How I Spent My Cycle-Smart Training Camp

by Kim Morris

Leucadia, California is: palm trees, salty thick breezes off the ocean, graceful hills, surf shops, shy smiles from people used to sunlight and cloudless days, wispy sand mounds along bike lanes, surfers bobbing patiently in the water, huge houses sneaking their way into an otherwise cottage-dotted shoreline, sunsets that melt your heart.

Cycling camp was: one week that would’ve lasted two if I had my way, strangers who became friends, egoless, deep conversations about Life, long zen-like rides, riding companions with open faces and honest eyes.

In Leucadia there are two townhouses trapped inside a gated community where said good humans lived for one week. Both places had curved couches in living rooms where multiple people could crash out and talk and this was good because laying around and talking with people feeds the soul and also, you can find out about other people’s lives very easily while laying around with them. If I were running for president, this would be my campaign plan—couches for every town! Talk to the humans next to you! I’ll be the couch campaigner. Kim the Couch Campaigner. Also, the couches were within eye sight of the kitchen and most importantly, the refrigerator, which is very important for a healthful existence.

Ostensibly, I went to cycling camp because I wanted to get in some base miles in a land not cold. Honestly, I went to cycling camp because I am taking back my life from injuries and negative people and ice packs on my leg and summer days spent staring at a gorgeous Cannondale unwittingly rendered still and somewhat sad due to unuse. What better way to shake it up than to do something that is scary as shit? When I signed up, this was such a good idea, I considered becoming a therapist because I thought I was that insightful. It is a money-saving trick to be one’s own therapist.

But then The Day Before showed up and it suddenly occurred to me: I have averaged 4 hours a week on Princess Cannondale and I am going to a place where I don’t even speak the same language as other cyclists (they are not bike riders, by the way, they are cyclists). Here are some translations:

Hard-Core Cyclist Terminology/Kim’s Terminology
Incline =Hill
Hill =Shit
Mountain =Holy fucking shit
Rollers =Heart attack
It’s all downhill from here =Big lie
Fun descent =Straight drop to an unknown place, possibly hell

Sunday, February 26, 2006
Sunny. California sunny. Bleach-your-eyebrows-a-lighter-color-than-your-hair sunny. Warm. Wear-short-sleeves-and-not-quiver warm. Work up a sweat and actually think to yourself, “Man, it’s hot today,” warm. It was a fuck yeah day, as most of these days were.

We went for a two-hour ride. A lollygag until a seemingly innocuous hill that was not. Climbing these long climbs is a matter of balance—how easily can I maintain my balance on two small patches of thin tires while going 1 mph? While dressed in a brightly-colored, near pornographic, lycra get-up, it reeks of a traveling circus show. I had to dismount from Princess Cannondale, at which point I believe I heard her groan, because of course she was made for this and ended up with me, who was not made for this. But then I uncramped my leg and inched my way up and was rewarded with going down a hill much like the ones I flew down when I was nine and rode an orange banana-seat bike like a rocket.

Here’s what I learned from Fuck Yeah Day One: I miss the whir of tires in a paceline, it takes much concentration to stick to a wheel after not having done so in many months, it takes much concentration to keep my line after depending on the trainer to do it for me for many months, and having a support vehicle around is a wonderfully decadent way to have a ride. I am considering hiring someone to be my support vehicle as I travel through life.

Monday, February 27, 2006
Here’s the day I crashed. Figuratively, not literally, thankfully. A week of tensing up about going away and not sleeping well or eating well and flying on a plane and checking oversized luggage and worrying and just generally hand wringing to the point of ulcer finally hit me.

You would think a road named after a lilac would be nice, but you would be wrong. Those climbs out there are never ending. They keep going like they’re being paid to do it. I got 2 hours in and then I got off the bike and into the van, which is a godsend for a Midwesterner in southern California at the end of February. Then the rain came. I am so anti-riding-in-the-rain that I am willing to start a advocacy group for the abolition of riding in the rain. I rode in the van, talked to Gerard Master Mechanic, listened to Gomez, ate Fig Newtons and pretzels, drank Coke, daydreamed.

Back at planet homebase, I slept for two hours in my lycra and so woke up with deep red lines in my legs where my leg warmers tried to squeeze me like an anaconda. It is a good thing I had my own room. I didn’t smell especially pretty either.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Recovery day. I had to recover from sitting still too long the previous day. Today is the day I discovered my all-time favorite wheel to draft off of, in the form of Steve’s Independent Fabrication. He of the liquid, mesmerizing eyes has a rare and wonderful talent for snapping at items in the road that could cause much distress were they to be crashed into by an unsuspecting cyclist. For example, a prone-to-daydreaming cyclist from the Midwest who is easily distracted by sunshine and mountains.

Today we rode roads that winded through lemon groves. There was the smell of something earthy and peppery. There were the sounds of whirring tires, the clunking of changing gears, the airy voices of light and happy conversations, the quiet ease of riding bicycles with quality humans.

Wednesday, March 1, 2006
We rode out to Fiesta Island, which is neither a fiesta nor an island, from what I could see. It looked more like a peninsula, but maybe I missed something descriptively geographical. There was a dog park and port-o-potties with toilet paper. There were the ubiquitous wispy mounds of sand on the road. The road circled around something that was vaguely hill-like, but secretive, with signs that proclaimed the land was government property and forbade trespassing by the general public. Today was our sprint day in southern California, with the sun and the warm.

I decided not to do the sprints. This was for a litany of reasons that were clearly delineated in my head, the most important of which was the high possibility of (re)injury. But the reality was, I was scared. So, after breaking into groups, I toodled along with David from Arkansas and some girl from Texas who wasn’t staying at planet homebase and was not a part of the camp as far as I could tell and Brendan from I don’t know where but probably somewhere on the East Coast as most of these people are, and Adam, El Presidente of the camp.

Here’s how I decided not to do sprints:
Me: Adam, I’m not going to do the sprints.
Adam: Why don’t you just try a couple.
Me: No.
Adam: Are you sure?
Me: You only get one opportunity to ask me if I’m sure and that was it.
Adam: OK.

Of course, I was not sure. I have no idea what I am doing and I’m too self-conscious to ask for help, and I’m not about to ask Adam pro super sprint guy for it, even if he is a sparkling great human. This sport is like being dropped from an airplane into the ocean and then asking passing sharks for advice on how to get home. I’m trying to pretend I know what I’m doing, but I’m getting the impression that people can see right through me. It’s unnerving.

On the upside, it was sunny and after going around the forbidden government mound of land a few times in a small group, it occurred to me that a ten-second sprint couldn’t really be all that bad. Besides, I think Princess Cannondale had an itchy trigger finger. So when the group did the first sprint, I went with them, but only because I’m human and have an innate instinct to herd with others in my species. Then numbers two and three seemed a silly thing to miss and el presidente was dispensing wisdom and I’m not one to pass up a learning experience and that’s how I ended up not doing sprints on our sprint day.

Thursday, March 2, 2006
When cyclists go to California for a week of training and they say they are going to spend a day riding up a mountain, they mean a real live true mountain, the kind with changing temperatures and elevation signs, look-out spots on the roads, guard rails, views of the entire world and the entire sky, and a never ending grade that seemingly increases with each switchback. And of course, there are switchbacks. I am not making this up. Where in Chicago is there a place that rises so significantly that it actually needs switchbacks designed into it to facilitate travel?

This particular mountain is a called Palomar. It is not my friend. It quite clearly had the upper hand. It was a 25% grade, uphill both going and coming, and I was barefoot. Oh, and also, it was snowing. I have a new position to climb with now because El Presidente said so and since he didn’t dog me for being a big huge baby of major proportions on the day of not doing sprints, I decided to listen to him.

I trudged along in my new position and cleared my head, which quickly got filled up with pleasant thoughts, like the smell of pine trees and how cool it is to be around 12 brand new people, all of whom I have a burning desire to give great big bear hugs to. That’s called being lucky; as in, keep your head outta yer ass and be very, very grateful.

One hour and 23 minutes of climbing is what Princess and I got in today. Then I turned a switchback and did something weird that made me drop my chain and so I had to dismount but had kinda a hard time getting out of my left pedal because I couldn’t quite get my leg to pay attention to my brain. I got my chain on and decided to keep going. Except that then I did that lightheaded bobble head thing and when I swung my leg over the saddle, I cracked my knee on the seat post as though I was throwing a misplaced roundhouse kick and that’s when I thought that maybe I should call it a day for Palomar. Mountains are beautiful and proud beasts to me. You just don’t see noble creatures like those lurking about in the suburbs of Chicago.

Re: hard-core terminology verbiage—the way home was allegedly dotted with rollers, which were not rollers, they were near-fatal, cruelly misjudged terrain that after an hour plus of climbing were the most painful things I have ever run into. And here’s the coolest thing: I was riding with people who climbed that whole mountain, rode down it, let me ride with them after they were down the mountain, and then actually had the manners to ask me how I was doing when I started breathing like a gun shot victim when we hit the rollers. Rock out, man. Total good energy.

Friday, March 3, 2006
1.5 hours, easy, down the coast with Josh and Lori and Kim. Lori and Kim being two women who make me realize how cool women really are. We went to the military base where they carded us and told us very militarily how we were to stay only on the bike path and not to wander elsewhere or we would be charged with trespassing and then sent to Siberia where there is no bike riding and we certainly did not want that. I had the sneaky suspicion we were being followed. We were probably bugged too. It started raining and it got cold and then it got windy. We turned around and sure enough, there was Mr. Guard in his military police vehicle, riding up behind us. We smiled. We said thank you, but it was time for us to go. I kept my political views to myself.

The rest of the ride was quite like an April day in Chicago—windy, cold, brutal, Mother Nature’s not-so-subtle reminder that she’s the one in charge. Plus, I could feel the ferocious arrival of a saddle sore. The East Coasters say “wicked” a lot. As in, I am getting a wicked painful saddle sore.

Dinner: tilapia and rice; kale and asparagus; salad with artichokes and mushrooms; beer. Everyone talking. I will miss these humans. They are touching, good hearts. It’s quite possible I made the mistake of becoming a better human myself while hanging out with them. Who knew.