for the love of the BDR

more miles, less thoughts

When I sent out the first of these newsletters on a Wednesday, it admittedly had nothing to do with it being a Wednesday and everything to do with being ready to sit down and write something. Today is Friday, and I’ll spare you the excuses. Next week might be a Wednesday and it might be a Friday. Such is the nature of this Substack and I make the rules here. Consistency has always been a weak point for me, in training, in personal relationships, in moods, in schedules and habits. I’m more of a rollercoaster on all fronts and I’ve decided to accept that, in an effort as of late to be nicer to myself.

The reality of being a professional athlete is having to constantly sell a broad confidence in yourself to brands and to sports fans and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t constantly faking it a little bit. Not to say I don’t believe I’m capable of big things, just that my conviction of it is always in flux. Really all it takes is one day of confidence lining up with the right race environment and boom! a result! but that doesn’t mean Monday I have to wake up thinking I’m the best at what I do. Or Tuesday, or Wednesday, really just have to talk myself up on a few Saturday mornings per month and I can spend the rest of the time questioning absolutely everything.

We had our season opener this last Saturday, the first of the Grasshopper Adventure Series. At 44 miles and with Kate Courtney on the start line, I didn’t exactly expect to win, knowing my body and knowing that training lately has been 99% volume and 1% intensity. Even with more and more hitters making an appearance, Grasshoppers are first and foremost a tribute to this incredible place we call home, and for that reason, they will always be special and stand apart from the rest of the racing I do. However, I hoped for more from myself competitively than I was able to give that day. Physically I was just fine, but the compounded stress of the week before combined with a very spicy start and a really horrible interaction with a masters rider led to me throwing in the towel around the halfway mark, and crying about it on the drive home. I think sometimes, especially so early in the season, we’ve spent all this energy promising greatness in the year ahead, and it’s impossible to not see one bad result as an abject failure, when the reality is much less exaggerated. Most races don’t go to plan, and that isn’t failure, just probability.

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But on to brighter things— post-race I drove out to the coast to stay with some family friends I grew up with. A tiny house and a big garden in a tiny town, right on Highway 1, cypress trees lining the road, sheer cliffs down to dark grey sanded beaches, churning teal-blue surf and no cell reception. I deleted instagram from my phone, more about the symbolic nature of doing so than anything, as even the wifi signal cuts out too often to do anything except let my mom know I’m still alive. I’ll link my rides below, but the main intent of the trip was one last BDR before next month. That’s a Big Dumb Ride, for you uninitiated. And they’re my favorite thing in the entire world.

This time of year, it’s a fun game to figure out just how many miles one can reasonably fit in the exact amount of daylight we have. First light is at 7am, sunset just past 5:30pm. Most rides here average 1000 feet per 10 miles (a perfect ratio if you ask me), and including stoppage time and snack breaks and peeing maybe a couple times, for starters I generally assume an average of 15 miles per hour. The reality is a little faster, but it’s nice to have the safety net of being able to flat or get lost or stop for an especially nice view and not be under the stress of finishing in the dark. So 10.5 hours of daylight, 15 miles per, is just shy of 160.

Then comes the staring at maps. I knew I wanted to ride the upper reaches of the 1; I knew mentally I’d prefer some of it as a loop. I plotted a tentative lollipop out to 163. Perfect.

I guess it’s a self-preservation thing, but even in year 7 or 8 now of getting up to these shenanigans, I always expect the worst. Maybe it’s also so when everything goes perfectly, it’s the best kind of surprise. Tuesday morning, I roll out of the gravel driveway at 6:45am, 19 degrees F and a soft glow in the east. Maybe it’s the headwind, maybe the frozen temps, but the first 25 miles seem to take forever. I keep a screen on my head unit that only shows the temperature, no other data points, with the intention of forcing myself to stop counting tenths of miles or minutes passed. It works pretty well.

The rest of the ride flew by. The landscapes here consume you, invite you to such presence that there is quite simply nothing else. Escapism, but flipped: escape, through intense presence in the Here and the Now, escape, not from reality but from everything that pulls you away from it in the mundanity of daily life— how often are we only thinking about what immediately surrounds us, and our physical needs that connect us to that one thing? It’s rare, it’s a gift, and it’s what I am out there searching for on days such as this. To be able to wake up, and do one thing and one thing only for an entire day, and then go home, and go to bed; that pursuit of a perfect simplicity is charged with meaning. It’s beautiful.

I ate two almond butter sandwiches, one waffle (like, a real waffle), two gels, a Payday, a medium bag of Lays, a coffee, a cinnamon roll, and a sweet tea since the general store in Legget was out of Coke. 5 tall bottles of water. 16.3 mph average, 166.8 miles after all was said and done. The day passed without incident. My knees complained a few times, but eventually accepted their fate. I rode the final mile of coast as the sun disappeared behind a thick orange haze over the sea, 166 miles of imagery floating in and out of my consciousness, still processing, submitting themselves to memory, even now, sitting here on my couch 3 days later. I feel ready. For what exactly, we discuss next week ;)

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Routes! I highly recommend all of these if you find yourself in the northernmost reaches of Mendo county. All pavement, though I generally ride 32c on the road bike since a lot of it is unmaintained. Fort Bragg is a good starting place, but any of the small towns lining the coast up here will do.

Mountain View - Boonville - Philo-Greenwood - for those of you who like SERIOUS VERT. Two of my favorite road climbs ever, connected.

Albion - Little River - Navarro Watershed - an incredibly pleasant mix of farmscapes and seascapes and redwoods

the BDR - (if you’re slightly less insane, just the top loop is phenomenal)

^one BDR too far

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Music: driving the last windy 17 miles to the coast, I was blasting Ethel Cain’s 2022 album, Preacher’s Daughter. I had so much to say about it at the time and have forgotten most of it by now. Something about female rage and sadness, but not the kind that intensifies your own, instead the sadness is a separate living breathing thing, a wallowing so intense that it burns itself out and leaves you feeling free after it has passed. This album is rich with metaphor and layered production and such smart writing but also just downright enjoyable to immerse yourself in and come out the other side. Anyways, it’s fantastic.

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food: I admit I’ve barely cooked this week. So instead of a recipe, I’d like to point out that French Toast is just another way to eat an egg and a piece of bread, but made infinitely more luxurious.

A non-recipe: one part whisked eggs to one part milk, a splash of vanilla, a pinch of salt. The holier the bread the better, the longer you soak it the better. Stovetop, pan fried in butter over medium heat, or if you’re feeling hands-off, layered in a buttered baking dish, 350º until it’s set. Sprinkle of cinnamon and some maple syrup and flake salt to finish.

happy weekend folks :)