50 Miles of Whiskey

When I was younger back in southern Indiana, biking was a necessity if I wanted to get around anywhere. The closest neighbor kids were a quarter mile in either direction, and since we weren't allowed to take the four-wheeler on the road, biking was it. Long before my 16th birthday, I rode my beat up yellow bike and then brand new blue bike up and down the steep southern Indiana hills to Pekin (14 miles roundtrip) and Salem (12 miles roundtrip using the backroads), and I even took a 30+ mile ride to a coach's house while patches of ice still covered the roads just to see if I could (I'm pretty sure that she thought I was crazy at the time, and I don't think the feeling has changed in 12 years). My sister and neighbors and I had loads of fun on our bikes... splashing through the mud (manure...oops) pits behind my friend Ross's barn, zooming down the paved hills of Blue River Church Road, and cruising down the dirt tracks to explore abandoned houses on the Day Farm. I've loved biking in challenging conditions since I was a kid, and in that regard I haven't changed a whole lot since I was in middle school. It's only that as I have grown up, the challenges have grown up with me. This weekend's challenge was a huge step up for me in the form of Epic Ride's Whiskey Off Road 50 Proof Mountain Bike Race up in Prescott.

As soon as my lab meeting was over on Friday, I headed north on I-17 and didn't look back. I did look west towards the incredible sunset and smiled at the weekend ahead of me. I got up to Prescott around 7:30 and checked in before the pre-race meeting on the steps of the courthouse. I know I've said it before, but the mountain biking community is full of a whole bunch of really great people. I looked in vain for the rest of the Missing Link team, and in their absence, I struck up conversation with a few riders from Colorado and California. They were some really cool dudes, and we quickly passed the hour before the meeting with talk of trails and bikes and the race. Epic Rides puts on some pretty amazing events, and this one seemed like it was going to live up to my expectations. To be completely and unabashedly honest, I would probably do the races just to watch Todd, the race organizer. Normally I wouldn't pay too much attention to the pre-race meetings, but between Todd and the free shwag that was thrown at the crowd every 10 minutes or so, I was all ears while he detailed the course and how technical and tough it was going to be. I knew that it wasn't going to be a cake walk, but by the end of the meeting, I made sure that I got my share of E-caps and Hammer Gel (sorry GU, it was free...) for the challenge that lay ahead of me. I had heard horror stories attributed to the 50 mile beast from friends and past participants, and some of the team had even tried (unsuccessfully, of course) to get me to switch to the 25 mile course. Hearing Todd talk about rock gardens, gnarly drops, and grueling climbs made me wonder if I had made the right decision. After the meeting, I found my way to Al's house less than a mile from the race start and joined up with the rest of the Missing Links guys and watched ROAM, an inspiring mountain bike film that had me both excited and nervous about the next day. I chilled with the guys and nursed a water bottle until the movie was over, and then went to bed, unsure of what the next day would bring.

The morning broke to a chilly, but wonderfully sunny, Prescott day. By 8 a.m., the house was abuzz with bikes, helmets, pumps, electrolytes, energy gels, Camelbacks, adrenaline, eight excited Linkers, and one equally excited German shepard. By 8:30, Jason, Rhino, and I headed down the hill to the square for the start of the 50 mile race. The center of town was awash with the colors of sponsored covered jerseys and filled with some incredible bikes along with their equally impressive riders. The butterflies that had been hibernating in my stomach since the 24 HOP came out of their cocoons and flew around my chest once again. The three of us lined up behind the main pack, not eager to get trounced by Floyd Landis and the rest of the elites/pros at the start. At 9:01, the starting bell sounded, and the 150 or so of us headed west past the historic Whiskey Row with the shouts of our teammates and onlookers cheering us on. The course was pretty much uphill from the start as we made our way out of town towards Copper Basin Road. We spun the first five miles out on the road before turning off onto a dirt road that led to the singletrack. Jason, Rhino and I paced each other for these first few miles, each of us taking the lead on different sections before the track narrowed and we started switchbacking up a rocky section of trail. Since we had started at the back of the pack, we caught and started to pass several less technical riders at this point. Unfortunately for my single speed friends, Jason and Rhino soon fell into this group and after a few more twists up the hill, I could no longer hear them or see the red, blue and yellow of their jerseys. At this point, the singletrack became wicked fun. I rolled up and down hills, along ridges, down steep sections loaded with water bars, and finally up to the top of a hill where a few supporters had set up an "aid station" and offered Early Times whiskey to all of the riders. After that, the trail headed down again for a bit along a gorgeous ridge, and I was awed at the beauty that surrounded me. As I was headed down, I continued to pass more riders, and was feeling great about the race. I knew I couldn't have been more than ten miles in, but I was stoked at how well the ride was going. As I was coming around a bend, I came across a frustrated looking rider with his bike upside down on the narrow ledge between the hill, trail, and the steep drop-off below. He had just busted a tire and was attempting to patch up a sidewall tear... not a fun or even worthwhile endeavor, so I stopped and dug a tube out of my pack for him before continuing on, figuring that it had to be good trail karma and the rest of my ride would go well. I was rewarded a half mile later when I caught up with a biker from Eagle, CO whom I had been pacing back and forth with for some time. As I was coming down the hill, I saw him throwing rocks on the sandy trail and was completely confused until I got a little bit closer and heard the unmistakable rattle and saw the most massive snake I have ever seen in the wild curling and uncurling its coils at the edge of the trail. Finally the snake decided to go attack the rocks off trail, and the Eagle biker and I took off as fast as we could.

Shortly after the snake, we left the singletrack and returned to another dirt road that wound around the tall pine forests. The road started as a gentle incline and just kept going up for the next three miles or so. After what seemed like an eternity of rounding bends just to find another long upward straightaway, the forest finally opened up a little bit to the beautiful oasis of a white tent filled with smiling volunteers and racers stuffing their faces with food. It was a beautiful sight as I pounded up the last few meters and hopped off my bike on shaky legs. I gulped down three cups of HEED before I even had a chance to catch my breath, and then quickly moved on to goldfish crackers and bananas. Even through there was a whole array of Clif products and energy gels, the salty cheesy crackers really hit the spot and all of us kept grabbing handfuls of the little guys and gulping them down almost whole. Before long, my body had recovered a bit and I felt very satisfied at my progress so far. Jason pulled up to the checkpoint shortly after I refilled my Camelback, with Rhino about a minute after. I talked with them briefly before taking off to the left... down the dirt road to Skull Valley. I was flying down the steep road having the time of my life, my sweat dry and my legs and lungs enjoying the break. The only bad part about this part of the race was knowing that I would be traveling back on the exact same route. The looks on the faces of the pros in front of me, climbing back up from the depths of the valley, showed just how tough the course was going to be on the return trip. As I zoomed past, I exchanged motivational words for strained smiles. For nine glorious miles, I descended into the valley, with only the occasional flat spot or incline. The view going down was spectacular and with the sweet wind whistling through my helmet, I couldn't have been happier. I got down to Skull Valley in less than 40 minutes, and wasted no time in obtaining a special 50 miler's treat: an ice cream sandwich. The first few bites were heavenly, but I started talking to some of the volunteers and neglected to notice that it started melting very fast in the hot sun. The other half of my prized treat ended up in the dirt. Fortunately, there were plenty to go around, and I consumed my second one before the sun could do its work. After a little stretch, I hopped back on the bike, and headed back out on the road. I met Jason and Rhino less than a mile from the checkpoint, returned their calls of IEEEEE! and then prepared myself for the big challenge ahead of me. I could barely see the top of Sierra Prieta high above me, but I knew that if I just kept moving, I would eventually get there. I started the hills with a gleam in my eye and lungs full of oxygen at 4500 feet. As the hills became steeper and the sun became hotter, I started passing a few guys and gained some confidence that maybe it wasn't going to be so bad. Unfortunately, it wouldn't last too long. The first 3 miles or so weren't so bad, but after awhile, the never ending steepness started getting to me. Only a few more riders were left coming down, and I was alone in my challenge. My legs and heart pumping for all they were worth, I settled into a slow cadence in granny gear and kept my eye out for the next mile marker. Although there were a few downhills and flat spots, the majority was up, up, and more up. By mile 6 of the uphill, I was physically exhausted and my head was pounding with the lack of oxygen in my system. But, I still had three miles and about 600 feet of elevation before I got to the checkpoint. I popped some salt pills, sucked down some more HEED, and kept on spinning. The last mile and a half were the longest of my life. My legs were shot, shaky and threatening to cramp up. At one point, a rider came up behind me, walking his bike faster than I was biking, so I, too, hopped off and stretched out my tired legs in the grueling sun. As I did, I sucked on my Camelback and was rewarded not with gulps of cold HEED, but of the last warm dregs from the bottom of the bladder. For some reason, the lyrics of Kenny Roger's "The Gambler" popped into my head and became the cadence to my trekking. Between the hill, the heat, and the games my mind was playing trying to figure out who sang the song, the last mile was a tough one. I spent it on and off the bike, grateful that I had platform pedals and my old beat-up Salomons on, because it was definitely a hike. Once I reached the mecca that was the aid station, I was beat. I dropped Fish into the shade and headed straight for the... not Clif Bars, not even the bananas, but... the pickles. Yes, folks, pickles are my new favorite sports food. They're salty, crunchy, and full of liquid. Amazing. Along with several more handfuls of fishy crackers and a couple of brownies, I was one happy kid. By that time, the 25ers had started to come through the checkpoint, and I was getting itchy to get back on the way. Armed with two more liters of HEED and a whole lot of mental toughness, I looked up the mountain towards the Sierra Prieta overlook, another 3 miles and an additional 1000 feet... up. It wasn't getting any closer standing at the checkpoint, so I hoisted myself back into the saddle and resumed the spinning without any sight of Jason or Rhino. My pride wouldn't let me walk in front of the 25ers for the first mile or so, but after awhile the steepness and exhaustion started to kick in, so I played the on again off again game until the road burrowed itself back into the pine forests. Once protected from the sun, I began to feel better again, and I kicked it up as much as I could, telling myself that the overlook was just around the next bend. Around the 8th bend or so, I finally saw the telltale sign of the white aid station tent. Looking like a pro though I didn't feel it at all, I cruised on past the dozen riders camped out at the station and made my way back onto the beloved singletrack. By that time, I was so set on finishing, I just kept on going, knowing that if I stopped, my legs would cramp and I wouldn't be able to fight the urge to break out the camera and take pictures of the incredible scene that spread out before me. The singletrack was amazing though, its beauty quadrupled by the fact that it was DOWN. For the next ten miles, all I could focus on was getting back into town. I wore my brakes completely out, with metal rubbing on metal where the rubber had been completely stripped away from the extensive use during Skull Valley and the last few miles. As I rounded a sharp bend, a few volunteers shouted that I had one final hill and five miles left to go. After I passed them, I laughed out loud: I was six hours in and feeling great. With a new found sense of purpose, I pounded out the last long hill, intent on finishing in less than 6:30. Before I knew it, I was skidding down the last part of singletrack onto Thumb Butte Road. Back on pavement, I kicked it up into my highest gear and just cranked along like a roadie. The ride back into town lasted longer than I thought it would, and with each minute that passed closer to the 6:30 mark, I dug a little bit deeper. Finally, with the police waving me through red lights towards the square, I came to the last straightaway and rolled across the finish line at 6:28. Exhausted, but elated, I found a few of the Missing Links guys and picked up my finishing plaque. I couldn't have been happier. I did it... and not in a bad time either. We waited on Jason and Rhino, who rolled in 6:57, and then headed back to Al's for whatever calories we could scrounge up (donuts, milk, and a hamburger for me) and a shower to wash off 50 miles of dust and sweat. As tired as I was, I was on top of the world with the completion of the great challenge.

The awards ceremony was crowded, but fun with Todd, free shwag, and the whole community of mountain bikers. All five of the women who podiumed for the 50 mile race looked like pros, and I would have had to raced in 5 hours to get up there... I guess it's something to shoot for next year :). After awards we had dinner at the Brewing Company and then did an abbreviated version of a pub crawl with me downing pint after pint of water like a champ. We made it back to Al's some time later and spent the rest of the evening massaging our aching muscles and telling stories around the fire pit until I crashed, hard.

I woke up the next morning feeling completely rested without a sore muscle to be felt. I couldn't believe it. So instead of lounging around Prescott as I had planned, I headed north to join Angel and Christie for some fun in the Verde Valley. I met them in Camp Verde and Angel drove the Nissan down the 20 miles of dirt road to the Verde River. The hot springs sounded like an incredible way to relax after Saturday's race, so we crossed the river and headed up the trail to the pools. The first and only time that we had visited the hot springs was in July, when the weather was too hot to really enjoy the warm mineral waters. The area has been known to be a hangout for nudists, but since there weren't that many people there in July, we had been spared. That was not the case on Sunday. I had completely forgotten about the naked factor, and I think that all three of us were a little bit shocked when we climbed up the banks of the river to assess the scene. I had really been looking forward to slipping into the hot pools, but after we arrived, I was beginning to have second thoughts about hanging out with a bunch of old guys that were, simply put, just hanging out. I had no problem agreeing to camp out downriver for some lunch. The Verde was flowing fast, and it was still great to jump off the rocks, explore, and swim in the river. After lunch, we got up the courage to swim back upriver. It was a bit humorous/unnerving to climb up the banks with a old naked guy sitting next to where you were climbing, but it made the subsequent jump back off the ledge that much more worth it. After a few jumps near the cascades of mineral water, the lure of the pools overcame the nudity, and we joined the half dozen people already in the pool, bringing the clothed:naked ratio over .500. The water was heavenly and worth it. We spent some time in both pools, admiring the artwork on the walls and rocks and the relaxing water. After some time, we headed back downstream for some frisbee and chillin' in the cooler Verde before getting back in the pools. By that time, the pools had cleared out except for two people, and we got the enclosed pool all to our clothed selves for 5 shining minutes before a nude woman of substantial size joined us in the pool. I hadn't realized just how small the pool was until then. To her credit though, she was really nice and told us some of the history of the artwork on the walls.

After we were fully relaxed from the pools, we packed up and trekked back to the car, enjoying the beauty of the Verde valley in the late afternoon sun. It was so beautiful that we didn't want to leave, and the three of us seriously started considering options for camping that night... the prospect of returning to Phoenix was not an enjoyable thought. After some deliberation, we decided that it wouldn't be feasible considering all my camping gear was back with the Jeep in Camp Verde and that we had work to attend early in the morning, but like the children that we are, we refused to go back inside until we were sure that we had squeezed the last possible fun out of the day.

By the time we drove up and out of the Verde valley, the shadows were stretching long across the western edge of the Mogollon Rim. Despite the time, at the crossroads that would either take us left back to Camp Verde or right to Fossil Creek, we turned right. We parked near the trail to the creek and bushwacked down to the blue-green fast flowing waters below. Less than half a mile into our hike, we could not resist the temptation to play among the rapids that formed a perfect water slide. We eventually made it up to the first of the bigger falls, welcomed by the delicate smell of locust blooms. As the last remaining light filtered down over the canyon rim, I played in the strong current of the falls and jumped into the deep pools below, completely content. The sun held on for as long as it could, but the further it sank, the cooler the temperatures became, signaling that it was time to go. After stopping in at an incredible Italian restuarant in Strawberry for a warm and hearty dinner, we headed back towards Phoenix. Well past my school day bedtime, I arrived back home and crashed into bed, satisfied with the weekend's challenging ride and post-race relaxation.

Heaven and Hell

Arizona is a place of wonder, incredible diversity, unsurpassed beauty, and thousands of miles full of every adventure imaginable. We've got the world at our fingertips. Want snow? Head up to Snowbowl or Sunrise. Want sand? Head out to the dunes. Want lush green forests with tall pines? Prescott is your place. Blue waterfalls? Havasu. Red rock? Sedona. We've got it all: mountains, valleys, deserts, rivers, waterfalls, and canyons abound in this incredible state to appease climbers, hikers, mountain bikers, paddlers, and all sorts of other adventure junkies. I truly do love this crazy state most of the time, and it's easy to love during the few months that the weather is absolutely perfect in the Valley. Unfortunately, the diversity of the state means that we also have to deal with some of the not so pleasant qualities of AZ, and this weekend I got a taste of both the good and the bad.

By Friday morning, I thought I had my weekend all figured out. I was going to spend Saturday up in the Estrellas climbing Quartz Peak and Sunday somewhere with water. It sounded like a good plan to me... except that I knew that Pierre and Evelyn and another of their friends were going up to the Grand Canyon to hike rim to rim to rim. Even though they were planning on doing it over two days, not all in one go, it still sounded like an incredible weekend. All would have been fine if Pierre hadn't invited me to go. Even though they only had camping permits for three, I could join them for the majority of the hike and just do the last leg by myself. Hm... Friday afternoon at 5 p.m. wasn't the best time to plan a rim-rim-rim, but it certainly had me thinking. I wrestled with the idea for a long time, but finally decided that maybe it was best to just stick with my original plan. My weekend would be fun enough, and the Grand Canyon wasn't going anywhere.

So, Saturday morning I woke up at 6, excited about the day ahead of me. I had just put a long week behind me, and I wasn't meeting anyone out at the Estrellas, so I figured that I could sleep in for a little bit. Mistake #1. I slept till 8, got up, had a good leisurely breakfast, loaded my bike in the Jeep, and didn't get out of Tempe until it was almost 10 o'clock. The temperature wasn't much over 70 though, so I wasn't worried. It was a long drive out to the Estrellas, and by the time I got out to the mountains, the temperatures had increased about 10 degrees. I had never been on the west side of the mountains, and the diversity of Arizona really showed at this point. I drove through posh, rich subdivisions and kept on driving until I was in the scene of a wild west movie. Coyotes, tumbleweeds, and dilapidated houses became the norm, and though I could see Quartz Peak clearly ahead of me, the final 9 miles that were supposed to take me to the mountain didn't look like a road, dirt or otherwise. I don't mind dirt roads, but the one that my scribbled notes directed me to didn't appear to really qualify as a road. The two sandy ruts down the middle of someone's field didn't look too inviting, and I decided that I didn't need to mess with the inhabitants, particularily ones that carried shotguns. I turned the car around and figured that I could at least salvage some of my plans by getting some mountain biking in at the Estrella Regional Park. Again, my notes on the back of a post-it note weren't the greatest, and I found the main entrance to the park before I found the competitive track, paying for the mistake with a $6 entrance fee. I figured that I'd take some turns around the trails in the park and then cut across the little bit of desert to the competitive track, hopefully looking at a 20 mile day. Unfortunately, by 11, the temperatures were hovering around 90 and as I rolled up to the trailhead, I was greeted with sand, rocks, and an entire landscape of DEAD. It was a little bit depressing after our green spring, but I headed out anyways, eager to give my new front tire a chance to prove its worth. The tire did great across sandy washes and up rocky inclines, but both Fish and I were completely bored. The trail was rocky, but not technical and the scenery was less than inspiring. It was then and there that I realized the importance of friends, goals, and beautiful surroundings. With any one of the three, I could have squeezed some fun out of the dry desert, but lacking them I also lacked motivation. I stopped under a mesquite tree for a bit of respite from the hot sun and let out a sigh in my boredom. Almost on cue but quite unexpectedly, Fish sighed back at me. When your bike sighs at you when you are several miles from anywhere and without a spare tube, you know that it's not your day. His back tire bore about 5 different thorns and I didn't have enough patches to repair it, so I resigned myself to walking back to the Jeep. I tried to find some sort of beauty in the desert, to find some reason to enjoy the hike back, but I really couldn't. I dubbed the area death valley on my long walk back. The only green along the trail consisted of a few creosote bushes. The ground in the washes was cracked in the dry heat, and the blooms on the hedgehog cacti had dried up before they could fully open. Even a saguaro along the trail had given up hope and lay crumpled on the desert floor. Everything that had been in full glory just a month ago had turned into shriveled, colorless, crunchy stalks that were gradually remorphing into the dust from which they had formed. Buzzards circled overhead, only confirming my feelings. I returned to the Jeep a few hours later wishing that I had followed my instincts on Friday and had gone to the Grand Canyon instead. I ended my day at REI stocking up on my semiannual ration of Slime tubes and also picked up a book that will probably become my bible this summer: Day Trips with a Splash, Swimming Holes of the Southwest. After a day in the heat of the valley, I spent the evening cleaning my bike, changing tubes, and drooling at the waterfalls and rapids that adorned the pages of the magnificent book.

If Saturday was my purgatory, then Sunday was heaven. With the new book as our guide, Hannah and I took a trip up Hwy 87 to Gisela, a small ranching community smack dab in the middle of nowhere. After winding around a dirt road for a little bit, we came to a ranch and a trail that pointed us towards a swimming hole on Tonto Creek. After about a mile on a dirt track and trail, we reached the creek: deep and full of clear, cold water. The initial swimming hole by the gauging station was beautiful in itself, but we hadn't even begun. A short distance upstream we reached the Tonto Narrows where the creek constricts into rapids and deep pools bordered by smooth granite cliffs and boulders. The place was incredible, and we shared the narrows with only one other group. Of course, we weren't satisfied with just sitting around on the rocks sunning ourselves all day, so we headed upstream to see what else we could find. Similar to my other favorites, Havasu and Fossil Creek, each bend in the stream provided a new surprise, be it a tall jumping cliff, a boulder field, rapids, deep green pools, or a perfect sandy beach to camp on. Both Hannah and I were in awe of our new find, and we happily bounded along for about a mile, bushwacking up some areas, standing on tall cliffs above the water, and wading through the creek in other places. We could have explored the entire canyon, but since we are definitely coming back to the area for some backpacking fun this summer when the temperatures in Phoenix drive us out of the Valley, we had to save some of it for later exploration. After remaining relatively calm most of the trip upstream, I could not contain myself as we turned around. Despite the cold, I plopped down in one of the many gushing rapids and enjoyed the best waterslide I've been in since Beaver Falls at Havasu. The water is probably the result of snowmelt further up the Rim and it was freezing, but I didn't mind too much once I got used to its refreshing temperatures, and I spent the entire hike back jumping off the rocks, sliding through the rapids, and testing the depth of pools for future diving reference. Rather than bushwacking up and over one particularily spiny section, we opted to swim, attempting to keep our bags above our heads. We had limited success, and let me just say it's a weird feeling to be diving to the bottom of a deep pool for your camera and not be worried about it (thanks Dad for the camera and Pentax for making such a tough machine!). By the time we got back to the Narrows, we couldn't stop smiling, and we met one other group that were enjoying the spot. They confirmed that not too many people visited the area, and those that did weren't apt to explore too deep into the canyon. Tonto Creek is definitely on my top ten list of favorite places in AZ, and I'd say it's probably vying for a podium spot.

An added bonus to the place is that even though we spent the majority of the day hiking and splashing and having a great time, we still got back to Tempe by 4. The fact that it's only an hour and twenty minutes away makes it even sweeter. Since I was full of adrenaline and Fish was looking for redemption, I headed out for a short, hard evening ride around Tempe. In a true Arizona classic, I rode into the sunset along Tempe Town Lake admiring the beauty of my surroundings and a large flock of swallows that were dipping and diving along the water's edge eating... gnats! Millions of the buggers. In one breath, I must have swallowed at least a dozen and lodged another half dozen in each eyeball with a few more up the nose just for good measure. I tried not to breathe as I attempted to pedal out of the swarm, the bugs pelting me like rain at 25 miles an hour. Eventually, though, I did ride up and out of the bugs and had an enjoyable remainder of the ride past Priest, down the south side of the lake past the Center for the Arts, and then back home as the sun's light completely faded and my weekend of heaven and hell came to an end.

London

Last week was a long week for me... during the beginning of the week I managed to ruin EVERY single experiment that I performed in one way or another, culminating in the decapitation of two flats of N. benthamiana plants on the way back from the East Greenhouse and then soaking my jeans with the results of two weeks worth of work in the form of sticky sucrose gradients to the crotch. The rest of the week was spent playing catch-up, attending thesis defenses, and wondering if my own graduation will someday be a reality with weeks like this one.

By Friday evening, I was definitely ready to get away... far, far away. And so I did just that. Kohl and I got to Sky Harbor a little after 5:30 p.m., and were settled into British Airways Flight 0288 direct to Heathrow by 8 p.m. "London for the weekend" hasn't been in my vocabulary since the days that I was dating Asher, but it still has a great appeal to me, even without the Essex boy.

London has always been a favorite of mine. I owe a lot of who I am to the city and have many incredible memories there. From laughing and joking with my German and British friends at the many pubs, clubbing from Covent Garden all the way up to Ongar, eating shawarmas hot off the skewer at Sami's Deli, watching the stars up in Epping Forest on a cold, clear night, running up Notting Hill at the stroke of midnight to bring in the new year, pretending to be guides in the Tate Modern, and simply chillin' in the tall summer grass of Hyde Park, eating ice cream with a Flake, watching the clouds roll by and smiling at the simple pleasures of life. I owe my first love to the city, and pretty much owe the biggest dream of my life to a small bookshop on Oxford Street, where I picked up Debra Veal's ocean rowing book. It didn't take much more than the tiring week behind me and a little James Blunt on the in-flight radio to fondly remind me of how much I really loved the time that I spent in the city and how happy I was to be going there.

After 10 hours, two movies, a couple of meals, and several cups of tea, we touched down shortly after 2 in the afternoon GMT at Terminal 4 and hopped on the Picadilly Line of the Tube to Central London. It was Kohl's first time in England, and we both enjoyed watching the quaint little townhouses with full flowering green spring gardens roll by before the train went underground. We found our way to Jury's on Great Russell Street near Covent Garden, unloaded our backpacks, and then headed back out to take in all that we could in the short time that we had in Old Blighty. Even though I hadn't been to London in a few years, it all came back to me, and I could almost take the Tube to where I wanted to go without regard for the map. We made our first stop at Embankment along the Thames near the Golden Jubilee Bridges. From there we crossed the famous river and walked along the rain soaked streets past the London Eye (-sore, it kind of takes away from the beauty and history of the area, but that's just my opinion, and I haven't been up in it either). Then we crossed over the Westminster Bridge, admiring Parliment and Big Ben just as the skies opened up on us. We opted out of going to see Buckingham in the rain, and instead decided that a pub was a good way to get out of the rain. I knew of a good one down by the Tower Bridge, so we hopped back on the Tube to go find it. An advert positioned above us changed our minds though... there's just something about Jack the Ripper that is too inticing. Since we were headed for the Tower anyways, and the London Dungeon was just up the street from it, Kohl decided that we should go check it out. I was stoked, as it was something that I had always wanted to see, but never had time or money to explore before. The London Dungeon is part museum and part reenactment of some of London's darkest history, including the plague, torture, witch trials, Sweeney Todd, Jack the Ripper, and the London Fire among many other things. Although gruesome at times and a bit dull at times (it was the end of the day, and you could tell that some of the actors were tired), it was definitely worth the 20 quid we paid for the hour and a half tour through the Dungeon, especially with the last part where we were all "hung" from the gallows (basically a free fall drop ride like you'd have at an amusement park). The looks on our faces when they dropped us were hilarious. When we got back out to the streets, the sun was just beginning to set, so we walked along towards the Tower Bridge. Although there were several pubs along the way that would have sufficed, by that time we were both getting pretty hungry and we had a free meal waiting for us back at the hotel. We walked back across the Thames on one of my favorite London landmarks, the Tower Bridge, and by the London Tower, and all of "new London" including the Gherkin (Swiss Re Building) before going back underground and back to Jury's. Unfortunately, the restuarant of Jury's was about as far from British pub culture as we could have gotten. We were two of a half dozen people in the very posh little dining room. The waiters were almost too attentive, and had us a little creeped out to be honest, especially when Kohl's dinner turned out to be disgusting (if you ever go DO NOT get the Benedict Omelette with haddock) and she had to try and pretend that all was well. Fortunately, my lamb and potatoes was much better and I ended up sneaking pieces over to her when the waiters weren't looking. I don't think the resuarant has ever seen the likes of two tired, giggly American girls before. If it wasn't humorous for them, it still certainly was for us. By the end of dinner, it was 10 p.m. and though I was aching to get to the pubs, Kohl was beat, so I settled for some cider from Marks and Spencer and ended the night in the hotel room watching Premier League Rugby and movies until we both passed out.

The next morning, we got up and joined our ever attentive waiters for breakfast and The Worst Waffle Known to Mankind. Honestly, for such a posh place, you would think that they would learn to cook at least a little bit. I KNOW that British tastes are different than ours, but I was hungry, and I don't think that even the natives would have eaten the thing. If you'd like a good representation of the aforementioned waffle, take some PlayDough, smash it in a Belgian waffle maker, and then deep fry it in a mixture of lard and brown sugar. The tea and toast were delicious though, and I am grateful that the Brits have perfected those things, otherwise I would have been very hungry until lunch.

After breakfast, we walked down to St. Giles Hotel where our interviews, the main reason for being in London, were to be held. Chris met us in the lobby and directed us down to the conference center for some more tea and biscuits, hurray, food! All of the crew were incredible, from the director to the sound guy, and we had a lot of fun with them, just chatting and laughing while they continually moved lights and shadows around for the shooting. They interviewed us separately, about an hour each. I have to say that the interviews were probably the best ones that we have ever done. The questions that they asked us were thorough and the atmosphere was both professional and relaxed. The final product is due to be broadcast as part of a six part mini-series on primetime BBC, and I can't wait to see it.

Alas, weekends always seem to go by to fast, and our time in London was no exception. Before we knew it, we were back on our way to the airport, wistfully listening to the sound of the light spring rain on the daffodils and ivy as the train stopped for a few minutes in Northfields. The flight back was enjoyable, though our destination was not quite as exciting as the outbound journey, and we slept most of the way to back to Sky Harbor before being reunited with the dry heat of The Valley of the Sun. A few hours after we returned, I went out for a run and caught the tail end of the Tempe Ironman race. As I was trying to convince my body that it was 8 p.m. and not 4 a.m., a few thousand runners were trying to convince their bodies that 140 miles wasn't going to kill them. It's not often that people get to witness both the London Marathon and the Tempe Ironman in the same day, but it was quite inspiring to say the least, and made my 6 mile jaunt seem pretty insignificant, even though I had just returned from a few thousand mile journey myself. I ended the evening with some Twinnings and Cadbury's and considered the weekend to London a brilliant success.

In Defense of Graduate School

It is the beginning of April here at ASU. The flowers are blooming, the temperatures are rising, the finals of the NCAA tournament are just finished, baseball is in full swing, and the semester is beginning to wind down. For most of us, that's a good thing, but above the crack of the bats and buzzing of the bees, if you listen closely (or happen to work in the life sciences buildings or Biodesign), you will hear the blood curdling screams of PhD candidates and masters students in the final death throes of writing and defending their theses and dissertations. It's an exciting time for those of us who are in the first few years of our respective programs, a frustrating time for those who should be graduating and aren't due to the fickle nature of research, and a very stressful time for those who are about to be leaving the safe yet sometimes sadistic world of graduate school.

Grad school is an interesting concept, especially for those of us in the sciences. Unlike our law and medicine friends, we get paid to go to school. The pay is completely inversely related to the amount of work that we do and the money that we bring to the University, but that's the price we pay for our freedom. We're caught in a beautiful limbo between the crazy days of our undergraduate youth and the rigid schedule of a "real job." We're proud to be grad students. In the hierarchy of the university setting, we are the soldiers in the trenches, getting our hands dirty to advance science. We take ideas from our PIs and use them to design experiments, and then execute the experiments, figure out why they didn't work, redesign them so they do work, write the papers, rewrite the papers after critique from the PIs, and ultimately make sure that research moves forward. We're not the PIs sitting in offices writing grant applications and attending conferences, we're not the publish or perish post-docs who work like slaves with no vacation, and we're not the undergrads washing dishes and filling tip boxes. But we're also not out in industry, joining the rat race of assembly line results and inflexible protocols. We're the backbone of the academic world and as such, we've got the freedom to explore, design, dream, create and discover. We are the ones who are actually in the lab, working to cure cancer, develop a vaccine against HIV, discover new species in the rainforests, design alternatives to petroleum, and ultimately provide solutions to many of today's problems.

Part of the beauty of grad school is that we don't work 9-5. Every day presents a new challenge, always something new to discover or work through, so our schedules are dependant on the project's timeline. Sometimes we work 12 hour days to complete a single analysis, and sometime we take a half a day off to go hiking while our cultures grow to the correct OD. We work how ever long it takes to get the job done, and then we play in much the same manner that we work. In addition to being researchers, we are climbers, mountain bikers, triathletes, kayakers, backpackers, ultimate players, artists, photographers, and entrepreneurs. In the unique environment of the graduate system, we are given the time to pursue our passions both in and outside of our chosen career. As a result, most of the grad students I know are also some of the most intelligent, interesting and well rounded people that I know.

I was always told that your undergraduate years were the best of your life, but if that's true, then graduate school comes a pretty close second. I'm at a great point in my graduate career - just a few months past my first committee meeting and just getting my program of study approved. I've been in the system long enough to learn the ropes but not yet long enough to get weighed down the monstrosity of the task that lies in front of me. I'm very happy where I am right now in my research, so it caught me off guard when I was offered a job a few weeks ago. A real job: one that pays more than free pizza from the Lab Stores vendor shows and cookies during seminars. It was weird, thinking about what is supposed to come next. So many of my friends right now are glued to their computers, organizing the last 4 or 5 years of their lives into 100 pages and summarizing it in a title of 50 or less characters. And then in the coming weeks, they'll defend, start breathing again, celebrate, and then....

Then what? It's been the main topic of conversation for the last few weeks in the Life Sciences Tower. Some of my friends are going into industry, others are staying safe in academia on the post-doc track to becoming professors, and then some are getting out of research altogether and are going to be focusing on their new children or just as helpless new companies. No matter what comes next, we will all leave with science progressed a bit further, a broad array of advanced skills ranging from statisical analysis to public speaking, and millions of memories of some of the best years of our lives so far.

Prescott

Last weekend was spent in the wonderful town of Prescott. Jack and I headed out of the Valley around 8 a.m. and didn't stop until the smog was replaced with the fresh cold air of the high country. Prescott and the land surrounding it offers so much in the way of hiking, climbing, biking, and everything outdoors that I don't think that I could ever explore all of it, but I'm trying. We met Pierre and Evelyn at the Alto Pit Off Road Vehicle Area, which is the site of an upcoming MBAA race and home to some incredible trails fit for everything from mountain bikes to dirt bikes to quads. We started on a 5 mile loop that was supposed to be the main loop for the race, and had an incredible time. The trails were a bit loose with sand, but Fish was loving his new Continental Vertical tire, and we were flyin'. Unfortunately, he's getting spoiled now, and is demanding a new front tire as well. In hopes of protecting my right knee and keeping upright, I think I'm going to oblige. Though Pierre and Eveyln aren't seasoned mountain bikers, they are pretty hardcore triathletes and are in incredible shape. We went back and forth on the trails, depending on the technicality or steepness of the hills. I might have been better at the technical stuff, but they definitely made me realize that I have a long ways to go before I'm fit for triathalons. We also switched back and forth with Jack, who was using the ride as an introduction to clipless pedals. He had limited success at first as he spent many of the hills falling over when he couldn't unclip, but was relieved when Pierre noted that he had the clips at the hardest setting. Once he adjusts the clips he should be fine. We did two more loops after the first one and found some pretty sweet trails weaving throughout the area, including some pretty amazing steep drops in addition to the gritty inclines. After a good tough ride at altitude, which is great training for the Whiskey 50 Off Road race that I have coming up, we headed back to town for some post-ride grub at the Prescott Brewing Company. Pierre and Jack got along great, and we spent most of lunch talking about upcoming races and motorcycles. After lunch, Jack headed home and Pierre, Evelyn, and I found our way over to Copper Basin Road, which will be part of the course for the Whiskey Marathon in a few weeks. Pierre and Evelyn were thinking about running it, so we got the bikes out and decided to see what the course was like. I rode four miles with them, and all of them were straight up the ridgeline. If I had previously had any premonitions about running it, they were crushed in much the same manner as my lungs in the high altitude lack of oxygen. It was getting late in the day, and none of us were exactly sure how much higher the road was going to go, so I decided to turn around and try to find a camp before it got dark. The four miles up took around 30 minutes... and the return coast down the steep hills took 10. I didn't pedal during the majority of it either. Crazy fast.

After I got back to the Jeep I stowed the bike and drove up to Senator Highway to find some camping in the National Forest. I parked at the 307 Trailhead and headed up into what I thought was familiar territory. I followed the trail for a quarter mile or so, enjoying the tall pines that sheltered newly leafing shrubs and delicate wildflowers. Then it all came to an abrupt halt at a strip of pink tape that girdled a large tree; the words on the tape clearly indicating what I was about to enter: Timber Harvest Boundary. What I saw in front of me looked more indicative of something that Indiana Land Company might try to pull off than something that the U.S. Forest Service would allow, much less authorize. The so-called "thinning project" wasn't exactly clear cutting, but the largest of the pines had been harvested, leaving a litter of branches and stumps in their wake. Deep ruts scarred the landscape, reminding me of the gashes in my own knee and hurting just as bad. The trail was lost in the hillside that is sure to become an eroded mess in the summer rains that prevail in the high country. I was shocked at the destruction of my once pristine forest, and continued numbly up through the maze of fallen limbs, unsure of where to go. After a mile or so, I came upon a ridgeline that was too pocked with boulders and scrub oak to warrant a chainsaw, and I was once again aquainted with the forest that I knew and loved. As I stood on a small outcropping of granite, I watched two white tails scamper through the thicket. Happy that I was back in land where the deer (and maybe antelope) roamed and with the sun sinking ever closer to the western hills, I set down my pack and scouted out a good place to camp. I found what I was looking for at the top of the granite slab. A patch of dried grass lay underneath a large scrub oak, with a few small pines fallen into the tree to create a sort of shelter on the ridge. After picking out a few dead branches, it created the perfect place for a sleeping bag: protected from the wind and dew, but still allowing me a clear view of the valley below and the sky above. I laid down the footprint to my tent, pulled on a fleece, and broke out the JetBoil for a fine dinner of Mountain House Mac n Cheese. I read for a little bit after dinner, and then spent the last remaining twilight hours watching the stars come out and listening to the bugs and crickets and owls. It was the most relaxed night that I had experienced in a long time, and I fell asleep smiling. I woke the next morning before the sun arched its way over the eastern ridgeline, and watched the stars disappear one by one, thankful that I got a 35 degree sleeping bag even if I do live in Arizona. The temperature was well below 40, but I was snug and happy as I watched the first rays of morning light paint the tips of the snow capped mountains around me with a bright yellow tint. Life doesn't get much better or more simple than that. After a few hours of watching the sun fill the ridge and valleys below with its warm rays, I packed up camp and headed back to the Jeep. Not yet willing to go back to civilization, I went bouldering for a bit on the large granite rocks along the trail and then stopped by Goldwater Lake before I drove into town for some lunch. I ate on a park bench on the courthouse lawn, surrounded by dandilions and blooming crabapple trees. I lazed away the rest of the afternoon in this manner, reading and relaxing. Alas, I couldn't stay in the wonderful town forever, and as the sun started waning once more, I headed back to the Valley of the Sun for another week in the life.

Dragonboating

Even though last weekend didn't involve any exploring or adventuring, it was still a ton of fun. Friday night was spent at Suda's for a girl's night of Cranium, wine, and catching up with good friends. We've all gotten so busy with everything that it's rare that we have those nights, which made it all the more special. Suda and I also discussed our desires to complete an Ironman, and we've formulated a plan to execute the dream. ODP and mountain biking come first, but I would really like compete at Taupo, and the more we talk about it, the more people are interested in the idea as well. I'll keep you posted.

Early Saturday morning, Hannah and I attended a mountain biking clinic held by the Phoenix chapter of the Luna Chix Racing Team and led by the world champion and former Olympian Alison Dunlap. The two hour skills and drills clinic was absolutely amazing. Dunlap's hundreds of alcolades are a tribute to her incredible biking ability, and she is an excellent teacher as well. We worked on our balance, cornering, and jumping skills. Some of the skills I had been doing on my own, not knowing that they were in fact what you are supposed to do. I had previously thought that I just looked dumb when I would position myself behind my seat or lean to the outside of a tight turn, but it turns out that I was doing it right all along. The most valuable lessons of the day for me were on jumping, and with a little bit of practice, I should be able to apply my new skills to the boulders of National Trail. I left the clinic with lots of new skills, a ton of free Luna product, and an anticipation to put the new skills to the test. Alas, I had prior engagements, and I couldn't follow the group over to South Mountain, but instead hurried over to Tempe Town Lake for the Dragonboat Festival.

(Because I'm lazy and don't want to rewrite it, the following is the article I wrote for ING's Corporate Newsletter about our debut race).

After weeks of preparation, the time for the ING Blaizin’ Lions to debut their new found skills finally arrived this weekend at the 2008 Arizona Dragonboat Festival. Our practices had gone well… extremely well for a crew that, with the exception of a few members, was completely new to the sport of dragonboating. Under the leadership of captain Angel Bishop, almost two dozen employees came out to represent the company in the traditional Chinese sport. During each of the three practices that were held on Tempe Town Lake prior to the race, we felt incredible power and cohesiveness in the boat. Mitzi Haughn of the competitive Gila Dragons team adopted us as her own and taught us everything we needed to know about the sport from how to hold the paddle to commands that we needed to know to get us down the race course. In the stern of the boat, Bill Dacier learned how to steer the unwieldy craft for our races which were to be held over the course of 500 meters. Several of the veteran competitive paddlers that helped to coach us were impressed with both our nearly flawless timing and the speed with which we moved the long, heavy vessel. By the end of our practice sessions, we were confident of our team and eager to prove ourselves at the festival.

Saturday morning dawned to a warm, prodigious day for the Blazin’ Lions. Proudly sporting the orange and blue of ING, we donned our life jackets, picked up paddles, and sat down in the belly of the boat, the gold and green head and tail of the dragon shining brightly in the Arizona sun. With Mitzi captaining our craft from the bow, Bill manning the rudder in the stern, and 20 eager paddlers ready to race, we were convinced that no one could beat us. We were going for the gold, and wouldn’t back down for anything. As we paddled down to the starting line, butterflies began to flit around in our stomachs. The excitement of racing was upon us, and we tried to remain calm as the officials lined us up with the starting buoys. Sitting in the middle lane between two other boats, we placed our paddles in the water in anticipation of the horn. After the blast sounded, we took off in a flood of adrenaline, water rushing past the gunwales as we pounded the paddles into the lake. We were doing great until the boat to our right began veering precariously into our lane. Just as we were about to pick up power to overtake the boat to our left, the boat to our right cut us off in our own lane as Bill tried his best to keep us out of harm’s way. Unfortunately, we had to stop about halfway through the race, correct our course, and limp across the finish line. It was not an auspicious start to what we thought was going to be an easy win, but we shook off the loss and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon with plenty of good food and drink, the company of several ING supporters, entertainment from various performing groups on the festival stage, and plenty of close races in the other dragonboat divisions. After lunch, we gathered ourselves again, and with Mitzi’s positive encouragement, we prepared to redeem ourselves. As we paddled up to the start for the second race of the day, we were met with a competitor fiercer than the other corporate teams: the wind. We paddled as hard as we could, but the wind proved too much for our novice steersman, and once again, we were forced to stop and correct our heading in the middle of the race. Our resilient team was not to be beaten though, and with less than 250 meters to go, we dug our paddles deep and caught up with the other two boats, missing second place by mere tenths of a second. Still, we were not satisfied with our placing, and we left Tempe Town Lake feeling a bit dejected.

When we checked the standings for the corporate division on Sunday morning, ING was at the bottom of the list, dead last. It did not make for a very encouraging outlook going into the semifinals, but still we went into battle with lion hearts, figuring that after our first two races, we had nothing to lose and everything to gain. After a stressful time on the dock procuring life jackets and paddles at the last possible second before we pushed off, we rushed to the starting line, fearful that our last attempt at glory would begin without us. Already tired from our race to the start, we held our paddles high in Lane 4 and hoped for the best. With a determination to prove ourselves, we each focused on the paddler in front of us, completely committed to the other 21 people in the boat. We were nearly halfway through the race when we looked off to the right and noticed that the fiery head of our dragon was just feet in front of the other three boats in our semifinal. At this point, it was get first or go home, and none of us wanted to go home. With oxygen starved muscles and shaking limbs, we found the strength and reserve to dig just a little bit deeper as the finish line blurred in front of our faces. Once we caught our breath and looked up from our paddles, we realized that we had crossed the line first: we were going to the finals!!! It was almost too good to be true, and as we paddled back to shore, we had the biggest grins on our faces. Coming from worst to first was incredible, and the taste of redemption was sweet. Our day was not over, though, and we had one last race to go to determine what color medal we were going to be taking home. Just over an hour after our semifinals, we found ourselves lined up at the 2008 Arizona Dragonboat Festival Corporate Team Finals. With SRP and defending champions Mayo Clinic in the lanes to the right of us, we eased into Lane 3, prepared for whatever the race might bring and ready to leave everything on the water. We knew that we were facing some tough competition, so we started the race with 110% effort. The adrenaline coursing through our veins held off the pain, and nothing else mattered but getting to that finish line first. We led the other two boats from the start, pulling away within the first few strokes. We knew that Mayo was a team to be reckoned with, and we continued to pull harder, anticipating a surge of power to come from them at any time. Twenty paddles moved as one as we propelled our craft past the halfway point, the tail of our dragon pulling past the heads of our competition. Being out front gave us the mental energy to dig even deeper, and as soon as we crossed the finish line, there was no question as to who had won. Even though we were dead tired from the all out sprint, the excitement of winning overcame our exhaustion as we splashed the water and whooped with joy at our hard won victory.

When we arrived back on land, we celebrated and high fived and got congratulated from several of the competitive teams. It felt amazing, and we watched the remainder of the races with a new sense of respect for the sport. Being gracious victors - and a little impatient to get our hardware - the ING Blazin’ Lions assisted the volunteers when the races ended to clean up the area, organize the life jackets and paddles, and even helped to take out the course buoys while we waited for the awards ceremony to commence. During the closing ceremony, we proudly accepted our gold medals for the Corporate Division and displayed them around our necks, the blue and gold of the medal complementing the orange and blue of the ING logo quite nicely.
Overall, it was an incredible weekend for ING, full of teamwork, determination, and a lot of fun. We left the lake that day with some excellent gold accessories, smiles on our faces, a little bit of sunburn, and an anticipation to come back next year to defend our title.

(End article)

Also, in addition to the dragonboating festivities, Chad and I attended the Banff Mountain Film Festival at the Tempe Center for the Arts on Saturday night. I had never been in the new gorgeous center on the south side of the lake, but I have to say that I was quite impressed with it both on the outside and the inside. The festival itself was great as well with eight films on various adventures including extreme skiing, kayaking, ice climbing, and studying wolves in Canada. Although I was exhausted by the day's events, the films made my heart pound, and all Chad and I could talk about at the end was how lucky those people were to be living their dreams and making a living out of it. Incredible. It really makes me look forward to the adventures I have planned in the future, and I can't wait to get started on them. Until then, it's back to work until the weekend.

The Fish

I'll be posting about my weekend fun in just a little bit, but first I want to devote a little space on the blog to The Fish. My bike and I have been together for several months now. We've been through a lot together, up and down mountains, through dry sandy washes and across wet, muddy creeks. We've participated in races and commuted to work together. We're comfortable going for short group rides or spending hours alone, just the two of us exploring the wide expanse of Arizona's wilderness. And when the day is through, he sleeps at the foot of my bed, happily dreaming of future adventures. We've logged several thousand miles together, and in that time we've developed an incredible mutual relationship. He provides thrilling rides and transportation, and I provide a home and loving care in the form of greased bearings and oiled chains. Yet, our relationship has not been without its share of arguments. And whether I like to admit it or not, our fights usually end in physical abuse: we both bear the proof in scars and scraped aluminum. I'm not usually one to air my dirty laundry, but I just needed to get this off of my chest, as Fish and I have had a rough couple of weeks.

Fish is a pretty easy going guy, but he does have his needs, and for the past few weeks, I have neglected a pretty important part of our relationship. At first, Fish was subtle about his needs. When I first got back from the ocean, Fish was so happy to have me back that he didn't say anything about upgrading components or my rusty skills, and we had a wonderful time getting to know each other again. But the honeymoon period could only last so long. On a ride in Papago a few weeks after the 24 HOP, Fish casually mentioned that he thought he needed a new back tire as it slipped in the loose gravel while riding up a steep incline. I said I'd think about it, got back to my riding, and completely forgot about the incident. Then a few weeks later, as we were coming around a curve up at Granite Mountain, we slid again, and Fish again told me that he thought the tread on the back tire was getting precariously low. I wholeheartedly agreed, and promised him that we'd pop into a bike shop during the next week. The week went by, and I got busy with other things, and still no new tire. One day while we were stopped at a traffic light, I looked back at his tire, and Fish started giving me attitude. "Yeah, see that rubber? There's nothing left, let's ditch work and head over to Domenic's..." The light turned green and the noise of the busy street drowned out Fish's request. Fish is strong bike though, and was not about to give up easily. Now, during every ride, his demands are incessant. With a skid around curves or a complete spin trying to go up hills, Fish complains loudly that all of the other bikes are concerned about him and that if I don't shape up and take care of his needs, he's going to ditch me.

Well... Fish is a man of his word, and he wasn't happy on Tuesday night. The pressure in my tires was low from practicing curb jumping, and I forgot to pump them back up to their Papago pressure. He wasn't beating around the bush to let me know that he was less than amused as we wobbled around the park for a few hours with Jack. I tried not to notice Fish's fiery temper, but he was not about to be ignored. Jack and I decided to explore a bit and rode up the back side of a small butte that we had never been up before, with me crunching up the degraded granite on my treadless tire. I was having a blast on the new found trail, but just as we gained speed coming up and around a bend, Fish saw his chance to get his revenge. Up ahead was a large metal trail marker, positioned directly in the middle of the line that I had chosen for us with a wide gravelly trail to the left and a slope off to the right. Right there, Fish peeled out, "I've had enough, I'm sick of your abuse, I NEED A NEW TIRE and I want out of this relationship, RIGHT NOW!!" And with that, Fish went flying off to the right, leaving me sailing into the sharp shrapnel to the left. The violence of his actions stunned me for a moment upon impact with the unforgiving ground. Sure, we've had spills before, endos even, but never anything of this magnitude. I got up slowly, looked sheepishly back at Jack who rode up behind me, and started painfully picking rocks out of my left knee, hand, and elbow. A small torrent of blood oozed out of the eruption in my leg as I attempted to wash out anything that was not part of my normal anatomy, leaving a sizable chunk of meat and skin behind in a pool of bloody water. It's one thing to get in a fight with your bike when you're by yourself, but pretty embarrassing when someone else witnesses it as well, so I sternly whispered to Fish to knock it off and told him that we'd talk about the incident later when we got home. I picked him up, readjusted his brakes, dusted him off a bit, and continued on the ride a whole lot more cautiously than before. After the ride, I headed out to Maloney's for some liquid therapy and some reassurance from friends that everything was going to be alright. Jack agreed that maybe I should pay more attention to Fish's needs and get him a new tire, or at least learn to tuck and roll in the event of another of his tantrums. Hannah was just happy that I finally wrecked. By the end of the night, I was feeling much better, and returned to the bike with a fresh promise to listen to his problems (squeaky brakes and unidentified clicking noises) and fix everything that was wrong in our relationship (including bald tires and shaky rock hopping skills). With visions of fresh, knobby rubber, he forgave me and we now look forward to many more long, healthy years together... once my knee heals, that is.