Our route planning commenced the same as it usually does. I volunteered a route, Artec responded with zero active listening signs, which annoyed me, so when he suggested a route I intentionally chose not to listen. I drew part of a track I thought looked good, Artec (still not really listening), told me he didn’t
Tag: mountain biking
To all those people commenting on social media about how women ask to be catcalled based on their attire, here’s what Kait and I were wearing: loose-fitting pants layered with loose-fitting shorts and topped off with puffy jackets. But I shouldn’t be expected to describe our clothes. In fact, the only situation in which I should be expected to describe what we were wearing would be if Search and Rescue was involved with saving us from hypothermia. Then, yes, the SAR team would deserve to know what kinds of layers we were bumbling around in at seven thousand feet on Christmas Day.
My two teammates – both named Erin, both the youngest children in their families, both fairly quiet souls measuring 5’2 and weighing in at 103 pounds a piece – are capable of tooting cute little rainbows every once in awhile. I’ve witnessed it. But racing your bike all night long is disgusting business, and I
Artec and I flew into Liberia, Costa Rica on New Year’s Eve. We knew the trip was off to a good start when a cab driver in a tiny red economy car strapped Artec’s bike box to the roof and gestured for me to squeeze into the backseat and position myself on hands and knees
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.
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