Couch to Beacon: Redemption
Shannon Bryan still can't run, but she believes in second chances. She's giving the Beach to Beacon 10K another shot (you know, after last year's tragic failure. But let's not bring that up).
Follow her training through race day: August 2.
Mixin it up w/some cross training
May 28, 2008Strangers in the woods...and the parking lot
Note: This entry has absolutely nothing to do with running or the Beach to Beacon. It also flies in the face of the "Don't talk to strangers" adage your parents pounded in to your head. This entry may not be good for the little'uns.
See, it all started last week when my colleague Wendy asked if anyone in the office cared to try out mountain biking. Her MOAC group was planning a multilevel ride (i.e., newbies could test out the trails and not hold back the rest of the group) and we were all welcome to come.
Hell, why not. I've been doing the "try something new" thing with moderate success for the last year or so. Maybe the world was telling me this was the time to scratch "mountain biking" off the list. (Though that's only half true. Last summer two friends and I accidentally went mountain biking - ended up on the wrong trail at Reid State Park. I dumped my bike twice before I had a head-bleeding premonition and opted to walk my bike - and my helmet-less head - out of the woods.)
So last evening I picked up Kate (fellow MaineTodayer) and we headed north with our bikes strapped to the back, pressed for time and low on gas. We followed the signage as best we could, but as the road lingered on we decided that we must have driven too far and ought to turn around.
So we did. Or tried to, anyway. Soonafter my stellar on-road three point turn, my car began to sputter. The power steering went out and my gas pedal lost it's authority over the engine. As we coasted to a stop, I turned into the end of a stranger's driveway.
The horror flicks of my youth have taught me that two young gals stranded on a empty, rural road have only one option: meander up to the stranger's door, plead for help and pray the burly fellow doesn't have an axe at the ready.
Luckily this story doesn't end with Missing Persons ads or a meat freezer big enough for two. The gentleman at the door was very kind and brought us a gallon or two of gas from the shed. After profuse thanks, we continued on.
By the time we reached Bradbury State Park, the party we were intended to meet up with was long gone. As novice mountain bikers, I wasn't keen on the idea of venturing into the woods without a guide. Kate suggested we circle the parking lot until the group returned. I thought a hike might be in order.
But just across the lot I spotted three fellows prepping for a ride of their own. Heck, might as well ask them for advice. Sure enough they offered to show us the way to some less technical trails (and alerted Kate to the fact that her helmet was on backwards).
Five minutes and a few curse words later, we were feeling pretty confident. Considering how treacherous the sky looked an hour earlier, the weather turned out to be pristine. A setting sun, a cool breeze - getting up close and personal with nature is a wonderous thing.
Of course then there were the rocks.
And the frighteningly thin beam bridges.
And the middle-of-the-road trees.
And the God-forsaken mosquitoes!
But if you fight through it, the rewards are profound. Look that view up and down. Go ahead, drink it in. Of course, you should also look where you're going.
As falls go, this one erred more on the side of tragic/sad. I saw it coming 10 feet in advance. I mentally willed my bike to veer left! Veer left! But FYI, bikes are immune to mental willing.
It did prove that I'm at least an above-average blogger, if not an above-average biker. First words out of my mouth after the crash were, "Quick! Take a picture! I'll need to blog this." Was I injured? No more so than I was a week ago.
All things considered it was a fine eve. The bike ride was an experience made even better by the well-deserved post-ride recovery. I nursed the scrape on my knee with alcohol (by drinking it, of course) at Buck's Naked BBQ. I had never been there before and was delighted to reading the menu heading, "Stop being so naked!" That's a line that'll come in handy more than once. Am I right, people?
Many thanks to Pownal ponytail man (for the gas) and mountain biking Bruce (for the trail guidance) and MOAC (for the open invite) and for proving, once again, that Mainers are at the top of the good peeps pile.
Sinners on the mountain
In training, as in life, it isn't always possible to adhere to a plan (no matter how perfect the plan or how steadfast your intentions). Things come up. It happens.
Luckily, maintaining 100% compliance isn't a requirement for success. (If you can train for 4 or 6 or 8 months without ever missing a run, without ever succumbing to the siren song of the deep fryer, without ever swapping the Vitamin Water for a Geary's or two on a sunny Saturday afternoon, then yes, you've very hardcore and maybe also very OCD...and probably not a whole lot of fun to vacation with.)
The key is to not let that 'Woo-hoo-it's-Cinco-de-Mayo!' binge last for three weeks straight.
And hey, if amidst the entertainment you still manage to sneak a workout in, more power to you.
This weekend I headed up to Reggae Fest at Sugarloaf. It's a gluttonous weekend for most - a reminder of those hazy college years when beers were cracked at 1:00 p.m. and heads didn't hit pillows until dawn. This time, though, a few hours of skiing are jammed in there too (while wearing your underwear on the outside of your ski pants, of course, because hey, it's Reggae Fest).
Not being a very accomplished skier (just started learning this winter and would have spent the day alone and weeping on the bunny slope) I instead joined a friend cross country skiing on Saturday. I figured it wasn't likely I'd be getting any running done, so some light skiing would be a good alternative (it's called cross training, people).
I'm clearly Olympics bound (see my flawless form preparing to race down the flat terrain).
And despite all the crowds and riotousness everywhere else, the X-country trails were nearly desolate. After two hours of up hills and down hills and all-out communing with nature we saw only three other people.
One gentleman saw us and turned to his eight(ish)-year-old son and said, "See these nice young ladies out here being productive? Not like those sinners on the mountain."
Give us an hour, man. We'll be there too.
At any rate, it was a relaxing jaunt and a good workout. We finished up with some free Geary's courtesy of Teco, resident outdoorsman and Sugarloaf Outdoors Center employee.
Today, I can't seem to move my legs without a slight grimace. But it's cool. It's a good "I-did-something-productive-(not-like-those-sinners-on-the-mountain)" kind of pain.
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