March in Colorado. There is still fantastic skiing to be had in the mountains. There's still frost on the grass in the morning. It's still flannel PJs weather. But I've seen them: the spandex hordes are beginning to swarm. It's starting. Cycling season in Boulder is upon us.
Don't get me wrong. I applaud cycling as alternative transportation. It's a great aerobic activity. I used to really enjoy doing it. And then I moved to the capital of competitive cycling in America, and it got a whole lot less fun.
In Boulder, there is no such thing as a "casual ride." It's about the route, the hours, the watts, and most importantly, the bike. In my adopted world, Oz is the VeloSwap, and Dorothy would chant "Dura-Ace and SRAM Force and Record, oh my!"
Of course, my view on this may be slightly skewed, as my husband Alan is one of the spandex-clad multitudes. In fact, so are most of our friends: wonderful, otherwise sane people who just happen to think it's fun to spend four hours in a chamois the size of a Huggies #3, God love them. It's a unique understanding: I think they're crazy for spending thousands on a bicycle and its accoutrements; they think I'm crazy for doing trail races that involve thousands of feet of climbing.
These days, my bike riding is limited to the occasional spin around town; it's on two feet, instead of two wheels, that I explore the terrain of the West. Being the supportive spouse that I am, though, I spend a fair amount of time in cycling-related activities. No job is too small: everything from making sure Alan's race kit is clean and ready to go (for the olfactory health of those riding around him) to cutting block prints to advertise the races his team promotes.
There are others out there who fill this role, I've noticed: running wheels to the pit, taking photos, filling water bottles, and digging around in a backpack for that last Carb Boom. They're there, behind the scenes, cheering, supporting, and encouraging.
This blog is for we unheralded few, whose skills at feed zone handoffs, pinning numbers on skinsuits so they're totally aero, and making killer post-ride recovery shakes go largely under the radar.
Sagwagoneers, I salute you.
...fuel of champions.
A couple of weeks before Easter, we spent the day making sugar cookies to give to family and friends. It was a solid team effort: I made the dough and frosting, and was in charge of the frosting application; Alan did the rolling, cutting, and decorating. He is surprisingly tolerant of my cookie-making ventures, especially my AR insistence that every cookie be patisserie perfect. Notice the attention to detail: applying sprinkles with tweezers.