Throw Your Stress on the Funeral Pyre!

Since Marie Kondo showed up and told all of us to build the funeral pyre for the things that "don't bring you joy," everyone seems to be on a mission to rid their homes and themselves from excess junk. We, as a society, have certainly buried ourselves in stuff in an effort to comfort and insulate against our high stress levels, off-the-Richter anxiety and revolving door of illnesses. The piling on of things, as Marie points out, only adds to the issues we are trying to alleviate. There is certainly something cathartic about freeing yourself of dust-covered material things, but what about when we finally take the time to clean out the cobwebs and junk stored on the dusty shelves of our minds?

Riding my bikes is one of the most cathartic activities I can do for my mind and soul. I no longer get to do it as often as I'd like, but as I grow older, I am realizing how important it is to reintroduce this to the priority list. In one ride, I feel lighter, stronger, better, freer and have more energy to deal with the ridiculous amounts of stress that try to take me down each week. So, get on your bike and get in a little nature therapy!!! Toss that junk on the funeral pyre along with your mismatched 30-year old house slippers, high-wasted Levi's from the early '80s and that shirtless poster of Marky Mark. You'll feel much better. I promise.

Guiding Mtn Bike Trips is Like a Box of Chocolates

Sadly the over-quoted line made so famous by Tom Hank's character, Forrest Gump, applies to every aspect of life including mountain biking. You just never know what you're gonna get is right. Most of the time I would prefer to be sitting on that bench with Forrest contemplating life's philosophical implications, but, instead, I am sitting on a bike seat that closely resembles a 2X4 in comfort, imparting my bike wisdom upon folks who are complete strangers yet place their lives in my hands.

On my most recent guided mountain bike trip, I led seven unsuspecting riders into the unknown. Every trip is this way. Everyone signs up for what they believe is a true mountain bike experience complete with Red Bull and Mountain Dew commercials playing in the background, fireworks, and Kidd Rock riding in on a unicorn but imagining the trail itself to be akin to greenway riding. Ultimately, they accept their fate and enjoy the ride for better or worse.

It was made apparent almost immediately that the terrain was NOT what customers had imagined. Two groups had been unfairly forced to share the same time slot on the same day; a father and son duo with some biking experience and a mom/dad and three kids with zero experience bravely stepped into my world for a few hours. Apprehensive about the compatibility of the two groups, I soldiered on and hoped for the best.

The father and son had, prior to departure, regaled me with stories of their ski slope biking experiences and how much they enjoyed it. Initially, I was relieved to hear that they had at least done some mountain biking, however, the knowledge that it included being lifted to the top where they were dropped and sent bombing back downhill with no effort required was a bit of a red flag. Mountain biking, at least in the traditional sense, is work. Lots of work--specifically cross-country riding.

Upon the realization that the shuttle bus was inoperable (no surprise there), we were forced to ride to the trailhead that is only .7 mile away (but is located off of a major highway).  We have done this in the past, but I don't like having people who are already uncomfortable and nervous now have to battle with traffic whizzing by at 60 and 70 mph looking down at their cell phones and fucking with their radio.

Everyone seemed comfortable with braking and shifting; their seats were adjusted properly; helmets were on properly; water had been passed out. We were off! I gave specific instruction on how to follow me alongside the highway to relieve their anxiety and limit the amount of "thinking" they were doing. That thinking stuff gets in the way when one is already a bundle of nerves.

At the trailhead, the group received another pep talk, a few more instructions, and hit the dirt. The mother began to almost immediately call out, "This is not for me! This is not for me!" as she continued to peddle a few feet and fall over. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

The father was the same story only he had an epiphany after his third fall, and I visually saw the light come on for him. But it was too late. The damage had been done. I was forced to send the father and mother back. As much as I hate to make those types of decisions, they are made with the safety of the group in mind. We are limited in resources, the heat is almost unbearable, and then there is that damn Time to have to contend with. Tick tock. Tick tock. I hear it loud and clear each trip.

Mom and Dad were happy to be "returned to sender." I called the outpost and gave them the heads up requesting that someone take the couple to another location to ride their bikes so that at least their efforts (and money) weren't in vain. The group, now at five, were back on track.

The father and son duo followed me closely with the three other kids spaced out evenly behind. So our little group was now somewhat balanced. The young girl who chose to be the caboose wrecked every-single-time she stopped. Normally, I would be alarmed at this and rush to her aid, but she was perfectly content with her inability to stop. It became routine, and everyone laughed making her the comic relief for the trip.

The total mileage for this ride was originally 6.5 miles--beginner worthy. The father/son duo stressed that they wanted to double that, but that never happens. Refer to the above statement about mountain biking being hard and stuff. With the subtraction of the bus, we were looking at 10 miles--a noble effort for sure.

We had zero mechanical issues. No one died. Everyone rode just fine. I couldn't have asked for a better group of riders. But...yes, there's always a 'but' or a 'butt' in there. The father of the father/son duo continuously mumbled about "the trail not being what he thought it would be" but "the other trail might have been too easy" and "this trail is really narrow." By the end, I finally asked him to explain his expectations of the trail prior to signing up. Again, he reiterated something about it being so narrow and despite me explaining that we no longer ride the "other trail" because it is unrideable due to rocks and ruts and people going to the emergency room and shit. No, I didn't say, "...and shit," but I wanted to. My patience was wearing as thin as Madonna's underwear. I continued to calmly ask questions in an effort to gain a better understanding of his expectations.

What I learned:
1. Apparently, you can order up mountain bike trails to suit your needs. Who knew?
2. People think mountain biking is being shuttled up to the top of a dirt road and turned loose. Hmmm.
3. Mountain bike guides have the ability to magically give you ultimate biking super powers. Yeah, I don't even have those, and I've been biking for over 20 years. Good luck with that.

Luckily, a thunderstorm blew in quickly making the decision to return to the outpost in leu of another lap of which no one would have survived but me (maybe not), and I was starving so I might have decided to eat the slowest rider. We made our way to the highway and buzzed back down the hill and up again toward the outpost getting caught in the edge of the storm which came as a huge relief. Our charred arses needed the flames put out. Talk about hot!

In the end, the father/mother and three kids who really could not ride very well were champs. They were happy with their efforts and the father/mother even admitted to being proud that they had tried. Good for you!

On the other hand, the father of the father/son duo, who displayed much mountain biking enthusiasm, attempted to smile through gritting teeth while still complaining. I pretty much dropped the mic and walked away because today...today, people who were the mountain biking underdogs developed an appreciation for something new. That's enough.

Damn You Winter, Clinton, and Kanye!

I remember riding my mountain bike in rain, sleet, snow, and hail as a kid with no thought to the amount of money it would take to restore my bike to pristine working order not to mention the love and attention required to clean and maintain it. Nowadays, I pause before loading up and heading out into the elements. I am reminded of the many injuries I have sustained over the years and the length of time it takes to recover as well as the mountain of greenbacks it takes to pay for it all.

Winter is here, and there is a new element in town--cold. I hate the cold. When I say, "I hate the cold," I mean there ain't no damn way in hell I'm stepping one inch outside with the tiniest bit of bare skin exposed to ride a bike. Each winter I tell folks (and myself), "I'm planning on riding all winter long," you know to stay in shape--for Spring (sits back at desk, props feet up, and sips hot tea).
Yeah right. No bigger lie was told except maybe the one Bill told Hillary when he and what's her face played Daddy in the Oval Office --or-- when Kanye told Kim he loved her because well, Kanye doesn't love anyone as much as he loves himself.

I say, "Damn all of you!" I'm taking it to the gym this winter! Maybe.

So I have a confession about spin classes. I taught them for years. I LOVE to teach them. LOVE! But I can't stand most of the people. You know the ones. The ones who pretend there is no one else in the room and commence to catching up after only 10 minutes has passed since their last text message to each other.

I turn the music up gradually hoping to drown out their voices, but they just talk louder and louder until they are talking over the music. I am no longer focused on teaching (or participating). My anxiety rises like a mercury thermometer in hell, and all I can think about is slapping those silly bitches in the face.

 While I feel this class of spin participant falls into the same category above, they are deserving of acknowledgment. They are the smart-phone addicts. No matter what is going on in class, stand, sit, sprint, turn up the resistance, they are on their phones. I have no idea what is so damn important that it requires someone's attention 24/7. Perhaps they have a porn addiction. Perhaps they are getting caught up on their umpteen-million text messages from their ex-poodle groomer. Perhaps they are inventing the next alien language. Who knows. They are the same folks who are on the toilet grunting one out and texting or talking to their 80-year old mom who hears, plop, plop, splash, and asks, "Are you doing the dishes?"

Yeah. The dishes. That's right.

Anyway...where were we? The gym. Right.

So for 2016, avoid spin classes or you might end up in jail, get your ass to the gym and get in shape, and PUT THE CELL PHONE DOWN! I know you are not going to ride outside. Stop lying to yourself and to me. I have my excuse. I blame WINTER, "Damn you winter!"

What's yours?

Don’t Leave Home Without the Flames!

Note: I located this article among a smathering of other old articles I wrote back in the day. It gave me a good chuckle and reminded me of many fun and cool things about the good ol' days of mtn biking. I hope it gives you a good laugh, brings back some fun memories and reminds you why you started biking in the first place. So here it is in all of its unedited glory:

The funny thing about competitive sports is as you age the less important it becomes to win. Your attitude consists of just wanting to finish and not wake up the next morning with back pain, leg cramps, and unable to get out of bed. For some reason, it is necessary to continue competing and paying out hordes of money only to be schooled by someone ten years younger and 30 pounds lighter. There are these wonderful things called age divisions. But for some reason, I just can’t seem to get away from the 18 year olds and move up to the next age group of women who are supposedly going through midlife crises, “the change,” and who are experiencing their sex spurt. I just turned 29 and have one year left until I get to move into this hormonal class of athletes.

            I began racing mountain bikes at the age of 17. Weighing in at 160 lbs. and only 5'4" tall, puberty was not kind to me. I was always last and amazed that I even finished my six-mile endeavor as was the customary mileage of a beginner race. The next class was titled Sport, and their mileage was double that of the beginners followed by the Expert class that was triple and so on and so forth. Racing was an outlet for me, and I still compete today. It’s cheaper than therapy and the scenery is much better.

            Through the years, I branched out and tried other events, running, triathlons, and adventure racing. Triathlons are my thing, but nevertheless I have decided to get back to my roots and attempt another mtn. bike race. Nestled in the North Carolina mountains, Tsali Recreation Area is a beautiful place designed for bikers, equestrians, boaters, and campers. An annual race is hosted at Tsali full of fun for all ages. I competed in this race several times in the past and loved it and decided it would be my first pick for my comeback tour.

            The Knobscorcher is the name of the race and it took place on April 9—one day before my birthday. My dad decided to accompany me on this journey so we headed out bright and early the morning of the race. Upon arrival, I was completely calm unlike times passed when I would have to visit the john five times in one hour prior to the start. For some reason, I just did not take it that seriously this time. It could have been because I knew I was not ready and that I was going to get spanked—just guessing. I made up my mind I was going to have fun and not worry about winning or placing. As I stood at the start area waiting patiently—all the male divisions started before the females, I listened to all the conversations taking place around me. One girl was talking about just having her nipple pierced because the last one got ripped out and she had to let it heal in order to have it redone. All I could think to myself was, “It’s people like you that give mtn. bikers a bad rep.” Yeah totally gnarly dude! Whatever. One girl was racing in sandals. I’m sure her toes were thanking her afterward. I really did not say much except that I could not wait to move up to the sport female 30+ class where I belong.

            Finally we moved to the start line and I observed one of my competitors (could not have been older than 19) preparing herself for battle. She had her game face on, her pink-flame spandex shorts, matching jersey, and arm warmers, and even little pink dangling ornaments on her bike. I just wanted to smack my forehead with my palm and say “what the …?” Her boyfriend came up and made sure one of her shoes was clipped into the pedal and secure. As he did the 100-point inspection on her and her bike, I watched in amazement. Had I not received the memo? Where was my pit crew? What if I needed my tires changed and my windshield washed? At last we lined up and we were off like mules out of a stall. As I entered the trail, all cares were washed away and I entered my own little world. Twenty miles on a mtn. bike is a long way, and I knew I needed to pace myself so I could make it. I had a blast and ended up slowly catching a few girls here and there. Toward the end, I teamed up with a 30+ lady and we finished the race together. We pushed the hills together and discussed how badly our legs and crotch hurt and how much food we were going to consume when this torture was over. All the while I was wondering what was going on inside of little pink-flame girl’s head. Had she placed? Did the flames help her get there faster? Her bike was bigger than she so as a result had she lost her balance and fallen off the edge somewhere along the trail? One could only hope. (Did I say that out loud?)

            I learned a valuable lesson that day and that lesson is don’t leave home without the flames, piercings make you cool, and, no matter what, the older you get the less attractive you are in spandex. Tsali…I’ll see ya next year when I’m older and more hormonal.

Tearing Down the Walls: Step One

As the rain pours down soaking every inch of my clothing, I scoop up tiny bits of dirt and rock under my fingernails. My boots house shriveled feet searching in spite of their leather-bound casements for a toehold. Each rock is sharp and steep with only the lure being that of foggy mountain tops and hidden valleys. We continue to climb. Once on top, our suspicions are confirmed--all for nothing. My hypoglycemia has reduced me to a drooling, stumbling child awaiting an intervention. Each step is laborious as though the mud has turned to glue. Despite the misery, despite the seeming lack of a reward we keep going. It's out there--somewhere. Initially we were searching for a distinct destination, but that has changed. It's only me now, and I am struggling, losing, searching. For what?

The collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989 is a prime example of a divided people. It is also an example of a people fighting for what is right and persisting in spite of persecution and repression. But what happens when we become divided on an individual basis? When we are no longer able to see beyond the walls we have constructed within ourselves? Who is responsible for this repression? Who is responsible for our freedom?

When I began planning this hiking trip, I envisioned it as more of a training hike for myself and an experiential learning process for my green hiking partner. I had no idea it would turn out to be a metaphor for the last year of my life. My journal lies untouched as my psyche continues to sabotage all thoughts and motivation. Major life decisions remain in the "undecided" category. Major works remain unwritten.

I turn to the rock and mud wall of my mind and watch as my fingernails scrape and tear away at the concrete that has hardened my thoughts and ideas. How do I get out of here?

As I rush back to that moment on the wall, my green hiking partner is talking to me begging me to eat. She forces me to eat and rest essentially lending me a forced hand. Time rushes forward into the present. The rain is still coming down like tiny bombs landing in our eyes and ears. The rocks are still jagged and slick, but I take my first step upward.

I take my first step in over 12 months.

I take my first step...


...in over 12 months...


...with the help of a friend.


What or who is it going to take to set you free?

The Cycle of Life, Idiocracy, and True Friends

Following a night of debauchery minus the promiscuity, I had decided to stay home and enjoy a day on the couch. I promptly received a text from a close friend asking me to meet her for a mountain bike ride on Chilhowee Mountain, an old stomping ground. Despite feeling a bit groggy from being up past my bedtime, I felt great. I felt ready to ride! If you have been following this blog or simply keeping in touch with me regularly, you know damn good and well that my lack of motivation has reached an all time high. My thoughts have turned to perhaps relinquishing my fitness goals to join the circus and be the Amazing Cat Juggler or the World's Largest Midget. I don't know, but things were looking bleak. I eagerly accepted my friend's invitation and quickly texted Sara, my partner in crime. She too was excited to hit the trails despite a 5 mile run she had just completed.

* * *

Let me rewind and take you back in time to a place all of my biking friends know and love--Tsali Recreation Area near Bryson City, NC. I began biking there at the beginning of time in a galaxy far, far away in a land riddled with hobbits and trolls. Okay not really, but it sounded good. We lived, ate, breathed biking. Each morning was like Snow White waking up after the spell had been broken; birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and sunshine seemed to glow down from the heavens. We did not own fancy biking gear. A good pair of blue jean shorts and a retro T-shirt filled our biking attire needs. Sidi what? Break out the tennis shoes! The soundtrack for the day consisted of the Stereo MCs, some Deee Lite filtered in along with a little Cake for desert. (Feel free to sample below.)

The trails are fast and flow like water. Rhythm abounds. The best part is that the trail system lies within a campground that is mostly inhabited by bikers. The only thing that would make this more perfect is if a brewery were placed smack-dab in the middle of the campground. I would never leave. 

Before the days of cell phones, people actually called each other like on REAL telephones that existed in our homes--crazy I know. We actually showed up when we said we would and didn't have the ability to shoot each other a text at the last minute saying we would not be able to make it due to some ridiculous reason like we had been attacked by a giant squid in the middle of town. Or we would not be able to make it because aliens decided to capture the family pet for testing. WE WERE RESPONSIBLE-- a concept that seems to have fallen to the wayside these days. It would be nice to point to the Miley Cyrus/Justin Bieber generation, but every generation has developed some level of inadequacy when speaking of responsibility. I blame technology; coming from someone who's livelihood depends upon technology that says a lot. If you need a glimpse into our current status as a people, please watch Idiocracy. 

 

Where was I? Oh yeah...Tsali. 

Each trip consisted of the same players for the most part. As time wore on, the players switched up and out and some left for good. It was simply the "cycle of life." Ha! Yes, a pun was intended. That group has now evolved into a totally different group of riders and has grown much smaller. Unfortunately, life and responsibility kick in at some point (for most anyway) and the euphoria must come to a stop or at the very least slow to a sloth-like crawl. The days of gritty teeth, mud in the butt crack, and beer in the Camelbak are over. Or are they?

* * *

Back to Chilhowee...

My riding buddy, Rhonda, is waiting for us. We all arrive within minutes of one another and begin to put our bikes together, pop a quick snack, and finish getting on our bike gear (no more tennis shoes and blue jean shorts). However, I notice Rhonda is wearing a T-shirt. All I could think is that is cotton and will be soaked in minutes and you will be so uncomfortable. Then my ADHD kicked in . . . what was I doing?

We hopped on our bikes with Rhonda in the lead. The estrogen train was off. We bombed down the loose, rocky trail as though it were the yellow brick road and we were off to see the wizard. Occasionally, we slowed down enough to chat and discuss how rough the trails had gotten, warn each other of upcoming spider webs, and to be on the lookout for a bear as Rhonda has never seen one in the wild. Rock, root, tree, sinewy single-track...annnnd repeat. Like the good ol' days, we rode simply for the enjoyment of riding. There was no judgement on who had the best bike. There was no pressure to beat each other. There was no complaining about lap times, too many rest stops, or hikers on the trails. 

At one point, we passed Benton Falls and headed down Clemmer trail when we passed a group of tourists. I overheard one of the women exclaim admiringly, "Oooh lady bikers!" I smiled. Yes, we are, I thought. But more importantly, we are more than that--we are friends. True friends. 

As the heavy hand of time passes over all of us, only true friends remain. And for those, I am eternally grateful.

And as for Rhonda's T-shirt...

I removed my jersey that felt like a 20-lb weight tossing it into the trunk and thought this jersey is soaked and so uncomfortable. 

Muddy Memories and the Joy of Simplicity--July Beginner Mountain Bike Clinic

The alarm buzzes. The sun finds its way through the cracks between the blinds and curtains bringing with it a newness providing us with an opportunity to start over. Whatever went wrong the day before, the week before, or even years before melts away. The covers are thrown off. We are up with an unusual zeal that causes blood to rush and our heart to pump with excitement. It's Friday and we are seventeen. Responsibility is only a mere thought and an understood future. But for now, we ride!

 It is difficult to remember those days if indeed they ever existed for some of us. But for those who do remember and have since buried those feelings and memories below a trash-heap of stress, exhaustion, the daily grind, and life's blows, it is time to let go of the garbage and remember...

...remember what it is like to play in the mud for the hell of it.







                                                                       

...remember what it is like to spend time with friends. 





  
                                                                                                                           

 ...remember what it means to play hard and go home with mud in your teeth, shoes, nose, and...well...other uncomfortable locations that mud always seems to creep into.





                                        


More than anything just remember these moments are a time to heal and keep in touch with your inner kid providing us with an opportunity to teach each other, our children, and ourselves what it means to be human and simply enjoy the little things.

*All photos courtesy of Sara Straussberger.


Come join us in July!
July 21 @ 2pm--Brush Creek trail--trailhead located at Boyd Gap parking area just above the Ocoee Whitewater Center.
Focus: The basics--braking, shifting, proper bike fit, proper bike attire, etc...
RSVP by Friday, July 19. 

*We will schedule one each month through September so stay tuned! 


YOU MUST BE 18 OR OLDER!!! Sorry kiddos! Mom needs a break too. You will be asked to sign a waiver. Sheesh! I know...more paperwork. 

--> THE 411
There will be a short lecture component consisting of familiarizing you with your trusty steed (i.e. how to adjust seat height, brakes, shifters, etc...) followed by an 8 mile ride. We will teach you how to shift, when to shift, and what not to do concerning your brakes and shifting. We will discuss safety and proper biking attire. Plan on being out at least 2 hours and possibly 3. This will be determined by the number of participants.

--> THE TRAIL
We will be riding a very rolling trail that hangs East of the Ocoee Whitewater Center. There will be no big roots, big drop-offs, or huge hills. I do not wish to kill you right away. No!! That will be saved for the last class (okay not really). There will possibly be hikers, runners, and dogs on the trail. We will discuss how to approach these 'obstacles' prior to hitting the trail. 



--> THE NECESSITIES

1.Please remember to bring your bike. If you have not ridden it in a while, please take it to your local shop and get a tune-up. Trailside maintenance will not be part of this course!

 





 





2. Bring a helmet!! If you do not bring a helmet, you do not get to ride!!! Helmets are cheaper than hospital visits. Go to your local shop and pick one up.
 
 

 3. Wear proper shoes. Tennis shoes are fine if you do not own cycling shoes. Just don't show up in Chacos, Crocs, flip-flops, etc. I would like for you to keep all of your little piggies.

 

4. Water! Lots of water!! It will be hot, damn hot! If you pass out, I might be tempted to push you into the river and pretend I do not know you. Also, be sure to bring bicycle water bottles and not your Nalgene bottle. They do not fit in water bottle cages. If you do not own water bottle cages and bottles, again, hit up the cycling gurus at your local shop for these items.

5. Bring a chair for the first portion of the clinic. We will convene in a shady corner of the parking lot at the trailhead to begin our discussion of biking, proper bike fit, apparel, etc... 

 

 

6. Please bring a great sense of humor as you can see I have one and love to laugh and hope you do too. 





--> THE $$$ 
These clinics are free. FREEEEE! However, depending upon where we decide to head for the second and third clinics, there could be a park fee. I will post that on the blog in the future. Be sure to check back frequently for updates! 

I look forward to working with everyone and can't wait to see you out there! 
If you have any questions and to RSVP, please email me at bikinbeth@gmail.com