Tip #2: Pick up after yourself. Dear Mountain Biker Dude, You left two soaking wet carpets behind at 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo. I tried to find you on Facebook, but I can’t remember your name, and it turns out there are a lot of males who race bikes on Facebook. So I’m leaving
Category: Adventure
Tip #1: When you are standing on the trail, and a rider approaches, the polite thing to do is move out of the way – even if the rider is a girl.
I composed a love note on Valentine’s Day last year for my partner while sprawled across the backseat of my van with my shammies pulled down to my knees and a spoon of Nutella in my mouth. It was 2 a.m; we were racing duo at 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo for our second
During the summer I refuse to leave Flagstaff’s 7,000-foot oasis to visit certain places. Phoenix is first on my list of “oh hell no” destinations. Southern California–especially the inland part of southern California–is next on my list. If given the choice, why would anyone subject themselves to places like Needles and Barstow when you could drive
You’re going to hate me for saying this. The Telluride 100 climbs 14,000 feet up and over some of the biggest mountain passes in Colorado and my body didn’t hurt during any of it. A half mile from the top of Last Dollar Pass, no more than 30 minutes from the finish line, I started
“The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.” – Gloria Steinem
Grassroots mountain bike racing is the shit. No entry fees. No cut off times. No schwag bags filled with a million advertisements that spill all over your car, get stepped on with muddy cleats, and make it even harder to find that one thing you really need just minutes before the start of the race. No hypoxic dudes trying to run you over at the start because you are a woman and–because they are not a woman–they know they must be faster than you. No bizarre rules like”anyone caught peeing in public will be disqualified” or mass starts where you are forced into a conga line and unable to pass for the first three miles.
Sometimes, I roll into mountain bike races–and even trailheads–wondering why I am a part of such an entitled, capitalist-driven, expensive sport. I loathe the sight of gas guzzling SUVs (especially when only one bicycle and one person emerge from the SUV), and camping near shiny RVs the size of an average house (complete with loud
I was in Gallup, New Mexico recently for a mountain bike race, and when a mass of shiny Toyota Tundras with $8,000 mountain bikes in tow descend upon the town, the town’s poverty (by American standards, at least) is pretty apparent. The image of “have” and “have not” is striking: $50,000 trucks and Sprinter vans
Once in the spring, and once in the fall, I ground myself in Northern Arizona’s seasons by riding my bike around the San Francisco Peaks. In the spring, my mind wanders as I ride through tunnels of bright green aspen, meadows dappled with lupine, poppies and Rocky Mountain iris, and views of shrinking snowfields plastered
