9 Weeks To BadAss

Every year the email comes. "Middle Aged Superheroes in Spandex" it begins. "Come join me on the Xth Annual 9 Weeks To BadAss!"

Mike is funnier than hell and always inspirational. He has to be to get me out of bed at 4:45 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to ride my bike in the dark and sometimes wet Pacific NW springtime.

Cycling here is different than cycling in Colorado, and for a while I just didn't start riding until the weather was perfect, like June, July, or August. Of course that meant I was never in shape enough to enjoy the ride. 9 Weeks to BadAss is like ripping a bandaid off. It starts out feeling like hell, but in the end, I've got 9 weeks of hard riding under my belt, which has gotten significantly looser as I've lost my winter lard.

The middle aged heroes in spandex are a motley crew. From very competitive racers to those of us that have put on 25 or more pounds since our racing days, all are welcome. We are loosely affiliated into two basic groups. The Seattle group, aka the Dawn Patrol, rides out from the U district to the island, their Badassery lasts about 45 miles. The Mercer Island group, aka the Misfits, has it much easier. We latch onto the Dawn Patrol train at various points around the island.

I meet up with the Dawn Patrol and a couple of Misfits at the intersection of I-90 and West Mercer Way. The DP has just come off the bridge, they have about 10 miles in their legs, and for a bunch of 40 and 50 year old men, have a surprising degree of testosterone. I'm not quite awake, and feeling less than rowdy.

This means that they tear off like a bunch of teenagers up the first climb up to the mailbox while I'm still waking up. The climb is about a mile long. You can ride it in the big ring but you will pay. The only thing I've got going for me is that I'm not awake, and as a result the lactic acid hits me much later than usual, about 3/4 of the way up the climb, when momentum and sheer force of will can usually succeed over road gradient, speed and early season love handles.

Once we're over the top, the pace increases.  I take an occasional pull but for the most part tuck in and try to recover from the climb behind the hardcore racers as they wind the group up over the rollers. It's pitch black outside, and I feel like we're in a tunnel as we negotiate the gentle curves of the west side of the island.

Pain rotates from my quads to my glutes to my back in it's own sick set of laps. I have mixed results keeping my breathing measured and even as the pace winds up faster. 4 miles goes by in a flash and then we're at "The Stop", where the south-end Mercer Islanders wait to jump on the train. We take a brief respite to let them get on, and then pick it back up again.

We rotate through, taking 1-2 minute pulls. The road is getting twistier as we move to the East side of the island, and rotating through quickly is not an option in the dark, through the corners. All I can see is the person in front of me, and maybe the next one, as we lean through the apexes and set up for the next turn, all at speed. All of a sudden I'm at the front, negotiating the curves with a combination of headlight, braille and memory. It's the best, and when I think about it, the most terrifying part of the ride. My front wheel is inches from the rear wheel of the next rider. We're moving at 25 mph, leaning the bikes over hard. We've done the ride enough to know when to pedal and when to coast, but this part requires total and complete attention. When it's wet I back way the hell off. No need to hit the deck at my age.

Now we're nearing the north end of the island. The road straightens out and the pace picks up to the point where it doesn't matter if you're on a wheel because at 30+ mph the shelter doesn't help. We're winding out for the sprint by the JCC. There is enough ambient light now to see everyone jostling for position down the final straightaway. The usual suspects fire off the usual attacks. In the early season I'm happy to let them go. Over the weeks I get used to the pain and the effort of the wind up. Sprinting all out is never easy, but I try to stay in contention as much as possible.  I've never come close to winning, as I'm not a true sprinter (nor am I a true climber, or roleur, or soloist, which means at my best I'm mediocre at all aspects of cycling :). The sprint goes off and we circle back to the JCC to recollect the shattered group.

We head back around the island, starting slow, then winding it up. By the time we hit the steep downhill past Clarke Beach, it's back on. The uphill out of Clarke Beach is where the pain begins in earnest. It builds around the south end of the island through Schuler Chutes, as the more fit members of the tribe put the hammer down. The pack shatters again on the relentless grade, and we re-group at the Spot for one final push to I-90.

At this point it's about pain management and attitude. Some days my head and/or body is not in the game.  I fly off the back and soft pedal home. Some days I've got the eye of the tiger and gut it out. In the middle of the hardest efforts I pull for as little as I honorably can, then recover in back. Sometimes I peter out just before the crest of a roller, then think about what could have been on the long solo ride back in. My fitness is as much mental as physical. In the beginning I crumble easily, overwhelmed by the pain. By the end of 9 weeks I'm expecting it. On good days I'm looking for it.

If the hardcore racers have stepped it up too much, I can at least roll in with some members of the 'B' team, as those of us who are less than elite call ourselves.  As we pile back down mailbox hill toward the finish, everyone is spun out. Mike usually leverages his size to zoom off the front. We dive through the final corner to the big uphill climb. If I've got anything left, I try to leverage my rapidly diminishing momentum up the first half of the hill, then grind it out up the last half. My arms lose sensation, and on good days, I start to get tunnel vision as I try to keep up with the real cyclists. Those are the days I feel the best about, because I left it all out on the final climb.

We top out at the stop sign, then roll down to the I-90 trailhead. Much shit is given, especially to those that peeled off the back, or lost it on the climb. Many battles are relived, either the sprints, or the grinds through the rollers, or the final uphill.  It's always fun to catch up with everyone and relive the morning. Eventually the Dawn Patrol rolls back to Seattle, and the Misfits roll around the top of the island to get some more miles in. The pace is usually mellow, we're spent, and rolling gently as we drop people off.

These rides, just like my morning SUP sessions, are essential to my well being. They get my head right for the day ahead, and ensure a good night's sleep. Without them I start to get a little crispy around the edges. My temper gets short, my stomach gets large, in general I go into a bit of a decline. I don't think I could muster the discipline to do this alone, and it certainly wouldn't be as much fun as it is with these guys.

Surfing in Esterillos Oeste

The trip started super mellow, but all hell has broken loose for the past 2 days. The soundtrack in my head went from Bob Marley to Ozzy. Gotta feel aggro to take 3 on the head just to get outside. I've met up with some much better surfers at the small hotel we've been staying at. In a pattern that has repeated itself throughout my life, they've taken me under their wing.

We are 200 yards offshore, sighting the big white tower on the shore to keep ourselves lined up with the reef. My newfound friends tell me to follow them, to paddle from where they paddle. They both catch waves at will. Me, not so much.

The waves at Esterillos Oeste can be random. There is a reef outside that produces a nice longboard wave, and another one that makes a steeper shortboard wave to the inside, but this trip,  the combination of direction and tide means that waves break whenever the fuck they want to. Also, they take a while to break. They rear up, stand tall, and march right by you. Or they break way outside and you scurry around the whitewater. It always takes a little bit of calibration to launch one right on the shoulder. From the outside I can see the backs of waves that rolled by and eventually broke. They're head high, which means that the front is at least a head and a half, or more. No big deal to your average surfer, but I'm a middle aged, desk bound, started in his 30s, now late 40s vacation surfer. Once a year, twice if I'm lucky,  I grab a longboard and try to make it work.

When they finally break, the faces of the waves jack up and go vertical, with flecks of whitewater misting off the top. Then they crumble, big slabs of whitewater sliding out over, and then down the face. They're powerful but they're not hollow tubes. They're fast but not too fast. In other words, they're made for the desk bound, late starting, middle aged schmoe to have his hero moments.

After I get the timing down and place myself in the general vicinity of where my friends have caught their rides, I find my wave and pivot the board. No matter how early I start paddling, it feels like I'm late to the party.  The board jacks up and I lift my chest up to keep the tip out of the water. I'm pulling hard and I can feel the wave start to move past me, I take three more strokes and bring myself back to the ledge.  Then I'm sliding down the face and Shit! it's a long way to the bottom. I'm pulling myself into a crouch.  I'm riding goofy on a right breaking wave,  navigating by sound and peripheral vision, so I hear the wave more than I see it...

Now I've stood up and I'm milking the ride. No slashing turns - I haven't figured out how to do that on a longboard -- just gentle leans to move up and down the face, right in front of the wave as it curls and breaks. Everything is silent and I realize that this is it. This is what I was chasing by coming back here. The sun, the water, the size of the drop, the steepness of the face and the speed that I'm moving across it. Most of all the total silence. This is what I'm going to replay when I'm sitting in a shitty meeting, listening to someone drone on and on. When I'm plugged back into the Matrix, I'm going to remember what it means to really be alive.

Morning SUP

Last summer, while training for RAMROD, I started SUPing as a way to do something when my legs were too sore to ride. I would wake up early, load my board into the car, and roll down to the lake. Paddling became my zen moment, completely different than riding at my limit in a pack through the S turns of Mercer Island.  I didn't have to constantly pay attention to the wheel in front of me or the riders all around me. All I had to do was reach forward and pull.

Eventually I found my way into a group that paddled on Tuesdays and Thursday mornings. I showed up on my wide, soft board and heavy aluminum paddle at 6:30 AM, and watched them glide away from me as I furiously scratched the water trying to keep up.  They were so nice and encouraging,  waiting for me at the turnaround every time, for as long as it took. On the way back they let me get on their boards and use their paddles while gently correcting my lack of form. And then they talked me into doing the 'Round the Rock', a race around Mercer Island.

Had I really, really thought it through, I would have realized that paddling 13 miles after only having paddled 5 at most was a little foolhardy. But I didn't overthink it, I just signed up and muscled my way through it.  It felt good to finish, but I had to curl up like a little baby afterwards and hold my arms because I thought they were going to fall off.

It's good to do things that seem like terrible ideas when viewed in the cold harsh light of reality, because they make for really funny stories, and because they remind you of what you can do when pushed. And while for most people it was a race, for me it was about finishing.  I had to shut down my competitive inner voice as people of all shapes and sizes passed me at will. Then I had to talk myself through the middle section of the race where all there was to do was paddle. The one phrase that kept coming back to me was something one of my early morning comrades had yelled at me as the race started - 'Find Your Rhythm, Arun!!'. Not his, not hers, not theirs, mine. I stopped worrying about everyone else and just tried to find that pace that balanced fatigue and progress. When I did that I started to enjoy the privilege of being out on the water on such an amazing day. Because that is what it is  - it is a privilege to live in such an amazing place and be able to get out on the water for that long. Sometimes I take this life for granted, and it takes efforts like Round The Rock or RAMROD or climbing to Camp Muir to really bring home how beautiful this part of the world is, and how lucky I am to be able to hike, climb, ride, paddle, and board here.

So I did what I always do when I find a sport that makes me feel so good. I "invested". I  bought a nice board and nicer paddle. Much to the chagrin of Lopa, who has lived through many expensive bike, snowboard, windsurfing, and climbing purchases. Armed with extra guilt from my expensive ways, I was compelled to use that gear. I just couldn't stand looking at it. So I started using my new board and paddle pretty religiously this past winter.

Winter paddling is  fun. You need booties. You need roughly the same clothes you would go running in. And uou need to not fall in.

Here is what late winter paddling is like.

Its not quite dark outside. It's 6:30AM and the sun is still not up. The water is black. It looks like oil.

I'm with the group at the launch. Boards on cars, starting to come off. Smiles and greetings but not a lot of words because at this time of day no one really has much to say. We grab our boards and walk down to the launch. One by one we place our boards in the water and push off.

I always start out a little shaky. Every little wobble sends me off my center, and I lash out with my paddle to try and get stable. But that's only for a couple of minutes. Stiff shoulders and back soften up, knees get loose, and my reach lengthens. I stop splashing the paddle down and start placing it into that black, soft, water. Now I'm going. 10 strokes on one side, 14 on the other, trying to negotiate the curve of the island. Head down, eyes up, I watch the paddle slide into the water.

It goes in and I pull. Arms straight, driving down, knees bending down. The water parts silently around my board. and curls up along the edges. The paddle comes out of the water with a whisper. I feather the blade and concentrate on bringing it back forward. Docks, houses, buoys go by like a silent movie.

I'm in a rhythm now. I place, pull myself past the paddle, then flick it forward.  I focus on placing it back into the water, keeping the shaft vertical, arms straight, core locked.

I try to make that motion perfect,. Most of the time, I come up short. Sometimes, in a happy coincidence of form, I get close. The closer I get the better it feels. I chase that sensation the whole time.

Now I'm gliding. Surging less, flowing more.  The water is still and somehow it's getting lighter, more gray green than black. The shine of the lights from the houses and the city is fading and daylight is coming in over the Cascades.

I'm sweating now, and breathing hard. Chasing them. They look like they're hardly working. How could they be moving that fast? How do they make it look that easy? I speed up my strokes, trying to stay smooth and silent. Slowly making up ground, breathing harder.

I feel the faster rhythm in my arms, shoulders, back, core, legs. Waves of fatigue sweep across me.

Every time, before I place the paddle there is the smallest moment where I'm poised above the dark water.   When I'm not at my absolute limit, I try to stop and feel it. My shoulders are stacked vertically, my torso is rotated. I'm on the balls of my feet and my arms are straight and extended forward. My head is up, my eyes straight ahead. Right there, before I drive the paddle in, reality fades away. Old age, the shoulders, the knees, the back, the job, and the tiredness all recede and in that one small moment I'm young and strong again.

When we finish,  I'm drained. Muscles all wrung out, I can barely hold on to my formerly ultralight board as I carry it up from the lake.

Every time I come off the water, I feel connected. I'm connected to the water, to the air, to the guys who I chased for 5 miles.  My mind, for once, is silent.

The next Tuesday, or Thursday, when I'm lying in bed starting to justify staying right there, I flash back to the way paddling makes me feel, because it sets up the day so much better than sleeping in.