Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where every day that we are alive, healthy, and ambulatory is a good day.

This is what I have been telling myself all week, whenever it gets a little stressful around here. I was reminded of this fact by a fellow Diva, and felt a bit ashamed as I reflected on it while I drove home after the ride- she was right, of course. Why do we ever say the words "worst day ever", or "you won't believe the day I've had", when we are still here, still breathing clean air, still have the ability to get out and enjoy ourselves, are well fed, and, best of all, we have these amazing, heathy bodies that are strong and not confined to a house or a chair or a bed. Yes, being a vegetable is my all-time worst fear. Death, I can handle. When one believes in things such as higher powers and new beginnings, death becomes an adventure. But as long as we are here, in this life, in this current adventure, it's ridiculous to complain about circumstances. What are we, the princess and the pea?

I don't mean to sound as though I am on a soapbox. It's just been the subject of recent ruminations. And with precise timing, in the middle of these ruminations and constant, positive comment that I have been feeding myself, comes the ultimate test of positive. Yup, cancer rears it's ugly head again in our family. This time it is not my mom hearing the news and her heart breaking for her parent, it is my mom holding her own diagnosis. Details we know not, only that the Lump of last year, the one that was supposedly not a threat, is now most definitely threatening. But on that front, nobody is panicking, because panic is not only pointless, not only does it create an environment in which unhealthy cells do happy dances and are fruitful and multiply, but we simply do not know enough yet to be able to panic. And besides, I grew up under her roof, so I am privy to the knowledge, based on just about every experience from my childhood, that my mom will kick cancer in it's butt. She may not look it, but she's not exactly frail. She's a gorgeous, strong woman with a vulnerable side, but luckily, the affected ta-ta is not on that side. So prayers. Prayers and love and support. She has been the go-to, the shoulder, the personal fan club for so many of us, and it's her turn. Because what is a little cancer to a seriously determined tough broad?

It has been a heck of a week up here in the Summit. A big exciting week for our boss's daughter, who is getting married this weekend up here, but for our boss's staff, namely, us...a heck of a week. Especially yesterday, the day that all the guests arrived. They are staying in our condos, of course, which meant that all condos had to be ready, redied within an inch of their lives, lest something should go wrong and a wedding guest should have a bad experience and have it color their relationship with the father of the bride. I'm only half joking. I can understand the pressure he is under to have the whole affair go smoothly, and if a guest has a less than wonderful experience after traveling from various corners of the world to attend this event, well, I would be stressed out, too. I am stressed out, too. I have spit-polished and scrubbed and washed windows and fluffed pillows and folded so many hand towels and washcloths into little fan-folded baskets and bows that when I come home, I sit surrounded by the clutter and have no desire to fix it. Then I get out my new bike and go for a ride with a girlfriend or two and forget my day and once again, all is right and well and the tension drains out of my shoulders like someone pulled the plug, and two miles in, I am happy again, and chattering and laughing and hopping over obstacles with new energy.

Okay, yes, new bike. I suppose I must. I'd rather not. I feel a little dirty, like I have been calling the kettle black without ever realizing I am a pot. Like everything I rant about from my soapbox just went out the window when I saw this bike. I sold out. But, oh, it's soooo good, says the addict...addicted to a sport. Can't live without a ride once a day. Mood is affected when not riding. Alienates friends and family in favor of a ride. In debt to support habit. Drives a car with 250,000 miles on it that cost less than the bike on top of it. If the shoe fits...

I suppose it is a proveable fact that a mountain bike can actually be an addictive substance. After all, substances change our state of mind. Whether it's THC affecting neurotransmitters (oh, don't look so shocked. I live in the dispensary capitol of Colorado), alcohol depressing our central nervous systems, or hard pedaling leading to a massive flooding of endorphins, when the effects wear off, we are left feeling like something is missing and wanting to get the feeling back (or so I'm told...).

So, as my friends tell me when the self-flagellation gets extreme, why am I so touchy about it? I am a mountain biker. It's what I do. It's what I'm about. I ride every day. I ride competitively. It's my thing. But still...I feel like one of THOSE people, those people I kinda hate because they have money and buy equipment to make up for their lack of skill. And I don't have money. I did have an envelope of cash, a few dollars a day for the last two years, but it stayed much thinner than I thought it would because I was always fixing the Stumpjumper. And I had a credit card, and to my shame, it got used. I have never made a purchase before that required several different methods of payment. It was the biggest purchase of my life. I try to justify it by saying it is the first big thing I have ever bought for myself, but I still can't stop thinking about starving orphans every time I swing a leg over the shiny, carbon-fiber top tube. Not even joking.

Apparently, my parents managed to instill in me a guilt complex, a treat-others-better-than-yourself thing. When I was eight, I gave away Melissa, my first-ever Barbie doll, an actual antique, on impulse because my little friend just looked so happy playing with her. In retrospect, I am pretty sure her parents were morally opposed to Barbie, even vintage Barbie, and she may not have survived long. I missed Melissa. Even after I had saved enough for another Barbie Doll and took a bag of change into the local Gibsons store and dumped it out at the cash register and asked for help from the cashier counting out the right amount for my new Barbie, I missed her. Not sure what valuable lesson I learned there, but the experience has stuck with me. But I digress...

The bike. So, my bike was in the shop. Again. The gear ring wasn't going to be in for about ten days, and the chain would not stay on the existing one. You would think I could just ride in the big or little ring, not the middle one, but you try tackling hills without middle gear. High is impossible, granny is too low to keep up the momentum. So while I waited, I was going to either ride badly at or miss the next divas ride and the fourth race of the series. So for the Divas ride, I called around to see if I could locate a demo for the day. It just so happened that Avalanche Sports in Breck had the bike for demo- not for sale- that I have been lusting over online for quite some time- a Santa Cruz Tallboy. My obsession was to the point that every time I sat down at my computer, I would automatically, almost subconciously type in "tallboy" and gaze at the bike, read reviews, go to the website and click on options, weight versus price, trying to find the lightest bike for the least money. Then I would wonder over to the website selling wheelsets and once again, price a set of super light wheels and hubs. Then back to reviews. Then back to the "Bike builder" on the Santa Cruz website. So I knew what to expect when I picked up the demo- a stiff frame, a lot of momentum, a tougher uphill but a smoother downhill. That night, I rode the demo at the Diva's ride and I loved it- I was cleaning obstacles I would have noticed had I been on my bike. The demo's 29 inch wheels, as opposed to the 26 inch wheels I was used to, rolled over rocks, ate miles of buttery trail without so much as a hiccup, surged forward when I stood on the pedals. It was heavy, though- heavier than I expected, and I was loving the ride, but thinking I might not be happy with it long term, I might find myself missing my light-weight Stumpjumper if I owned the bike.

I wheeled the demo into my local bike shop, where I am on first name basis by now, and asked if they could locate a compareable bike. Turns out, Tallboys are extremely hard to find, because they are only produced in carbon fiber, and they were underproduced. Out of the perhaps dozen bike shops that my LBS (local bike shop) is in partnership with, only one had a Tallboy- extra large. I went home and began calling bike shops all over Denver, and finally, after many "sorry, but we sold our last one's", got a lead. A gearhead in Littleton referred me to Golden Bike Shop in, of course, Golden. When I called, they said they actually had two, one the heavy stock bike identical to the one I had demo'd, and one a custom build, already sporting the lightweight wheels and hubs, the lightest components for the least money that all of their gearhead know-how could come up with to put on one little medium sized Tallboy frame. Long story short, we drove down to take a look, not to buy. By the time we got there, the heavy one had already flown off the shelf, and someone was considering putting a deposit down on the custom build. The price tag on it was a lot less than a bike that weighed the same, with a factory set-up. I rode it up and down the alley behind the store, and wondered if I could ever part with it, and in the meantime, B was getting the skinny on why these bikes are so hard to find. Finally, after we had drunk a beer, took turns riding it, and wondered how I could pay for it, he shrugged and asked if I wanted it. I looked at him like he was insane. "Of course, I want it! Just because I want it doesn't mean I'm gonna get it. That's life." And I turned to walk out of the door. He stopped me. We bargained. My ski pass for this year, gone. My skis, gone. My powder snowboard, gone. My Stumpjumper, gone. My time off, gone. And of course, my envelope of cash from the last two years, gone, which meant no more girls nights out, no more movies or margaritas, no more Cold Stone ice cream or birthday presents for girlfriends or impromptu donations to causes that tugged at my heartstrings, and no more race entries, since I now lacked the entry fees (other than the ones I am already paid up for). And we rolled a shiny, bright orange, custom-built Tallboy to the car, and my meal that night, while everyone else enjoyed salads and steaks and iced teas, was a $2.50 sweet potato and water. Ended up, B had to tip the waitress 40% because our bill was so cheap.

So that is your long story for the day. I know nobody cares, but I feel this compulsion to tell it, lest someone take a look at me, flying down the trail on my Tallboy, and think to themselves, "Boulder trust fund", or suppose that I am one of the entitled who takes such things for granted and who readily spends money on herself.

But, I've gotta say...I kept the Sandbagger in my sights for about 8 miles of the 11.75 mile race last night. I was completely wiped out, tasting that nasty, metallic taste in the back on my throat, my legs burned and my breath was ragged and loud and I was operating beyond my anaerobic threshold, which is not a good idea for endurance races, but I led the race for several miles. After that, the Sandbagger's expert-class endurance took over and she shot past me, and I didn't see her again. If nothing else, it was worth it to have her worried, since she almost never has a view that involves a competitor ahead of her. The course zig-zagged the hillside above the finish line, so I heard them announce her crossing the finish line, and about two and a half minutes later, I crossed it in second place. Now, I have ridden that hard on the Stumpjumper and could not break 5th place, so I may have to admit that, while I rode as hard as I could, my second place finish might have not been entirely the rider. It may have been the bike. I did find it ironic that at the top of the climb, just as I crested the hill and hit the downhill singletrack, I heard "Go, turn those big wheels! Ride that Tallboy!" And it struck me funny that now I was no longer me, I was the girl with the big wheels. What, no cheers for me? just my bike?

And now, off to work. Another big day, so that I can have another bike ride tonight. Life is good. It's another good day.

(click to hear this song)
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

-Malvina Reynolds

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where all your dreams might not come true. Your blogger sits in another stew, what's new, says you...okay, that was an unintended bit of rhyming, and it should probably stop now. The stew this time is one that boils a bit harder every time B and I sit and do nothing for any length of time, and we actually make conversation, and we discover that we agree on a fair amount of philosophical ideas when we take the time to express them, but that one of us then immediately wants to act, to do, to be, to go, while the other is much more responsible and knows that all may not necessarily work itself out. Following one's dreams is so easy to talk about, but the doing can be problematic.

Part of my problem this week has been road construction. Not the road construction itself, because I know that the little boxes on the hillside (I think of the song every time I drive through the pastel cluster of single-family homes and duplexes) above the trailer park need that water main, but the fact that I must then take a detour through Summit Cove to get home. And this detour takes me on a winding road through McMansions, million dollar, log-sided homes with pretty rock work and wrap-around decks and too many north-facing windows that must take a fortune to heat and that house only a family of four and that, after dark, glow brightly with too many lightbulbs while the successful, and undoubtedly happy people inside eat their saturated fat and watch TV and play Guitar Hero and do homework.

Every time I drive through, a little knot tightens on my insides, half envious of them, half defiantly proud of my little green double-wide, a little bit of a feeling of superiority because of our lack of debt, a little bit of curiosity about the people who dwell inside such palatial homes. A small hint of doubt, maybe we should have been doctors or lawyers or business executives, maybe we are squandering our best years and in the end we will wonder why we were not driven to acquire because we will feel left behind by our country-club peers.

This week, we got away for a few days. Not actually away, we just took the camper down to Lake Dillon for two nights, then to Green Mountain Reservoir for another night. We would have preferred to do Green Mountain Reservoir the entire time, but we worked the two days we camped at Lake Dillon. Green Mountain has no cell phone service, so we could only go out there on our actual day off. (No, I have not changed the subject. This relates to the stew.) At lake Dillon, we enjoyed two nights of campfires, borrowed a canoe that, at the end of our stay, got "borrowed" to us permanently and now resides in our back yard. We paddled across glassy water to Sentinel Island and back and ate too many s'mores and slept in a comfortable bed in the tent-end of the camper and it was fun, but it was a bit of a pain because the neighbors were close and the camp host was watchful and Andy had to be leashed at all times. We did not actually relax until we got out the Green Mountain the third night, found a spot beside a trickling stream, set Andy loose, and plopped down beside a fire. I read a book until it got too dark to read, something I have not done in far too long, then we sat and stared into the glowing embers and I melted the bottoms of my shoes against the metal fire ring and visited with my husband, something else that almost never happens. And somewhere in there, between the water falling musically down the hillside to the lake, the flickering glow of firelight in the trees around us, the cool breeze blowing off the water, the exhausted dog draped awkwardly over several peices of firewood, and the murmer of our own voices, in the words of the Shins, "something bad inside me went away". In that moment I knew exactly what I wanted, and it did not involve work the next day. It involved less stuff, less push, less stress, less racing, less running, less competing, less arguing about money, less arguing about arguing, just less. Just us, and what we need. A trail, a mountain bike, a home on wheels, a road.

Of course, there is that small problem called money. The making of it, the keeping of it, the spending of it. The retiring without it. The sending the potential kids to college without it. And it is not as though we are opposed to working for it. It's the staying in one place that gets us. The world is big. Even the United States is big. We want to see it all and do it all.

This morning, I could not stop my imagination. It kept pretending we really were those lucky, mythical people who can live on almost nothing, somehow have enough money for gas and food, who can live on the road. Even as we were driving home, I could not help pretending that we were going to keep driving over Vail Pass, just keep going.

We came home by way of McMansion drive, and the knot came back. I tried to tell B what was wrong with the picture, but he didnt get it and told me that these people had their priorities too, and if they could afford it, what was wrong with it? And I sputtered a bit about the pointlessness of the American dream and he told me I had been born in the wrong decade. I should have been in a VW van, getting high at Woodstock, driving around and camping and protesting war. I'll leave that one alone, except to say that I've met several people who drove vans to Woodstock. Now they own big houses and play golf.

So here we are, at heart happy vagabonds, in flesh working a job, caretakers for the million-dollar mansions that never feel quite as comfortable or luxurious as one thinks they look from the outside. Will the two ever compromise and come to an understanding? Will we ever decide what our priorities are? Will we ever feel as though we are exactly where we belong, when we belong there? Will we ever fish, plunge into a plan for our future, school, buy a business, settle in, or cut bait, like we threaten to do as we stare into embers and talk is cheap? Stay tuned. The answer in...the next decade or so.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where the altitude is the least of our problems. In fact, we love the altitude this time of year. It keeps us cool and comfortable and strong and healthy. It gives us more and thinner blood than lowlanders, which means we get a blood-doping effect when we go to lower elevations. No, the altitude is not the problem.

It wasnt the problem last night, when I lost the Swan River Rampage, the latest Summit Mountain Challenge bike race. I do mean lost. I wasnt quite dead last, but close. It was a bad evening. I rode hard and passed people on the uphills, but on the downhills, I absolutely could not keep my speed. It is a bike thing and a tire thing, and I was so wiped out by the last downhill that I could not pedal hard enough to keep the pack in sight. It was a road downhill, wide open, and I was going all I could, and flat could not keep the speed. I blame my new tires. Everyone else is riding tires with low rolling resistance, which makes them less effective on technical, loose conditions, and mine take more muscle to keep rolling, but it takes some serious effort to get them to break loose on a steep uphill or a sharp turn. Which meant that while they were walking uphill, I was riding past them, but as soon as we hit the jeep roads, they flew past me like I was standing still, and with fresh lungs from walking instead of riding uphill. And just when I was about at redline, could not go any harder, my chain bound up in my front derailleur and my pedals stopped dead and I had to throw my bike off the trail and scramble to avoid the pack behind me. I got it untangled, downshifted by spinning my pedals by hand, jumped back on after having lost several places to other riders, and continued on. I pulled over to let someone by, and all the riders who were just a little bit slower than me also began yelling "trail!" and I couldnt get back on the singletrack for about six people, and when I did, they went unbelieveably slowly and I rode my brakes in an area I usually rip, a buttery section of trail that contains sudden, sharp elevation changes- my strongest area. I am a good climber, so I usually stand on my pedals and watch the gaps close on the short, steep uphills, and I am a good bike handler on a smooth trail that is twisty and tight. These are the things that usually serve me well, because it is not about having the lightest bike with the least rolling resistance, it is about balance and coordination and daring to take turns just a little faster, pedal on the downhills, and pedal just a little harder on the uphills. I am not good in rock gardens, I am not good on slippery, gravelly conditions, but in conditions like the Colorado Trail portion of the race last night, I expect to do well and make up time. I did not do well. I did pass a few riders eventually, but then we hit the jeep road back down to the valley and they came flying around me with their carbon fiber bikes and smooth tires. Then we hit the uphill and I rode around them and, glancing back, watched them fall back. I rode through the stream thinking maybe I would not do so badly, after all, and hit the opposite bank, and stood on my pedals, and there went my chain, slipped off. I jumped off, put it back on, walked my bike up the short hill, and rode again, having lost precious time and another spot, and hit the downhill and tried so hard to pedal hard enough to outrun my gears and just could not get it there, and a few seconds later, the girls that had been so far behind on the uphill flew past me like I was standing still. I knew then that I was done. I still redlined it all the way to the finish line, but it changed nothing. I couldn't catch anyone. This morning my throat still hurts, I am still wheezing and hacking a bit from being so out of breath for so long last night, my head still aches a little bit, my muscles still feel weak.

And that is your latest race report. I am sorry if that was totally boring. I find myself giving blow-by-blows when someone asks how the race went, and they really do not care.

Until last night, I was in third place overall, by my points standings. At the end of the season, they let you drop your worst race from your points. I can only hope that this is the one I drop. If I do worse than this in the remaining three races, I think I should just do myself a favor and quit now.

But, racing aside, the summer is treating us well. We keep trying to get away and take the camper out again, but something always comes up. The story of our lives. We are busy. It is the Season again, which means money is coming in again, but we are too busy to enjoy it. I try to get out once a day to ride. Along with a busy work schedule comes a poor diet, probably part of my problem last night, eating on the fly and from packages, but I think this may be the week to change that. Eat better, train harder, so the Pennsylvania Gulch Grind (up Boreas Pass above Breckenridge on July 28) is not quite such a killer.

And now, off to it. I am sitting here in shorts and jersey, the sun shining in my window. I am thinking about hitting Keystone before work. I need more practice on downhilling. Only problem is, then I will be wiped out before I even start work, and working exhausted always puts me in a bad mood. But if I work first, no telling what the weather will be like by late afternoon...

Hello and welcome to An altitude Problem, where man and beast are shaking our heads to get rid of the firecracker-induced ringing and climbing out of our bomb-shelter bathtubs.

Yes, bathtubs. It was the shelter of choice for Bart, our friend's golden lab of the bad ACL, worse breath, and worst fear of things that go bang. We went to Bart's house on the 4th and he was fine until the fireworks came out. Then he huddled first in the living room furniture, shaking and panting, and, as the evening festivities wore on, disappeared completely. It was only after I went to the bathroom and heard his tail thumping behind the shower curtain that we found him again. No amount fo petting and cuddling and reassurances could convince him to abandon his shelter, huddled into a tight ball surrounded by his human's bath toys and rubber duckies.

My parents came up here on the 2nd. They got there in time to go to the Dillon Amphitheater for a military band concert and fireworks show over the lake. My dad spend the 3rd working on Grandma Rose's computer over in Eagle while my mom rode around with me while I inspected units checking in. I finished the units for the day and before starting to work ahead for the 4th, mom and I went down to Keystone Lake with the dogs, tied them to the railing separating the restaurant from the lake, ordered our sandwiches and sat and enjoyed the sunshine and the crowd,strolling along the floating walkway and paddling canoes, kayaks, and paddleboats around on the lake. Gaggles of geese (yes, that is a word. It means a group of at least five geese that are not in flight. In flight, they are called a skein. So there.)swam behind paddleboats, snatching at food thrown by tourists, mama ducks floated with their ducklings in tow, bobbing on the ripples. We stopped at Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory and ordered a pint of ice cream which we shared as we walked around the lake, then sat with Andy tied up where he could wade. I went back to work after I took mom home and dad got home late that night from Eagle.

The next morning, the 4th, we skipped breakfast except for the protein shakes I made for my mom and me. I took mom on a mountain bike ride, a three mile trail by our house. It wasnt a fast trail since it has a lot of tight trees and large rocks in the trail, so by the time we got back, it was almost noon. My parents took us out to lunch in honor of my birthday, then Mom, Marci and I scanned the factory stores for sales, I worked just a little, and got home in time to see them off. They narrowly missed a massive hailstorm on the way home, thanks to them deciding to stop in Denver, and had to sit in Limon while the hail was cleared from the road and the fog caused by ice on the ground meeting warm air lifted. Their five hour trip turned into a ten hour trip home.

We skipped the Frisco fireworks this year, choosing instead to hang with friends, margaritas and a roof over our heads while it rained and a howling wind blew the sparks from our roman candles sideways. BY the time we left, Bart still had not braved crawling out of the bathtub. Poor boy. Andy, on the other hand, seemed not at all bothered by the fireworks. We left him home, where there were pops and bangs happening around him. At his first fireworks, last year at Frisco, he had a momentary freak-out when the first one went off, but then I petted him and told him he was a good boy and he drank his neighbor's beer and he was fine. (He seems to have lost his taste for beer lately. It's just as well. We don't need an alcoholic Golden Retriever in the house.)

In between all of the eating junk food and drinking alcohol spiked with sugar, I have been trying to keep up my riding, training for the next race looming. The only problem is, the faster I get, the faster everyone else gets as well. I really should have been spinning all winter, preparing my legs. I barely hold my own on the downhills, but I find my legs burning and myself on the verge of throwing up on long, steep climbs. There's a small chance I may be racing on a team this next one...stay tuned.

And every summer, as summer racing season is in full swing, so is the Tour de France. We go out, pedal hard, then come in and cheer and watch the beautiful countryside slide past the beautiful riders and their beautiful, steel legs. And yes, I can call them beautiful. You wouldn't? I enjoy watching a human body pushing it's limits. We are such complex creatures, and it is amazing what we can do if we decide to. I admit to becomming a bit of a leg person- when I meet someone, I meet their eyes first, but it is not long before I am checking out the calves and quads, sizing them up, because a set of hard calves is a sign of the hard-core.

Watching the Tour is what we are doing as I write, as I sit here in the house waiting for the rain to stop and my friend (the one who races against me and always places either one place ahead or one place behind me)to get off work so we can go ride together. There are those who have predicted the emminent end of our friendship since we are so closely matched in our bike-handling skills, but so far, maybe because there is no real chance of either of us climbing on the podium this year, it is more about the after-race beers as it is the during-race rivalry.

Later, Faithful Few.