cars through the intersection (I did look before I did this), and pumped as hard as I could towards home. I could hear Ryan's engine coming up behind me, so I made a quick left across Miller to duck onto the back roads to try and cut him off before he could get past the elementary school. We met just as we arrived at the school from opposite directions, and both of us looked at each other with competitive smiles as he zipped past me. Although his engine could obviously beat the two pistons of my quads any day, I still had the advantage of not having to slow down around the last two sharps curves before the driveway. We raced the last few hundred feet with me cutting corners and jumping curbs all the way to the house. Ryan pulled ahead down the long straight stretch of Susan Lane, jumping out of the car just before I panted up to the sidewalk, congratulating him for the first time since we started our silly game.
I'm afraid that speed and adrenaline are just far too addictive for me to deny, and that I can't say no when given the opportunity to participate in something that gets my heart pumping and puts a smile on my face. I'll just have to keep reassuring my family that I am careful and I do think about my actions when I go out and do these things, and that I try to balance the extremes in my life with normal, safe activities as well. I keep saying my prayers and thanking God for giving me a pretty hardcore guardian angel that has been able to keep up with me as I speed around this swiflty tilting planet, and I know that at home in the midwest, my family is doing the same.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Extreme Fun
When I was younger, I used to be satisfied with simple, mainstream sports. Basketball, softball, track, and cross country used to suit me just fine. Although I still love shooting hoops, going to the batting cages, and trail running around the desert, I have found that the older I get, the more odd and extreme my sports have become. Rowing, rugby, and ultimate frisbee aren't exactly typical sports that you grow up playing in the States. But, even those aren't enough for me, and I had to take rowing to the ocean to make it more extreme. I haven't found a way yet to make rugby more extreme than it already is (as Hannah could tell you, it's probably as hardcore as it needs to be), and I'm still quite a novice at ultimate (though I'm now one of the handlers on my spring league team, who knew?), so I still have a need to fill all the empty spaces in my life with adrenaline. Mountain biking and climbing fit the bill quite nicely, but when even those are not enough, I look for other sources of the precious endorphin.
I found two wonderful sources of adrenaline this weekend, one old and one brand new to me. On Saturday, Ryan and I headed out towards the New Mexico border for some snowboarding at Sunrise. We actually got a lot closer to New Mexico and had more of an adventure than we intended. We were enjoying the snow covered scenery and talking and completely missed our turn in Show Low, ending up 40 miles on the wrong side of the White Mountains. The fact that I hadn't driven on snow/ice in two years and the roads were covered with the stuff made it all the more interesting, but despite our detour, we still had an amazing day on the slopes. Ryan had never been skiing or snowboarding before, so I got to teach him (and several other guys who we met on the bunny slopes) all about toe edge and heel edge and how not to leaf all the way down the mountain. The first part of the day was spent surfing slowly along the easy trails, lazily slaloming down sections of the mountain watching Ryan figure out how the board responded to his movements and picking him up when he fell. I had some great students, though, and by mid-afternoon, we were all having an incredible time. There were about 8 inches of fresh powder that had fallen the night before and the slopes weren't too crowded even in the perfect conditions. The views of the mountains surrounding us were breathtaking, and the sun warmed our backs even through the cold wind at the top of the peaks. After Ryan got the hang of it, we zipped down the frozen waves of snow with relish. A few, fast carving runs were enough to whet my palette for speed, but I could have easily spent a whole week on the perfect powder and still not gotten enough. Nonetheless, by the end of the day, I was one happy kid.
On Sunday, Ryan and I switched roles and it was my turn to try out a new sport. Ryan's family has been dirtbiking up in the foothills of the north Valley since he was a kid and even though he now he lives in Tempe, he spends many of his weekends back home. I now completely understand why: dirt and speed are addictive. After donning knee pads, elbow pads, a chest plate, riding boots, a helmet, gloves, and a full layer of dirt bike racing clothes, Ryan set me up on his brother's four-stroke Honda 400XR. It took me a little bit to figure things out. Having a mountain bike and four wheeling background is great for dirt biking, but brake levers, throttles, and clutches are all turned around in the wrong positions, and it took some time for me to get it through my thick skull that the front brake was on the right side of the handlebars (I actually switched the brakes on Ryan's bike when he moved in, and now I get why he wanted me to do that... it's confusing). He was as good of a teacher as he was a student though, and in no time, I was taking a lap around the parking lot. It didn't seem too hard... After my practice run, we headed out on a trail that his family calls "The Burger Run," a 10 mile trail that ends at the Wild West Bar out in the middle of nowhere. I did really well for the first five minutes, easing the bike along at little more than a crawl, feeling how the bike responded to shifting gears and braking and turning. Then I started to feel good and decided to go up a gear, giving the bike a little more gas just as we were rounding a bend in the trail. I watched with helplessness as Ryan disappeared over a massive rocky berm and I followed behind him because I wasn't sure where else to go. Slowing down at that point didn't seem like a good idea, so I hit the rock in third gear and going much faster than I had planned. I caught several feet of air and surprisingly landed the bike perfectly. On impact, though, I accidentally pulled back on the throttle and shot myself off the trail through the rocky desert, running over boulders and bushes and a whole host of other obstacles that would have stopped me in my tracks on my Gary Fisher. I held on to my bucking bronco with a mix of white knuckled fear and admiration for the bike's shocks until I was able to calm down, draw in the clutch and brake, and find my way back to the trail, where Ryan was watching with feelings that mirrored mine. I gracefully slowed to a stop next to him while he congratulated me for handling the bike through the rough technical section. I tried to put my feet down on the ground... and fell over neatly on top of Ry and his bike. After all that I had been through up to that point, it was pretty funny to watch us trying to extract the heavy machines from each other and finally get them running again. For the next few miles after my trip through the brush, I took things a bit easier, calculating whoops and turns with a little more caution. About halfway through the trail, I really started to get the hang of it, and only set the bike down a few more times (each of those times being when we stopped... I was really a bit short for the bike). Coming down from the last hill before the bar, we navigated through two sandy washes without mishap and finally flew onto a long straightaway for the last two miles or so. Confident in my new found skills and comfortable on the hard packed dirt, I switched into 5th gear and kept up with Ryan as we kicked up rocks behind us. It was addictive. Before I knew it, the trail ended in the parking lot of a saloon straight out of the days of cowboys and Indians, if cowboys and Indians had dozens of dirt bikes and quads instead of horses, that is. There were few actual cars parked there, but the off road vehicles were corralled all along the dusty lot. Inside were the most amazing burgers and a true wild west atmosphere where everyone was wearing Fox and O'Neill and talking about the gnarly rides that they had been having out in the desert. After lunch, we headed back on the straightaway and zoomed along with the wind whipping past us. The speed was more than addictive, and by the time that we crossed back over the washes, I was ready for the curving track. I bounced along the whoops and turns with delight, catching air on several of them and letting the shocks do their thing. I was on top of the world, and truly understand why downhill mountain bikers use dirt bikes to train. The speed was both exhilarating and scary, but always exciting. The ten miles back were over before I knew it, leaving me loving my life and wanting more. Although the ride did not diminish my love of mountain biking, it did give me a taste of what it feels like to go really, really fast. It is very addictive, and I fell in love with the extreme sport in just 20 miles. All in all, it was a very fun, very fast weekend, and now I've got all the adrenal fuel that I need to get me through the week.
I found two wonderful sources of adrenaline this weekend, one old and one brand new to me. On Saturday, Ryan and I headed out towards the New Mexico border for some snowboarding at Sunrise. We actually got a lot closer to New Mexico and had more of an adventure than we intended. We were enjoying the snow covered scenery and talking and completely missed our turn in Show Low, ending up 40 miles on the wrong side of the White Mountains. The fact that I hadn't driven on snow/ice in two years and the roads were covered with the stuff made it all the more interesting, but despite our detour, we still had an amazing day on the slopes. Ryan had never been skiing or snowboarding before, so I got to teach him (and several other guys who we met on the bunny slopes) all about toe edge and heel edge and how not to leaf all the way down the mountain. The first part of the day was spent surfing slowly along the easy trails, lazily slaloming down sections of the mountain watching Ryan figure out how the board responded to his movements and picking him up when he fell. I had some great students, though, and by mid-afternoon, we were all having an incredible time. There were about 8 inches of fresh powder that had fallen the night before and the slopes weren't too crowded even in the perfect conditions. The views of the mountains surrounding us were breathtaking, and the sun warmed our backs even through the cold wind at the top of the peaks. After Ryan got the hang of it, we zipped down the frozen waves of snow with relish. A few, fast carving runs were enough to whet my palette for speed, but I could have easily spent a whole week on the perfect powder and still not gotten enough. Nonetheless, by the end of the day, I was one happy kid. On Sunday, Ryan and I switched roles and it was my turn to try out a new sport. Ryan's family has been dirtbiking up in the foothills of the north Valley since he was a kid and even though he now he lives in Tempe, he spends many of his weekends back home. I now completely understand why: dirt and speed are addictive. After donning knee pads, elbow pads, a chest plate, riding boots, a helmet, gloves, and a full layer of dirt bike racing clothes, Ryan set me up on his brother's four-stroke Honda 400XR. It took me a little bit to figure things out. Having a mountain bike and four wheeling background is great for dirt biking, but brake levers, throttles, and clutches are all turned around in the wrong positions, and it took some time for me to get it through my thick skull that the front brake was on the right side of the handlebars (I actually switched the brakes on Ryan's bike when he moved in, and now I get why he wanted me to do that... it's confusing). He was as good of a teacher as he was a student though, and in no time, I was taking a lap around the parking lot. It didn't seem too hard... After my practice run, we headed out on a trail that his family calls "The Burger Run," a 10 mile trail that ends at the Wild West Bar out in the middle of nowhere. I did really well for the first five minutes, easing the bike along at little more than a crawl, feeling how the bike responded to shifting gears and braking and turning. Then I started to feel good and decided to go up a gear, giving the bike a little more gas just as we were rounding a bend in the trail. I watched with helplessness as Ryan disappeared over a massive rocky berm and I followed behind him because I wasn't sure where else to go. Slowing down at that point didn't seem like a good idea, so I hit the rock in third gear and going much faster than I had planned. I caught several feet of air and surprisingly landed the bike perfectly. On impact, though, I accidentally pulled back on the throttle and shot myself off the trail through the rocky desert, running over boulders and bushes and a whole host of other obstacles that would have stopped me in my tracks on my Gary Fisher. I held on to my bucking bronco with a mix of white knuckled fear and admiration for the bike's shocks until I was able to calm down, draw in the clutch and brake, and find my way back to the trail, where Ryan was watching with feelings that mirrored mine. I gracefully slowed to a stop next to him while he congratulated me for handling the bike through the rough technical section. I tried to put my feet down on the ground... and fell over neatly on top of Ry and his bike. After all that I had been through up to that point, it was pretty funny to watch us trying to extract the heavy machines from each other and finally get them running again. For the next few miles after my trip through the brush, I took things a bit easier, calculating whoops and turns with a little more caution. About halfway through the trail, I really started to get the hang of it, and only set the bike down a few more times (each of those times being when we stopped... I was really a bit short for the bike). Coming down from the last hill before the bar, we navigated through two sandy washes without mishap and finally flew onto a long straightaway for the last two miles or so. Confident in my new found skills and comfortable on the hard packed dirt, I switched into 5th gear and kept up with Ryan as we kicked up rocks behind us. It was addictive. Before I knew it, the trail ended in the parking lot of a saloon straight out of the days of cowboys and Indians, if cowboys and Indians had dozens of dirt bikes and quads instead of horses, that is. There were few actual cars parked there, but the off road vehicles were corralled all along the dusty lot. Inside were the most amazing burgers and a true wild west atmosphere where everyone was wearing Fox and O'Neill and talking about the gnarly rides that they had been having out in the desert. After lunch, we headed back on the straightaway and zoomed along with the wind whipping past us. The speed was more than addictive, and by the time that we crossed back over the washes, I was ready for the curving track. I bounced along the whoops and turns with delight, catching air on several of them and letting the shocks do their thing. I was on top of the world, and truly understand why downhill mountain bikers use dirt bikes to train. The speed was both exhilarating and scary, but always exciting. The ten miles back were over before I knew it, leaving me loving my life and wanting more. Although the ride did not diminish my love of mountain biking, it did give me a taste of what it feels like to go really, really fast. It is very addictive, and I fell in love with the extreme sport in just 20 miles. All in all, it was a very fun, very fast weekend, and now I've got all the adrenal fuel that I need to get me through the week.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
A day in the life...
A day in the life of this crazy rower usually entails some work in the lab, a ride on the bike, a climb in the gym, a hike out in the desert, or some form of athletic activity. But, if I could have it my way, every 24 hours (with maybe a few days rest here and there) would be spent like the Kona 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo. A day filled with friends, bikes, adrenaline, mud, nature, and an incredible community of like-minded people is a good day in my books.
After packing up the Jeep with three bikes, three people, all of our camping and biking gear, a ton of warm clothes, loads of food, and some blueberry beer, Hannah, Angel and I headed south on I-10 towards Tuscon. The weather was cold when we left Phoenix at 6 a.m., and as we drove south, the day dawned to an uncharacteristically gray, wet morning more fit for a Midwestern winter day than a western one. As the sun did its best to part the clouds, it revealed the peaks of Mt. Lemmon dressed to her foothills in a crisp white coat of snow. At 8:30 in the morning, the Jeep registered an outside temperature of 36, and as we turned onto Willow Springs Road, 20 miles of slush and mud led the way to 24 Hour Town. The long bumpy ride flanked by cholla was merely a foreshadowing as to what was coming...
When we arrived at 24 Hour Town, though, the festive, adventurous atmosphere put me at ease. I didn't care if the slush soaked our tennis shoes or the mud caked all over everything, it was an adventure, and we were far from being alone in elements. Thousands of racers and their mechanics, spectators, and families were camped out in tents and RVs all around our new desert home. Makeshift road signs were posted to help weary bikers find their way back to their own base camp. The feeling in the air was electric, alive with the prospect of racing, adventure, and the camaraderie of the mountain biking community. We found Jeremy and B.J. in the middle of the town and set up our portion of camp with hours to go before the start. After the race briefing and instructions on the Lemans start, we decided that I was to ride the first lap of our first ever 24 hour mountain bike race. It was by default, not skill, that I was chosen: no one else wanted the job and I was the only one that volunteered. I was a bit nervous, as I had only been on a bike for two weeks after returning from the ocean, but the excitement of racing again trumped the butterflies in my stomach, and I lined up my Gary Fisher with all of the other big name bikes, and jogged up to the starting line for the Lemans style start. Away from the rest of my novice, scrappy team whose characteristics consist of more toughness than talent, I felt a little out of place. In the five minutes before the gun went off, I tried to blend in as well as I could in my muddy tennis shoes and SIRAs rowing thermal. Everyone else... and I mean EVERY single biker other than myself on the starting line (I know, I checked), had on clipless biking shoes, and most had smart looking racing jerseys plastered with their sponsors. Only one other guy and I didn't have on clear lens glasses to keep the mud out of our eyes. The butterflies in my stomach threatened to burst through my ribcage the more I looked around the competition, but I was saved by the loud retort of Todd's (Epic Ride's easy-on-the-eyes organizer) shotgun that officially marked the start of the race. With the gun, all 500 or so of us took off like a stampede of high school cross country runners towards our bikes. A quarter mile of jostling elbows later, we found our respective teams, hopped on our bikes, and rushed out to the fire service road only slightly more spread out than when we began.
We rode in our crowded mass for the next mile or so before having the great pleasure of dropping down into "The Bitches." As a little bit of compensation for starting the race, we got to start at the top of these wonderfully tough little set of 6 hills rather than having to cut in at the bottom. Unfortunately, it didn't make too much of a difference, as there were so many riders and so much mud that with the exception of the elites out front, all of us were packed like slippery sardines on the ever narrower road and could not gain much speed downhill. On the ride up, I gained some confidence and started passing people who had been in the wrong gear or slipped in a patch of slop or had gotten bumped into. Once you lost your momentum on the infamous hills, you had no choice but to walk your bike to the top. I got bumped into on about the 3rd bitch, experienced some chain suck, and had to walk for a little bit, but soon got back up and into the pack. After a few miles, we had spread out a little more, and I was about mid-pack as we lined up for the first part of our singletrack adventures. We resembled a long colorful snake winding through the drab desert as we wound around the cholla and mesquite that lined the course. It was difficult to pass or be passed for the next couple of miles, and so we rode around in this fashion for some time, my group following a calculated rider who I dubbed "Old Mother Hubbard" (she was a solo racer who stood on the podium at awards and she turned out to not be that old, so I really can't say anything about her). Once we got back out to another service road, though, we started spreading out a little more. I pumped hard to get out of Mrs. Hubbard's pack, and by the time that we reached the "His and Her Trail," I was in a pack that I felt comfortable riding with. I was at the tail end of a group of about a dozen riders clipping along the trail at a good pace until the guy in front of me decided to become "Mr. Brakes." I had been having a great time for the first time on the curving, slightly less sloppy singletrack, and then he had to go and ruin my date with speed. We coasted along the rolling hills for some time, our original group leaving us eating the mud thrown up from their knobby tires and additional riders accumulating behind us until there was room to pass without getting a face full of cholla. When we finally did pass Mr. Brakes, we found ourselves up to our spokes in thick, soupy mud. My bike floated brilliantly through the 50 meters of uphill muck as I spun in my granny gear, all of us laughing together at the futility of what we were doing. The trail remained slick for the next several miles, finally spitting us out at the end in another 100 meters of mud puddles and ruts. Our bikes and bodies looked the worse for wear as we flung mud and spray high into the air and onto every inch of our beings, but you couldn't wipe the smiles off of our faces. By that time, the really good riders were well ahead, and we were a fun-loving group enjoying the hilarity of our situation. The next section of singletrack wound us around the back of the course, and I passed and got passed quite a bit, feeling more comfortable with the conditions all the time. Before I knew it, I had passed the final powerlines and was slogging up the last long hill, accidentally cutting off Mrs. Hubbard as I passed her and another young female rider, oops. After one more puddle, my tired legs pounded into the pedals and headed for home on the downhill stretch into camp. After 17 miles of mud, seeing the faces of my teammates cheering me on as I rounded the last bend before the exchange tent really got me smiling, and I flew the last half a mile on a high. In the tent, I checked in, handed the baton off to B.J., and walked out feeling on top of the world.
I spent the next few hours rehashing the first lap to my teammates, feeling really good that I had already gotten my first out of the way, and eating and drinking as much as I could stuff into my face. I got to fully enjoy the atmosphere for the first time, the sun streaming down on our camp and the excitement of the race still splattered on my face. Every hour and a half, we would walk down to the exchange tent to see in B.J., then Angel, and then Hannah. We were doing well, sitting 4th or 5th in our category with each lap. Well after the sun set, I waited for Jeremy to come in from his first lap. Finally around 9 p.m., the poor guy rolled in with busted tubes slung across his back, looking tired and defeated and having lost a fight with a thorny tree. I headed out, my HID headlamp burning up the dark night. I was alone as I started out, in complete and total contrast to my first lap. The adrenaline was gone, the sun was gone, and all of the other riders seemed to be swallowed up by the inky blackness surrounding the perimeter of my small lighted world. At first I was timid, cautiously riding over rocks and down the curving track, but by the time I reached the bitches for the second time, the effort of the hills pumped the life and excitement back into my body, and with every rider that passed me, I got more determined to step it up just a little bit more. When I reached the singletrack, I was confident in my abilities, and I flew along, again enjoying the freedom that speed allows. Looking up at the night sky, the old familiar friends of Orion and the Pleiades smiled back down on me. The track had dried up considerably since my first lap, and I happily pumped away in the cold night. I didn't want the ride to end, but before I knew it, I was turning off my headlamp and dismounting into the exchange tent, B.J. eager to get going on his night lap. The ride had me feeling as good as I had felt on the ocean, a bit tired, a bit wet with sweat, but completely at peace with the world and in awe of my surroundings. I spent the next hour staring into the flames of our little fire pit in a complete ocean rowing-like state. Ironically, Angel asked me what I was thinking as I appeared deep in thought, and it was so much like Kohl and I on the ocean that I had to laugh. After seeing her off for her second lap and stuffing my face with more food and drink, I curled up in my sleeping bag in the tent for a few hours, completely oblivious to the frost that was accumulating on my teammates and the trail upon which they rode. I heard all about the slick, Arctic-like conditions soon enough though while Jeremy was out on the trail, with the other four of us huddled in the tent and then in Jeep because it was warmer in there. I counted my blessings that I had taken the first lap and hadn't experienced those shifts. The "3-6" shift isn't a fun one anywhere, be it the ocean or the high desert. Just as the sun popped over the horizon, I headed out for my third lap. Even with the sun, it was still bitter cold and frosty. My hands complained against the cold handlebars and reluctantly shifted up and down the bitches. A wave of tiredness swept over me, and my legs were shaking by the time I finished them. My reaction time was greatly reduced going into the singletrack, but I dared not brake for fear of slowing down, plus my fingers were more content to rest on the rubber grips than the cold brakes. By the last uphill segment, my quads were shot, and my mind started to wander, but all it took for me to suck it up was one more pro rider to pass me. Every time I got passed, my blood boiled. I didn't care if I was a complete novice to the sport and they had been riding since they were 10, I HATE getting passed, so I switched into a higher gear, got off my butt, and pumped up to the top of the hill, splashing through the last puddle and speeding into the chute with my last remaining adrenaline. The adrenaline lasted just long enough for me to meet up with Hannah and Angel as they walked into camp. Once I sat down and downed several Clif Bars, a can of ravioli, the rest of my trail mix, two bananas, and the last dregs of my Powerade, I was done. Or, so I thought... B.J. was due in at 10:45, just in time for Hannah to get in another lap before the end of the race at noon. Except that we were all tired and didn't really feel like going out for that last lap. Angel and Jeremy were done for sure, and Hannah was contemplating throwing in the towel as well. We all knew that B.J. was putting a hard, last lap, and despite my weariness, my pride could not let us just wait around for noon. Plus, it was sunny and the course was perfect and dry. It was the last time I'd be able to ride the course for awhile, and so after discussing the matter with Hannah (ie. guilt tripping her into it), we decided to ride the last lap together, a fun easy ride to send out the race. We had a blast on the fast, dry course, jumping the berms on the bitches as we flew down the packed dirt, speeding around the singletrack, and taking time to enjoy the scenery of the snow covered mountains and the bright desert around us. At the finish, the rest of our teammates had cold blueberry beers waiting for us, and we sipped them with pleasure that can only come after the successful end of a great race. We ended the race in 5th place in our category, beating out only three other teams, but getting a cool tile plaque and some "shwag" as a result. All in all, a great 24 hours. We all learned a lot about our bikes, our training, and about mountain bike racing in general. I'm afraid it's only got me hungry for more, and I have the seed of racing solo, or at least as a duo, next year planted firmly in my head. We'll see. Until then, I've got the great memories and sore calf muscles to remind me of our first 24 hour mountain bike race. It's a first for me since the ocean, a last for Hannah for awhile (she has knee surgery on Thursday), and a first for ODP. It's gonna just be DP for a little bit until Hannah recovers, which isn't half as fun having to push her around singletrack in a wheelchair, but when we're all back next year and fully trained, watch out, cause we're gonna be flying.
After packing up the Jeep with three bikes, three people, all of our camping and biking gear, a ton of warm clothes, loads of food, and some blueberry beer, Hannah, Angel and I headed south on I-10 towards Tuscon. The weather was cold when we left Phoenix at 6 a.m., and as we drove south, the day dawned to an uncharacteristically gray, wet morning more fit for a Midwestern winter day than a western one. As the sun did its best to part the clouds, it revealed the peaks of Mt. Lemmon dressed to her foothills in a crisp white coat of snow. At 8:30 in the morning, the Jeep registered an outside temperature of 36, and as we turned onto Willow Springs Road, 20 miles of slush and mud led the way to 24 Hour Town. The long bumpy ride flanked by cholla was merely a foreshadowing as to what was coming...
When we arrived at 24 Hour Town, though, the festive, adventurous atmosphere put me at ease. I didn't care if the slush soaked our tennis shoes or the mud caked all over everything, it was an adventure, and we were far from being alone in elements. Thousands of racers and their mechanics, spectators, and families were camped out in tents and RVs all around our new desert home. Makeshift road signs were posted to help weary bikers find their way back to their own base camp. The feeling in the air was electric, alive with the prospect of racing, adventure, and the camaraderie of the mountain biking community. We found Jeremy and B.J. in the middle of the town and set up our portion of camp with hours to go before the start. After the race briefing and instructions on the Lemans start, we decided that I was to ride the first lap of our first ever 24 hour mountain bike race. It was by default, not skill, that I was chosen: no one else wanted the job and I was the only one that volunteered. I was a bit nervous, as I had only been on a bike for two weeks after returning from the ocean, but the excitement of racing again trumped the butterflies in my stomach, and I lined up my Gary Fisher with all of the other big name bikes, and jogged up to the starting line for the Lemans style start. Away from the rest of my novice, scrappy team whose characteristics consist of more toughness than talent, I felt a little out of place. In the five minutes before the gun went off, I tried to blend in as well as I could in my muddy tennis shoes and SIRAs rowing thermal. Everyone else... and I mean EVERY single biker other than myself on the starting line (I know, I checked), had on clipless biking shoes, and most had smart looking racing jerseys plastered with their sponsors. Only one other guy and I didn't have on clear lens glasses to keep the mud out of our eyes. The butterflies in my stomach threatened to burst through my ribcage the more I looked around the competition, but I was saved by the loud retort of Todd's (Epic Ride's easy-on-the-eyes organizer) shotgun that officially marked the start of the race. With the gun, all 500 or so of us took off like a stampede of high school cross country runners towards our bikes. A quarter mile of jostling elbows later, we found our respective teams, hopped on our bikes, and rushed out to the fire service road only slightly more spread out than when we began.
We rode in our crowded mass for the next mile or so before having the great pleasure of dropping down into "The Bitches." As a little bit of compensation for starting the race, we got to start at the top of these wonderfully tough little set of 6 hills rather than having to cut in at the bottom. Unfortunately, it didn't make too much of a difference, as there were so many riders and so much mud that with the exception of the elites out front, all of us were packed like slippery sardines on the ever narrower road and could not gain much speed downhill. On the ride up, I gained some confidence and started passing people who had been in the wrong gear or slipped in a patch of slop or had gotten bumped into. Once you lost your momentum on the infamous hills, you had no choice but to walk your bike to the top. I got bumped into on about the 3rd bitch, experienced some chain suck, and had to walk for a little bit, but soon got back up and into the pack. After a few miles, we had spread out a little more, and I was about mid-pack as we lined up for the first part of our singletrack adventures. We resembled a long colorful snake winding through the drab desert as we wound around the cholla and mesquite that lined the course. It was difficult to pass or be passed for the next couple of miles, and so we rode around in this fashion for some time, my group following a calculated rider who I dubbed "Old Mother Hubbard" (she was a solo racer who stood on the podium at awards and she turned out to not be that old, so I really can't say anything about her). Once we got back out to another service road, though, we started spreading out a little more. I pumped hard to get out of Mrs. Hubbard's pack, and by the time that we reached the "His and Her Trail," I was in a pack that I felt comfortable riding with. I was at the tail end of a group of about a dozen riders clipping along the trail at a good pace until the guy in front of me decided to become "Mr. Brakes." I had been having a great time for the first time on the curving, slightly less sloppy singletrack, and then he had to go and ruin my date with speed. We coasted along the rolling hills for some time, our original group leaving us eating the mud thrown up from their knobby tires and additional riders accumulating behind us until there was room to pass without getting a face full of cholla. When we finally did pass Mr. Brakes, we found ourselves up to our spokes in thick, soupy mud. My bike floated brilliantly through the 50 meters of uphill muck as I spun in my granny gear, all of us laughing together at the futility of what we were doing. The trail remained slick for the next several miles, finally spitting us out at the end in another 100 meters of mud puddles and ruts. Our bikes and bodies looked the worse for wear as we flung mud and spray high into the air and onto every inch of our beings, but you couldn't wipe the smiles off of our faces. By that time, the really good riders were well ahead, and we were a fun-loving group enjoying the hilarity of our situation. The next section of singletrack wound us around the back of the course, and I passed and got passed quite a bit, feeling more comfortable with the conditions all the time. Before I knew it, I had passed the final powerlines and was slogging up the last long hill, accidentally cutting off Mrs. Hubbard as I passed her and another young female rider, oops. After one more puddle, my tired legs pounded into the pedals and headed for home on the downhill stretch into camp. After 17 miles of mud, seeing the faces of my teammates cheering me on as I rounded the last bend before the exchange tent really got me smiling, and I flew the last half a mile on a high. In the tent, I checked in, handed the baton off to B.J., and walked out feeling on top of the world.
I spent the next few hours rehashing the first lap to my teammates, feeling really good that I had already gotten my first out of the way, and eating and drinking as much as I could stuff into my face. I got to fully enjoy the atmosphere for the first time, the sun streaming down on our camp and the excitement of the race still splattered on my face. Every hour and a half, we would walk down to the exchange tent to see in B.J., then Angel, and then Hannah. We were doing well, sitting 4th or 5th in our category with each lap. Well after the sun set, I waited for Jeremy to come in from his first lap. Finally around 9 p.m., the poor guy rolled in with busted tubes slung across his back, looking tired and defeated and having lost a fight with a thorny tree. I headed out, my HID headlamp burning up the dark night. I was alone as I started out, in complete and total contrast to my first lap. The adrenaline was gone, the sun was gone, and all of the other riders seemed to be swallowed up by the inky blackness surrounding the perimeter of my small lighted world. At first I was timid, cautiously riding over rocks and down the curving track, but by the time I reached the bitches for the second time, the effort of the hills pumped the life and excitement back into my body, and with every rider that passed me, I got more determined to step it up just a little bit more. When I reached the singletrack, I was confident in my abilities, and I flew along, again enjoying the freedom that speed allows. Looking up at the night sky, the old familiar friends of Orion and the Pleiades smiled back down on me. The track had dried up considerably since my first lap, and I happily pumped away in the cold night. I didn't want the ride to end, but before I knew it, I was turning off my headlamp and dismounting into the exchange tent, B.J. eager to get going on his night lap. The ride had me feeling as good as I had felt on the ocean, a bit tired, a bit wet with sweat, but completely at peace with the world and in awe of my surroundings. I spent the next hour staring into the flames of our little fire pit in a complete ocean rowing-like state. Ironically, Angel asked me what I was thinking as I appeared deep in thought, and it was so much like Kohl and I on the ocean that I had to laugh. After seeing her off for her second lap and stuffing my face with more food and drink, I curled up in my sleeping bag in the tent for a few hours, completely oblivious to the frost that was accumulating on my teammates and the trail upon which they rode. I heard all about the slick, Arctic-like conditions soon enough though while Jeremy was out on the trail, with the other four of us huddled in the tent and then in Jeep because it was warmer in there. I counted my blessings that I had taken the first lap and hadn't experienced those shifts. The "3-6" shift isn't a fun one anywhere, be it the ocean or the high desert. Just as the sun popped over the horizon, I headed out for my third lap. Even with the sun, it was still bitter cold and frosty. My hands complained against the cold handlebars and reluctantly shifted up and down the bitches. A wave of tiredness swept over me, and my legs were shaking by the time I finished them. My reaction time was greatly reduced going into the singletrack, but I dared not brake for fear of slowing down, plus my fingers were more content to rest on the rubber grips than the cold brakes. By the last uphill segment, my quads were shot, and my mind started to wander, but all it took for me to suck it up was one more pro rider to pass me. Every time I got passed, my blood boiled. I didn't care if I was a complete novice to the sport and they had been riding since they were 10, I HATE getting passed, so I switched into a higher gear, got off my butt, and pumped up to the top of the hill, splashing through the last puddle and speeding into the chute with my last remaining adrenaline. The adrenaline lasted just long enough for me to meet up with Hannah and Angel as they walked into camp. Once I sat down and downed several Clif Bars, a can of ravioli, the rest of my trail mix, two bananas, and the last dregs of my Powerade, I was done. Or, so I thought... B.J. was due in at 10:45, just in time for Hannah to get in another lap before the end of the race at noon. Except that we were all tired and didn't really feel like going out for that last lap. Angel and Jeremy were done for sure, and Hannah was contemplating throwing in the towel as well. We all knew that B.J. was putting a hard, last lap, and despite my weariness, my pride could not let us just wait around for noon. Plus, it was sunny and the course was perfect and dry. It was the last time I'd be able to ride the course for awhile, and so after discussing the matter with Hannah (ie. guilt tripping her into it), we decided to ride the last lap together, a fun easy ride to send out the race. We had a blast on the fast, dry course, jumping the berms on the bitches as we flew down the packed dirt, speeding around the singletrack, and taking time to enjoy the scenery of the snow covered mountains and the bright desert around us. At the finish, the rest of our teammates had cold blueberry beers waiting for us, and we sipped them with pleasure that can only come after the successful end of a great race. We ended the race in 5th place in our category, beating out only three other teams, but getting a cool tile plaque and some "shwag" as a result. All in all, a great 24 hours. We all learned a lot about our bikes, our training, and about mountain bike racing in general. I'm afraid it's only got me hungry for more, and I have the seed of racing solo, or at least as a duo, next year planted firmly in my head. We'll see. Until then, I've got the great memories and sore calf muscles to remind me of our first 24 hour mountain bike race. It's a first for me since the ocean, a last for Hannah for awhile (she has knee surgery on Thursday), and a first for ODP. It's gonna just be DP for a little bit until Hannah recovers, which isn't half as fun having to push her around singletrack in a wheelchair, but when we're all back next year and fully trained, watch out, cause we're gonna be flying.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Addicted
Two years ago I would have denied it completely. Me? No, it could never happen to me. I told myself that I would never get into that stuff. But now, after a year and a half in the new environment of the west, I am fully prepared to admit that I'm addicted. Completely. I can't help it. I spend my work days dreaming about it. I feel as though I can never get enough. Every high has me yearning for the next fix. I couldn't quit it if I wanted to... I am addicted to the desert.
Although the work week was exciting in and of itself, by the time that Friday evening rolled around, my veins were pulsing, itching for the mountains and the rocks and the sand... a fix that the desert gateway of Papago Park was not going to satisfy. Early Saturday morning, I loaded up the Jeep with my bike and headed down to the green hills of South Mountain. It seemed that everyone else in the greater Phoenix area had the same idea as I did, but I didn't mind, because South Mountain is a big place. I spent the greater part of the morning riding the
Desert Classic and trails that branched off of the main trail. After gaining my full confidence on the bike back, I started exploring the northeast part of the park. I had never biked in that area before, but its green hills and fast, steep sections kept me busy until the early afternoon. After a quick lunch of Clif Bars and a ubiquitous banana (I can't get enough of them... they taste soo good!), I headed up the two miles of the fire road to the National Trailhead. After a quick calculation of the number of bikers and hikers on the infamous trail, I decided that maybe I shouldn't try to tackle the massive uphill just yet. I locked the bike up to a Palo Verde tree and took off on my own on a trail less traveled, getting away from the crowds and enjoying the views from the mountain tops, the silence and seclusion of the valleys, and the scrambling on the rocks in between. After a good full day outdoors, I went back home to grill out and spent the remainder of the evening with friends on Mill Ave.
It's hard to imagine, as I look about my room, that I could ever fall in love with the desert. Every picture hanging on my wall has water in it in some form or another. Nine out of every ten books on my shelf has to do with rowing or the ocean or both. Zero have to do with the anything remotely dry. My dreams are of waves and tides. My heart lies in the ocean... yet, here I am, smack dab in the middle of the Sonoran Desert and loving every minute of it. Maybe it is as the America song goes... "The ocean is a desert with it's life underground, And a perfect disguise above." Maybe I'm just addicted to deserts in all of their shapes and forms. Nevertheless...
It's not hard to be addicted during this time of year. It's just the beginning of the Lenten season, but it feels more like Easter. Cool mornings, bright sunny afternoons, and evenings that are custom built for barbecuing make it easy to fall in love with the desert.
This past week was incredible. Days were filled with new exciting work on my next HIV protein and I even took some never-before-seen electron micrographs of Irene's VLPs (i.e.... I'm gettin' published, woohoo!!!). Evenings were spent climbing, biking around Papago Park, playing kickball, and cooking with the roommates.
Although the work week was exciting in and of itself, by the time that Friday evening rolled around, my veins were pulsing, itching for the mountains and the rocks and the sand... a fix that the desert gateway of Papago Park was not going to satisfy. Early Saturday morning, I loaded up the Jeep with my bike and headed down to the green hills of South Mountain. It seemed that everyone else in the greater Phoenix area had the same idea as I did, but I didn't mind, because South Mountain is a big place. I spent the greater part of the morning riding the
Desert Classic and trails that branched off of the main trail. After gaining my full confidence on the bike back, I started exploring the northeast part of the park. I had never biked in that area before, but its green hills and fast, steep sections kept me busy until the early afternoon. After a quick lunch of Clif Bars and a ubiquitous banana (I can't get enough of them... they taste soo good!), I headed up the two miles of the fire road to the National Trailhead. After a quick calculation of the number of bikers and hikers on the infamous trail, I decided that maybe I shouldn't try to tackle the massive uphill just yet. I locked the bike up to a Palo Verde tree and took off on my own on a trail less traveled, getting away from the crowds and enjoying the views from the mountain tops, the silence and seclusion of the valleys, and the scrambling on the rocks in between. After a good full day outdoors, I went back home to grill out and spent the remainder of the evening with friends on Mill Ave. 
The next morning, several of us headed out to the Supersition Mountains for one of my favorite hikes: Flat Iron. It's a six mile round trip hike through the newly green landscape of brittlebush and sagebrush up through the red rocks and waterfalls of Siphon Draw, and a final scramble gaining 3000 feet up to the top of the perfectly flat plateau that resembles Pride Rock from the Lion King. Although it was 70 degrees and sunny, there was still a bit of residual snow at the top perfect for making snowballs and eating. Although the area wasn't too crowded, I saw several friends (including my me
ntor and his family!) along the way, making the hike even better. It was an incredible hike, but we were back in Tempe by midafternoon. After grabbing a bite to eat and reading for a little bit, I decided that it was a sin to spend one more second inside on such a beautiful day, so I rolled the bike out the door and spent the rest of the day playing around Papago Park, honing my jumping skills on the little dirt BMX course at Canal Park and gaining speed with every mile around the Buttes. As the sun started to set over the Estrellas, I headed home with a massive smile on my face and adrenaline coursing through my veins.
ntor and his family!) along the way, making the hike even better. It was an incredible hike, but we were back in Tempe by midafternoon. After grabbing a bite to eat and reading for a little bit, I decided that it was a sin to spend one more second inside on such a beautiful day, so I rolled the bike out the door and spent the rest of the day playing around Papago Park, honing my jumping skills on the little dirt BMX course at Canal Park and gaining speed with every mile around the Buttes. As the sun started to set over the Estrellas, I headed home with a massive smile on my face and adrenaline coursing through my veins. The hikes and biking gave me enough of a high to last me through to the next weekend, though I know that in a few days, my heart and lungs will be craving the hills and rocks and I'll have to appease my desert addiction once again.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Why?
Exactly seven minutes from now will be our two week anniversary of crossing the finish line of the 2007 Woodvale Events Atlantic Rowing Race. As the days go by, the feeling that we really did accomplish our dream gets more real and more amazing. Although it becomes more real to me, most people that we talk to still don't get it. And unless they have the unique experience of rowing an ocean, they never will. It is up to us to try and be ambassadors of our sport.
1. The People That We Inspire. And in particular, The KIDS That We Inspire. The day after we finished, we hopped in Caroline Blatter's (a volunteer for ABSAR) Nissan Frontier and bounced our way across Antigua to the Island Academy. Still shaky as we climbed up the two flights of stairs to the entryway of the school, we weren't quite sure what to expect. As we walked down the hall, we could feel the energy coming from the common room in the middle of the school. What we saw when we got there was overwhelming: the entire school, kindergarten through sixth grade was seated in front of us eagerly waiting our arrival with bulletin boards bearing our names and pictures adorning the walls. We had never met these children nor their teachers, yet they had all followed us the entire way across, texting us inspiring messages, encouraging us to finish our dream. And now we got to repay them for their support, but not before they inspired us all over again. We sat down together while the principal introduced us, and in turn, the music teacher and the fifth grade class. The class stood in front of the entire crowd of students, teachers, and parents and sang with all their little hearts and lungs a song that the teacher had written entitled, "We Believe." I am not ashamed to admit that I cried. We had just endured 3,000 miles of the Atlantic Ocean without so much as a thought of shedding a tear, and Kohl and I looked at each other through blurry eyes, trying to wipe away the tears streaming down our cheeks and laughing at what we must have looked like. So much for being hardcore adventurers. Listening to them was one of the most emotional times in my life, knowing just what we meant to those kids. Once we dried our eyes and composed ourselves, we stood up in front of the school and gave a presentation, explaining to the kids how we ate, rowed, and slept while telling stories of all of the wildlife that we saw onboard. They were brilliant kids, and asked incredible questions until long after they were free to go home for the day. Just to see the smiles and looks of awe on their faces, knowing that they would go on
to live their own adventures was the best reward to a successful row. When we had finished, every single kid in the school came up to each of us and asked us for our autographs, and we signed over a hundred papers and folders and binders with short messages of inspiration. It is such a surreal feeling to know that you are a hero to a school full of kids. THAT is why we do what we do. Those kids will take our messages of teamwork, perseverance, determination, and living dreams with them as they grow up, and will be the next generation of adventurers, inspiring those who will come after them as they do. There is no greater feeling than knowing the positive influence we had on those island kids and all of the other people around the world.
2. Teammates. When you are on an ocean rowing boat, your whole world is contained in a space that is 28 by 6 feet. Your team is completely self-reliant. For 3,000 miles, you must rely on your teammates for everything. No matter how tired or frustrated you are, at the end of the day, they are all you've got. Everything that you go through, good or bad, is shared on the most intimate level with those onboard. We ate, slept, rowed, steered, cooked, navigated, brushed teeth, showered, laughed, (Jo) cried, swam and sang together, never more than 10 feet from each other at any one time for 51 days. Like soldiers going through battle, we lived or died TOGETHER. Our success depended on all of us getting along and working hard towards our common goal. When you go through something that epic for that period of time, you develop a very unique relationship with your teammates. When Kohl and I rowed across in '05, we were all that we had, and we became incredibly close as a result of the hardships that we went through together. I will never share anything like what I shared with Kohl during those times with anyone else in my life . Not my parents, not my sister, not my friends or my future husband or my future kids. It's an intangible, unexplainable bond, as close as sisters, but stronger in a different way. Kohl and I changed immeasurably in the two years following the capsize, growing apart as our dependence on each other faded, but as soon as we stepped back onto the deck of the boat, it all came back. Selfish thoughts were left onshore, and everything revolved around the TEAM and making life onboard easier for your teammates. Your own happiness was directly dependent on theirs, and so a smile on their face was a smile on yours. Wh
en you share everything from stories and dreams to fears and insecurities to sleeping mats and snacks, you become a part of each other. An inseparable part of each other. When we set sail on December 2, we set off as four individuals; when we rowed into English Harbour, we stepped ashore as ONE TEAM. Nothing in the world will ever separate the "Hearts of the Ocean." No matter what paths we take in the future, we will always have the memories of Unfinished Business '07 and the dream that, together, we finished. Fifty years down the road, grandkids on our laps, my three teammates will be the only ones that truly understand what we went through, and that is a pretty special feeling.
3. The New Perspective On Life. Being away from everything that you are used to for 51 days puts a whole new perspective on your entire life. For 51 days, you are completely out of your normal comfort zone, living every day without the comforts of land - no family, friends, hot showers, clean clothes, fresh food, intellectual stimulation, mountains, valleys, trees, grass or snow. As a result, when you get back to these things, they mean so much more to you. I could not help but hug my family members a little longer when I returned. I can't help but smile every time I see my friends. I can't help but stand in awe at the rows of fresh vegetables in the store. A bike ride in the desert and a hike up a hill to watch the sun set are new incredible adventures. My bed is more comfortable than even I remembered. A ban
ana has never tasted so good, and the box of Honey Bunches of Oats that I found in the back of our pantry: heavenly. I am more motivated in my research, and even tasks that I found mundane before the race I go about with a newfound sense of purpose. All aspects of my life are more real, more meaningful, more beautiful now that I have returned to land and the world I know. Although I absolutely loved my time on the water, I never realized just how much I loved my life. The world has not changed, but certainly my perspective on it has. Because of my time on the water, I now realize all of the wonderful blessings that are a part of my life, and I am so incredibly grateful for them.
So many people ask us, why? First they tell us that we're crazy, and then after we tell them about the adventure a little bit, they ask why. So, why? I tried to answer that question here, but there is so much more to it than that. Fresh from the ocean, with my calves and hands just beginning to understand what it is like to run and catch frisbees, the reasons why we went through the trials and tribulations of an ocean row are still etched deeply into my psyche.
Explorers from all over the world have justified their reasons for putting themselves through hell. To quote a few:
"I have to feel that life is worthwhile. If or when we pull this off, I will have done something extraordinary which will give me the opportunity that I long for." - Robert Swan
"My path is life and raw experience. I can only learn so much secondhand; nothing surpasses my expeditions in the wilderness...That is one of the reasons I forced myself again and again to take up a new expedition, to begin a new journey...I knew that, if I were one day no longer to dream, no longer able to travel, I would be old and despairing." -Reinhold Messner
And my favorite.
"Because it's there." -George Leigh Mallory
But, my reasons... I have a lot of them, these are the ones that will keep me adventuring for the rest of my life.
1. The People That We Inspire. And in particular, The KIDS That We Inspire. The day after we finished, we hopped in Caroline Blatter's (a volunteer for ABSAR) Nissan Frontier and bounced our way across Antigua to the Island Academy. Still shaky as we climbed up the two flights of stairs to the entryway of the school, we weren't quite sure what to expect. As we walked down the hall, we could feel the energy coming from the common room in the middle of the school. What we saw when we got there was overwhelming: the entire school, kindergarten through sixth grade was seated in front of us eagerly waiting our arrival with bulletin boards bearing our names and pictures adorning the walls. We had never met these children nor their teachers, yet they had all followed us the entire way across, texting us inspiring messages, encouraging us to finish our dream. And now we got to repay them for their support, but not before they inspired us all over again. We sat down together while the principal introduced us, and in turn, the music teacher and the fifth grade class. The class stood in front of the entire crowd of students, teachers, and parents and sang with all their little hearts and lungs a song that the teacher had written entitled, "We Believe." I am not ashamed to admit that I cried. We had just endured 3,000 miles of the Atlantic Ocean without so much as a thought of shedding a tear, and Kohl and I looked at each other through blurry eyes, trying to wipe away the tears streaming down our cheeks and laughing at what we must have looked like. So much for being hardcore adventurers. Listening to them was one of the most emotional times in my life, knowing just what we meant to those kids. Once we dried our eyes and composed ourselves, we stood up in front of the school and gave a presentation, explaining to the kids how we ate, rowed, and slept while telling stories of all of the wildlife that we saw onboard. They were brilliant kids, and asked incredible questions until long after they were free to go home for the day. Just to see the smiles and looks of awe on their faces, knowing that they would go on
to live their own adventures was the best reward to a successful row. When we had finished, every single kid in the school came up to each of us and asked us for our autographs, and we signed over a hundred papers and folders and binders with short messages of inspiration. It is such a surreal feeling to know that you are a hero to a school full of kids. THAT is why we do what we do. Those kids will take our messages of teamwork, perseverance, determination, and living dreams with them as they grow up, and will be the next generation of adventurers, inspiring those who will come after them as they do. There is no greater feeling than knowing the positive influence we had on those island kids and all of the other people around the world.2. Teammates. When you are on an ocean rowing boat, your whole world is contained in a space that is 28 by 6 feet. Your team is completely self-reliant. For 3,000 miles, you must rely on your teammates for everything. No matter how tired or frustrated you are, at the end of the day, they are all you've got. Everything that you go through, good or bad, is shared on the most intimate level with those onboard. We ate, slept, rowed, steered, cooked, navigated, brushed teeth, showered, laughed, (Jo) cried, swam and sang together, never more than 10 feet from each other at any one time for 51 days. Like soldiers going through battle, we lived or died TOGETHER. Our success depended on all of us getting along and working hard towards our common goal. When you go through something that epic for that period of time, you develop a very unique relationship with your teammates. When Kohl and I rowed across in '05, we were all that we had, and we became incredibly close as a result of the hardships that we went through together. I will never share anything like what I shared with Kohl during those times with anyone else in my life . Not my parents, not my sister, not my friends or my future husband or my future kids. It's an intangible, unexplainable bond, as close as sisters, but stronger in a different way. Kohl and I changed immeasurably in the two years following the capsize, growing apart as our dependence on each other faded, but as soon as we stepped back onto the deck of the boat, it all came back. Selfish thoughts were left onshore, and everything revolved around the TEAM and making life onboard easier for your teammates. Your own happiness was directly dependent on theirs, and so a smile on their face was a smile on yours. Wh
en you share everything from stories and dreams to fears and insecurities to sleeping mats and snacks, you become a part of each other. An inseparable part of each other. When we set sail on December 2, we set off as four individuals; when we rowed into English Harbour, we stepped ashore as ONE TEAM. Nothing in the world will ever separate the "Hearts of the Ocean." No matter what paths we take in the future, we will always have the memories of Unfinished Business '07 and the dream that, together, we finished. Fifty years down the road, grandkids on our laps, my three teammates will be the only ones that truly understand what we went through, and that is a pretty special feeling.
3. The New Perspective On Life. Being away from everything that you are used to for 51 days puts a whole new perspective on your entire life. For 51 days, you are completely out of your normal comfort zone, living every day without the comforts of land - no family, friends, hot showers, clean clothes, fresh food, intellectual stimulation, mountains, valleys, trees, grass or snow. As a result, when you get back to these things, they mean so much more to you. I could not help but hug my family members a little longer when I returned. I can't help but smile every time I see my friends. I can't help but stand in awe at the rows of fresh vegetables in the store. A bike ride in the desert and a hike up a hill to watch the sun set are new incredible adventures. My bed is more comfortable than even I remembered. A ban
ana has never tasted so good, and the box of Honey Bunches of Oats that I found in the back of our pantry: heavenly. I am more motivated in my research, and even tasks that I found mundane before the race I go about with a newfound sense of purpose. All aspects of my life are more real, more meaningful, more beautiful now that I have returned to land and the world I know. Although I absolutely loved my time on the water, I never realized just how much I loved my life. The world has not changed, but certainly my perspective on it has. Because of my time on the water, I now realize all of the wonderful blessings that are a part of my life, and I am so incredibly grateful for them.
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