I'm overdue about eight race reports...but suffice it to say that if anything truly amazing had occurred, I would have updated my blog far sooner. Really, there are only a handful of things worth note:

1. Drove to Lawrence, Kansas to race with teammate Cait Silovsky, shown below. I was having a pretty solid race, too, until I laid down the bike around a corner with two laps to go and decided to walk before getting pulled. Bummer.

2. Raced a few smaller, local crits where I sucked hard. It’s easy to look at all the super fast girls at races - with their ridiculous abs and envious race finish times - and aspire to be like them. That's the time to nut up, quit sulking, and remember why I got into this sport to begin with: to challenge myself, control my blood sugar, and to have fun. Of course, suckage is not always a good time, so I'm working on that.

3. Had a pretty fair race at the State Championships a few blocks from my house (so I didn't even have to wake up early), and my legs felt remarkably good the next day. So much so, that I managed a six mile run before seven o'clock in the morning. I believe this to be a function of the Lefthand Brewery Recovery Beverages provided at the event, living up to their billing as "recovery aids."

4. "Man Down! Man Down!" Same race, TT1 Elite cyclist Dan Schneider took a nasty spill on the third lap. My four year old got to see Dan before and after, and was totally impressed by the carnage and asked if she could take him for sharing.

5. Kept swearing that "this will be my last race of the season," only to get sucked in to doing "one more."

Dennis and I spent the July 4th weekend trying to get in some much needed training rides, only to find ourselves cycling amid a sea of bikes in downtown Boulder, where there are more obstacles on the streets than in a game of Mario Kart. I had to dodge opening car doors, gushing fire hydrants, texting pedestrians and bikers going the wrong way on one-way streets like vehicular spawning salmon. All thanks to warm weather and a ban on fireworks.

For his part, Dennis managed a nice crash last week then ended with him in a ditch, being awaken by an oncoming motorist. No broken bones. No concussion. But he did manage to aggravate a pre-existing injury which is now costing about $900 in physical therapy.

I'm racing at least one more crit before August. I should be able to finish with a respectable time unless my leg falls off or I get abducted.







"The G'Knight Ride is a celebration of cycling, and is meant for cyclists of all ages, sizes, and abilities.  The Ride is a great excuse to dust off that old 10-speed, mountain bike, or cruiser and hop on with 1,500+ other riders on a great evening tour."

Really, it's all about getting people out of their homes, and on bikes!

I like this ride not because it is fast or intense - it is neither. In fact, it's not even much of a workout. A slow, meandering 16 mile loop, with much of it spent dodging young children and trying to pedal up hills at 5mph behind ten speeds that have been tucked in the back of garages for decades prior. But that's the point. The point is to make cycling accessible for everyone, to inspire a love of bikes and a sense of community, and to entertain the notion that the time spent on a bicycle is time well spent, generally.

I had to put in a little time promoting the CO Tour de Cure with my friends from the ADA. Unfortunately, Dennis was at the office on Saturday afternoon...which meant that I had a couple of helpers in tow. 

Midori busied herself making a paper bag puppet in the kids area. Henry was running around, making havoc. Good enough.

People of all ages and abilities...even the very young.

The kids get a turn to race a one mile course. This is really more of a workout for the parents who, as you might imagine, are forced to run alongside their cycling tots. Ever chased a kid on a bike going about eight miles per hour? While wearing flip-flops? Hardest part of my night.

It is funny to see aid stations every three or four miles but, in the spirit of accessibility and making the ride possible for anyone - and for the sake of fun...

Silliness aside, I spotted a young woman - maybe about 15 - in a Title Nine jersey! I stopped to ask her if she rode with the team. "No," she replied, "I just got in to cycling, and my coach used to ride with them. She gave me the kit."

I told her a bit about my time with Title Nine, and spent a good amount of the ride chatting with her and her father about the need to get women involved in the sport...to take women who simply ride bikes and make them women who race. It was a good conversation, and I hope I persuaded her to get out there and give it a go!

I also managed to run into a few good friends, and several of my patients at the office.

My own daughter, on the other hand, was all too pleased to spend a night racing her bike and riding around with the sounds or a million tiny bike bells.

Building healthy communities isn't about eliminating advertising from the Disney Channel or taxing soda. It's about giving people the opportunity to commune, to get together, and to do it in a manner that is meaningful and fun and promotes living well in spheres both physical and social. There's nothing preachy or cajoling about getting on a bike with 2000 of your closest friends and neighbors, and going for a spin. No arm-twisting or heavy handed public health measures needed. Making a community livable is about finding ways to tap into the energy that brings people into a space for a common purpose, and making that matter for the health of all who live there.

Father's Day

Long before any notion of Father's Day, Dennis was my safe spot in the world. I remember the days when we didn't have children...when I was finishing my thesis and worried about a career and money and building my future...and falling in to his arms at night and knowing that, so long as he was at my side, all would be right in the world. He was all I needed to make it through.

And then we had Henry. Laying in the back of an ambulance during a blizzard, bleeding and terrified and hearing the paramedics say that they could not find my son's heartbeat, I reached for my husband. And I knew that we would all be okay.

And then, in Henry's infancy, we spent countless nights in hospitals. My husband held our boy in the back of an ambulance as he was transferred from one ER to another Pediatric Care Unit miles away, watching his chest rise and fall and Henry struggled to take in air. He sat with him through chest x-rays and blood draws and nebulizer treatments and oxygen tents. And, through it all, I looked at my husband, and knew we would survive.

And then I was diagnosed with diabetes. Dennis - not my doctor - was the one to break the news. Tentatively, because he knew I would flip out, he held my hand and told me that it would all be okay. (I did flip out, by the way.) He was right. It ended up more than okay.

And then when our daughter was born, and they suspected a genetic disorder, he held his little girl...looked at her...and with tears in his eyes, promised Midori that she would be okay. He held her tiny fingers all the way to Children's Hospital. He sat through the procedure to diagnose her, because he knew I would break under the weight of holding down my newborn daughter as she was poked and prodded. And, when it was over, we all held on to him.

He was there the day Midori had her first seizure, stopped breathing, and was taken to the Critical Care Unit at the hospital. He held her in the ambulance, rocking his seizing daughter, promising her that she would be fine. She was.

And then there was the night he spent awake at her side, watching her breath...watching the chest retractions...trying not to wake me as he knew that she, too, had Reactive Airway Disease and that we would be back in a hospital by morning. Finally, he woke me. I stayed home with Henry, while he sat in the ER with our daughter at four in the morning, and called me every hour to let me know that she was alright.

Of course, he has been there through the wonderful moments, too: The moments our children came in to the world...the graduations and celebrations and birthdays and vacations. He chased both kids on their bikes as they learned to ride without training wheels, and caught them before they fell. He has watched them run races and receive awards and play concerts. He's made small talk at about a hundred preschool birthday parties. He's played, "Pretty, Pretty Princess" more than once, and both kids know how to kick a ball thanks to his diligence.

At the end of the day, however, the thing about Dennis is that, good or bad, he remains my safest place in this world. It is true: as long as he is there, with us, we are okay. We'll find a way. We'll get through. It has been a long - and sometimes hard - seven years of living and marriage and parenthood...but I wouldn't trade it. If you asked Dennis or I about our life, we would tell you it is "perfect." Truly, we wouldn't change a day.

And the best day? The day I decided to spend forever with him.

It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them. Thus you remember them as they actually are, while in a motor car only a high hill impresses you, and you have no such accurate remembrance of country you have driven through as you gain by riding a bicycle. ~ Ernest Hemingway

During the warmer months, we are rarely indoors. My kids spend most of their time running about the neighborhood and, since they have become proficient cyclists in their own right, hopping on bikes and pedaling to the nearby park or pool. The new found freedom that accompanies a set of wheels has made for some small-scale panic attacks on the part of Dennis and I (like the time that Henry took $5 from his father's wallet and pedaled without consent to the Dairy Queen down the street, or the time Midori took off with her friend, Luna, absent any permission). Without question, however, t he bicycle is the preferred mode of transportation in our home...and with good reason:



 

According to the Nationwide Personal Transportation Survey, 25 percent of all trips are made within a mile of the home, 40 percent of all trips are within two miles of the home, and 50 percent of the working population commutes five miles or less to work. Yet more than 82 percent of trips five miles or less are made by personal motor vehicle.

Bike commuting is an ideal solution to the need for moderate physical activity, which can be practiced five times a week. A 130-pound cyclist burns 402 calories while pedaling 14 miles in an hour. A 180-pound cyclist burns 540 calories while pedaling 14 miles in an hour. (That is assuming you are not trailing two kids, two backpacks, a violin, four dolls, a toy car, a box of figs and some acorns. Adjust your burn accordingly.)



With that in mind, a day of Furuta Family Bike Commuting:


Never let your four year old set up the bike trailer. Spatial reasoning.

Your friends can help ready you. >>>>

The standard Saturday Morning fare: A vegan Tamale from the Boulder County Farmer's Market, followed by a snack on the ride home. Handfuls of Palisade Cherries.

A quick trip to the bread store, and a warm slice of honey wheat.

Tight quarters. 

Quick dip at the pool.

Ready to head home.

One last errand and a long ride with Dad.

Marquise du DeffandThe distance is nothing; it's only the first step that is difficult



I usually devote this space to a detailed description of a race or ride...but sometimes, I think it is better to reflect less on the play-by-play of events, and more on the motivation that moves a person to start. After all, that is the battle right? Getting started.

The North Carolina Tour de Cure is the only tour in the country that lasts two days. It kicks off with a 109 mile ride bypassing rolling hills and fields filled with strawberries and tobacco plants, along picturesque farms and through tiny southern towns. It is the idyllic image of the South at every turn, over every hill and down every stretch of pavement. At the finish, you find a lovely farm-to-table dinner, good friends old and new, and lots of reminiscing about tired legs and fast turns. Sunday morning, the riders get up and re-trace the same route, arriving back where they started only day prior with more than 200 miles of riding behind them.

It's an impressive undertaking. 

There was a time when I could not have imagined cycling 200 miles in a weekend. Even now, my husband chuckles when I tell him that I am going out for a "quick fifty," or when I suggest that a race is "only" 64 miles. And after I was diagnosed with diabetes? It seemed more daunting still.

That's what makes the picture above so absurdly inspiring to me. Every single person in that picture has some form of diabetes. Each of them woke up on Saturday, determined to ride 200 miles. More importantly, each of them put in the hard work to make that goal realistic...day after day after day.

My teammate Erin Cutrell and I - alongside Tour director Katie-Rose Darby - kicked off the event. I had spoken with many of the cyclists in advance of sending them down the road, and all seemed confident in their ability to complete the full route. Most made it the full 200. Some availed themselves of the SAG wagon after the fifty mile mark, unable to push on to the finish. But every one of them got started.

Growing up, we lived in an old, Victorian house with a small farm. There was a hand pump just outside the back door, which we used to irrigate fruit trees. You would take a bucket and you had to pour a little of the water in the cup beside the pump into the hole at the top, and then pump like crazy before you got any water. After that, it would flow nicely until the next priming was required.

That's how it is with most things in life - you start with a drop of expectation, with the idea that something is possible, and then you work like crazy until the results begin to multiply. To carry that analogy one step further, we now live in a world of faucets. My son wants a cup of water, and he can simply hold his glass under the tap. Likewise, for many of us the ease of modern convenience makes it hard to put in the work - to get to the gym or dust off the bike or lace up the shoes - and because we never put in the work, we never find the free flowing rewards.

I spent Saturday night enjoying good food and wonderful company, sitting at a table next to Tony Cervati.  Tony's story is as amazing as is he. He was diagnosed with Type 1 at the age of eight, and has spent most of his adult years as an accomplished mountain biker and endurance athlete. Last year, he decided that he would show that anything is possible with diabetes, and wanted to take on the Tour of the Divide. The race itself is craziness, running along the entire continental divide between Baanf, Albert, Canada and the border to Mexico. As he would later go on to tell the riders as the keynote speaker of the evening, Tony encountered a grizzly bear after only 50 miles. He fell into a raging river, was swept away, and nearly died. He crawled from the river to a farm house, and was taken to the hospital with some broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a dislocated shoulder. He's about to give it a second try this year:

http://www.insulinnation.com/insulinnation/2012issue4?pg=7&pm=1&u1=texterity&linkImageSrc=%2Finsulinnation%2F2012issue4%2Fdata%2Fimgpages%2Ftn%2F0007_khrocp.gif%2F#pg7

So much of success is simply finding the will to begin. It was wonderful to see these amazing athletes cross the finish line...but it was more amazing to hear them talk about getting to the start line. One woman told me that she began with two minutes - two minutes! - of cycling every other day because that was all she could manage. From two minutes to 200 miles.

Historically, Gunnison CO holds one of the largest mountain bike races in the state over Memorial Day weekend. For the past two years, they have added a Gran Fondo road race due, in large part, to their location as a host city to CO’s USA Pro Cycling Challenge. This year, the event promoters and the USA Pro Cycling Challenge teamed up create the KOM Challenge.

So, since my husband had the day off and the kids were itching for something to do, I figured we'd head up to the mountains for a little racing and relaxation....

Traveling with kids is always an event, and more so when the travel involves a four hour drive over a bunch of mountain passes. Midori somehow managed to wrap baby doll in about eight feet of gauze and tape before turning her sights on Henry, all the while chattering non-stop. About every six miles, she inquired if we had arrived in Gunnison.

I remarked that Henry had been traveling quite well, as we'd not heard a peep from him in some time...until we realized that his silence was an indication of motion sickness. Somewhere over Monarch Pass, he began vomiting profusely. Midori took the opportunity to sock him in the gut as he reached gingerly for a vomit receptacle, grasping for her play medical bag. We pulled over at a gas station, hosed off the kids and car, and moved on down the road.

It was about 6:00 on Saturday night when we checked in to a tiny cabin on the outskirts of Gunnison. We made our way to the only veg-friendly establishment in town for a little tofu pho and edamame.

It was seated there, at the Twisted Fork, that I first thought to re-check the forecast. I'd seen it earlier in the week, and they were anticipating a cool morning in the 40s with some light winds. Now, however, it was bitter cold in Gunnison...and I couldn't imagine it would warm up significantly before morning. I was right. The high on Sunday was predicted to be a  mere 52 degrees, and the temperature at the start line was 26 degrees. They were anticipating 30mph cross-winds. I'd brought a base layer for my upper body, but nothing else in terms of cold weather gear. Everything in town was closed, and I had no idea how I was going to ride in freezing temps with what I had on-hand.

I was beginning to get psyched out.

The course itself is rather difficult, and follows the second stage of the USA Pro Cycling Challenge - a steady uphill grade for the first 30 miles, and then the final five miles as the KOM, in what is described as a “grueling finish at the top of Mt. Crested Butte.”  Part of the challenge, however, is simply due to elevation. The ride begins just under about 8000ft., and ends at around 10,000ft.

Added to my concern was the fact that I’d been pretty sick all week long, and my blood sugar was running really high. I was giving myself a lot more insulin, obviously, and I was really nervous about how that would translate to the bike in this kind of tough race. I wasn't sure I was physically well enough to be riding, and certainly not sold on a hard course with tons of wind in freezing temps. I almost bailed…but you know, my $80 check was cashed and I felt like I should get something for it. We'd made it this far...

I didn't sleep at all well that night. Sometime around 3:00 in the morning, I googled the Gunnison Wal-Mart to see what time they opened, figuring I could grab some cold weather essentials before the ride. At 6:00 in the morning, I was the first person in the store, searching for anything to keep me warm enough to ride the 64 mile course. It was slim pickin's. This was the end result:

Super sexy long underpants and tube socks. Note the growl...

I checked my blood sugar at the start, and was 190, which was maybe a bit high but a number with which I was comfortable. We were lead down HWY 135 by police escort after a shotgun start. (Yes, here in the Western half of the state, everything begins with a gunshot.)

All I could think about was the cold for the first few miles. My fingers literally felt like they were going to break. It was awful. Everyone was freezing. Then, after about eight miles, we settled in, and the views were amazing. I felt pretty good, to my surprise, and kept pushing myself harder. That might have been a bit of a miscalculation on my end, since the KOM was just after mile 29. I know a lot of people were really saving their efforts for that stretch…but I didn’t want to have to play catch-up on the ascent, either.

I checked my BGs at the base of the KOM, and was at about 226. I knew the next five and a half miles were going to be an all-out effort, and that my sugars were likely to climb so, in what was a really scary decision, I actually gave myself a small correction. I wasn’t at all convinced it was a smart choice, but I was really afraid of bonking on that ascent. It turned out well. The KOM was insane. I was only 1.8 miles in when I seriously wondered if I would be able to make it to the summit. It was the hardest climb I’ve done in a long, long time. The altitude made it worse, and there were sections where I was literally gasping for air. When I made it to the summit, I was the second woman and the fifth cyclist across the line…but since it’s just that section that matters, I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing. I knew it put me in good position for the finish of the race, but I thought I had my best chance at the KOM, and I knew those behind me had really held back to get a fast time on the ascent. Good news was that my BGs were 119 at the top...and I still had a pocket full of carbs.

The ride back to Gunnison was a super fast downhill sprint with some rollers. It was there that the cold was most miserable. The wind was pretty rough, too. I was tired and ready to be done. I got back with four other male racers nearly an hour ahead of what the promoters had expected for the “first finishers.”  I was really pleased with my performance, and glad I had not changed my mind about doing the race. I was fifth overall and forth for the KOM. In hindsight, if I would have been a bit more strategic and a little less psyched out, I think I could have made the top three. Still, I was glad with the results, especially since there are no categories, and I was racing some people who were a lot more experienced and racing in higher CATs.

I waited around for another two hours for awards. I was sweaty and cold, and now really starting to feel lousy. I made my way to a cafe for a cup of coffee and grabbed the kids some cider. Dennis also took to peeling the gum out of Henry's hair, stuck there by Midori who commanded that he "keep it safe for her until ready to chew again."

I got back to the podium area just in time to hear my name being called, and to claim a sweet Mavic cold weather jacket that would have been useful about four hours earlier.

From there, we walked around Gunnison for a bit longer before deciding that it was pretty much the sixth layer of Dante's Inferno, and electing to bail back to the warmer Front Range, armed with coffee and Dramamine.

When you have Diabetes, you get to spend a lot of time visiting your doctor. Every three months, I get to visit the office of my endocrinologist - a woman with a bedside manner so dry it is almost painful for the both of us - and have a blood draw to check my HbA1c (or A1c), which is a measure of my average blood glucose over the prior three months. A typical A1c for a person without diabetes is about 5%. The target is a bit higher for a person with diabetes...though the matter is up for a bit of debate. The American Diabetes Association recommends an A1c target of less than or equal to 7%. The American Association of Clinical Endocrinologists recommends a level of 6.5% or below. I'm pretty conservative when it comes to my diabetes management, so I aim for around 6%.

With all that in mind, I went in last week for yet another visit with Dr. Bland. On the appointed day, I made my way to the check-in desk, where a semi-medical professional conducted a thorough examination of my health insurance ID card, and made me sign a form stating that I have a right to privacy, and they have the right to abduct my first born in the dead of night should I fail to remit payment in a timely manner. I was then left to mill about the waiting room with three or four dozen other patients (several clearly deceased) and old Woman's Day magazines for a period ranging from one to four hours.

Luckily, I managed to find a stack of these to occupy some time.  >>> 

After a really long time (how long, I cannot say), dehydrated and sufficiently demoralized, I was placed in a stark examination room furnished with a plastic chair, a paper-covered examination table and a large, detailed color diagram of the human endocrine system. The semi-medical professional took my blood pressure and checked my pulse, no doubt to ensure I had not gone the way of the patrons in the waiting room. I was then left alone to stare at the diagram and thumb through old issues of TIME. The minutes tick by. Fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes. I begin to wonder if I have been forgotten...

At last, Dr. Bland appeared, obviously in a hurry to ensure other patients were not...uh...kept waiting? The good doctor moved at the speed of a ninja. I got a .016-second pleasantry before she started madly penning things in my chart. I can only imagine what might be contained in that manila folder, but no doubt it has nothing to do with my general awesomeness. Then, with the speed of a kamikaze pilot, she disappeared.

A phlebotomist came in to do the blood draw.  As I sat down in the chair and rolled up my sleeves, the person taking the blood politely inquired, “Which arm would you like me to use?”

Someone else's?

Truthfully, I have never had issues with needles. Even as a kid, I was pretty low-key about the whole business, and having been diabetic for five years now, I'm better still with sharp things and skin. The crappy parts of having diabetes have nothing to do with shots and needles, and everything to do with trying to manage numbers...the numbers we are about to check. It's not about getting stabbed a bazillion times. It's about making sure I can live long and well. Before every check of my A1c, I reflect on the morning I got up and found my blood sugar was sky-high, or all the times on airplanes when I was running over 300, or the time I forgot to correct for a cookie.

With the blood draw done, I checked out and set up another appointment in another 90 days. And then I wait...

Yesterday, my results came in the mail:

Tiny font, you say?

My HbA1c was 5.4%.

That, I might add, trumps my non-'betic better half, who had an HbA1c of 5.6% at his annual physical. In short, my blood sugar is the same as a person without diabetes.

I should point out here that this kind of number may or may not be ideal for all persons with Diabetes. Two studies published in the New England Journal of Medicine looked at the benefits and risk of intensive blood glucose control in persons with Type 2. The results of both studies suggest it may be more harmful than beneficial to target the A1c less than 6.5%, especially if the person with Type 2 has elevated cardiac risk factors (which many do) as attributable to excess weight, hypertension or hypercholesterol. These same studies did not examine persons with Type 1, and it is only intuitive to me that my risk factors for things like heart disease (CVD), peripheral neuropathy, amputations, retinopathy, and kidney disease would be the same as the non-diabetic population with a similar HbA1c.

Really, though, the point of all this is control. No one knows "the magic number," and no one can say when you cross the threshold of "safe."  What I can tell you is that I work really hard to keep my blood sugar as normal as possible. I test often. I eat well. I exercise every damn day, whether I feel like it or not. And the natural result, for me, is normal. I feel good. Plenty of Type 1's strive to lower their A1c, only to swing from high to low...correct...end up high again...send their blood sugar to the basement to try and keep that percentage under a certain predetermined goal... That's not control, either. Control is when you have managed down your risks insofar as practical, and you still feel healthy and fit and empowered and unafraid. It's the place where you are comfortable with your physical being, where you wake most days feeling pretty good, where you are best able to do the things you wish to do with minimal interference from diabetes. It's not about a number...it's about balancing the demands of your life with the demands of staying healthy. I'm there, and it rocks.