Empty

Life is really just a collection of disjointed moments. They leave us as quickly as they arrive. Sometimes, those moments depart as fast as we can blink. Other moments seem to stretch into eternity. 

My son is without inhibitions. He has never understood embarrassment or shame. Because he has autism, he simply acts and reacts to the moments of this life in a manner that is both authentic and fearless. I have often admired the way he can so generously embrace each instant without the limitations of the world above and below and all around. 

The rest of us are here, tangled in this earth. It can be a hard place to live.

I went to the store this morning. I needed only a few things…a quick trip. So, I took Henry and Midori along. 

Both love the market. They love the rows of exotic fruits, the shiny fish laid out on icy slabs, the smell of bread as it is pulled from the caverns of the ovens. They love the way their shoes clack on the tile floors and they love the tiny carts for children, with the wheels spinning as they graze the concrete sidewalks. 

Recently, however, the market has become a minefield for Henry. Autism comes with heightened anxiety, and the most recent source of distress for our son is the empty bins in the bulk section of the store.

On some level, I understand his discomfort with emptiness: Emptiness is a mode of perception, a way of looking at experience. It adds nothing to and takes nothing away from the raw data of physical and mental events. It’s senselessness. It’s without a story, a place, a presence. Nothing.

It’s hard to understand the extent to which a vacant barrel that once held tiny grains of amaranth or brown rice can incite panic in my son. His distress is so extreme that my husband has simply refused to take Henry to the market. Henry will, upon seeing the emptiness, fling himself to the floor. He will kick and shriek, tears streaming down his face and his hands balled in angry fists. He will beg and implore anyone around him to fill the bin. Fill it with anything.

And so, this morning, I did everything I could do to distract Henry from the large oak barrels. I held his soft, small hands and guided him through the aisles. I talked to him and laughed with him and asked him about his plans for the day. I was no longer navigating the store, but the labyrinth of Henry’s fears. It would, of course, be easier to simply leave him at home with his father, but I understand that Henry has to be in the world, even if it is not fully in him.

And then, he tore away from me. He spotted a container that once held little beads of barley, and now contained nothing more than the fine dust of grain.

Immediately, Henry dissolved in tears. And then to rage. He was banging his hands on the floor, screaming, “It’s empty, Mom! It’s EMPTY!” 

I bent down gently, holding his head in my hands. “Yes. It is empty. I see that, too. It has to be empty, Henry, so that it might be filled again. That’s how it works.” 

His eyes met mine for an instant. He considered the idea that emptiness might not be futile and pointless. It might, in fact, be the center to which we all return. He wanted to find a way out of the moment. 

So did I. I sat there on the cold cement, with my son in terror and the world staring at me…baffled. In moments like this, with judgment all around, I come back to myself. I am reminded of how strong women are in order to do the work of raising children. I am reminded that love is a store full of strangers looking at you with absolute disdain as you cradle the fears of your boy because, in that moment, my only obligation is to him. I can endure the world if it means making meaning of emptiness. 

For Henry? The world doesn’t really exist at all. Emptiness is the great undifferentiated ground of being from which we all came to which someday we'll all return. It’s the space where we let go of our assumptions and our suffering, our views and our stories and all the things we suppose. And when you come right down to it, that's the emptiness that really counts.

Raising Henry has often meant erasing my own expectations and inhibitions. It has taught me how little I need of the world around me, how firmly planted I am in the hearts of my children. It has made me a stronger, more graceful woman. 

Race Reports and Laments from Torturefest

Bike racing is such a heap of contradictions. You spend hours training as hard as possible, only to spend minutes racing and trying to conserve energy. You have to be controlling and detail oriented, but able to relax when it counts. You have to obsessively create the conditions needed for success, but learn to lose races without losing motivation.

Getting ready to race at Sea Otter

I’ve had a lot of mixed results so far this season: Two podiums, a nice surprise at the circuit race at Sea Otter, some solid group finishes; and then some total losses at Valley of the Sun and, this last weekend, at Tour of the Gila. 

On that latter point, I have never worked so hard for such a miserable result. Everything went wrong. I had a ton of cramping and narrowly missed time cuts after the second stage – and only because they increased the window from 115% to 130% - and then dropped my chain in the TT. I crashed out of the crit, but was nonetheless scored by a benevolent Chief Referee who simply placed me dead last and assessed me a gigantic time penalty. On the last day, faced with a horrific road race that climbed 100ft for every mile I could pedal, I managed to come in at the back with a small group of sprinters after making a series of tactical errors early in the race and burning every last match in the book way too soon.

Indeed, there are a whole lot of ways to lose a bike race. I managed to find every one in five days. 

In a particularly awful moment after the crit, when I was faced with the possibility of not finishing the race, I cracked. I sat in the back of an ambulance for a few minutes, obsessing about the situation and enormity of all the obstacles I had faced to get to this point where I might be done. I broke down in tears next to a sympathetic Danny Summerhill, partly from fatigue and frustration, but mostly because I couldn’t tolerate the idea of ending my race. I remember Michelle Mjoen from Primal-McDonald Audi trying to reassure me by saying, At least you don’t have to endure tomorrow. I wouldn’t be too heartbroken.

I thought about that for a bit, and of course, she was right. Pain in bike racing is inevitable. But pain isn’t really the same as suffering. Pain can be assuaged by simply quitting…but suffering resides on the side of something different, something longer and less tangible. 

Bike racing can be so hard, it’s heartbreaking. The will to hold on isn’t always enough. I spent days trading pulls with aerobically stronger riders, only to get dropped sooner or later…only to find myself sitting in when I knew I couldn’t hang on another second during a climb, hoping that the group would tire and level the playing field. 

Peter, Kim and I stretching out the legs before race day.

After all that, however, the best part of my week wasn’t finishing the final stage. I was glad I got to start, of course, and I made the most of the opportunity. I managed to sneak a few more minutes off the other sprinters in the race, and moved up a touch in the GC. I worked hard with the group to reel in a few early breaks, and managed to catch in after nearly getting shelled on the first set of climbs. But the best moment came when I rolled up to the start line, and was greeted by the other women with whom I get to race…all of them telling me how glad they were to have me there, still in it. They had watched me struggle unusually hard all week, and those who knew me well rallied my sprits at every turn. As a celebrated their successes, they were focused on consoling me. (Thanks, ladies. You really are amazing!)

I had a great time with our gracious hosts, Winn and Jim Taylor, too. They were more than accommodating, and spent hours at the sides of every race cheering for me and the other riders staying in their home. (They even staffed our feed zones on the second stage!) The guys from Durango and Philly were so much fun! Every night, Peter, Jack, Brody, Will, Tim and I had "family dinner" and recapped the day over good food and coffee.

I also had a lot of reminders about the message carried by my team. As Michelle and I worked our way to bridge the gap during the second stage, she looked over at me and asked if it was hard to race with Type 1. Her team has been active with the ADA CO Tour de Cure, and she talked a bit about her family and their experiences living with diabetes. After the Time Trial, a competitor came up to me and told me about her three siblings with Type 1, and how much she appreciated the inspiration of this organization. And, moments before the start of that awful crit, the lead moto came up to me and put his arm around me. Thank you. I mean, not you, personally, but your team…what you guys do. I’ve had diabetes for 47 years now.

I needed that. 

So, I drove 14 long hours home to make sure I walked through the door in time to take my kids out to breakfast before sending them to school. I took a day to recover, and then went for a nice easy roll this morning. I have another race tomorrow. I expect that it will be better.

What is an athlete?

What is an athlete? Or, really, who is an athlete?

Lining up a few weeks ago with some strong women!

I once met a woman who finished twelve marathons, and still did not consider herself a “runner.” I talked to a little girl playing soccer who said she could “never be an athlete” because she cannot run as fast as the boys in her neighborhood. I met a guy who completed 100 century[i] bike rides and then told me that he wasn’t a cyclist, but that he “just wanted to see if it was possible” for him. 

For so many, the qualification of “true athlete” is really just an elusive category of exercisers whose qualifications change based upon whatever seems impressive, difficult, or just beyond reach. 

I’m writing this on the morning of the 118^th running of the Boston Marathon. The best among them, including some of my teammates from Team Novo Nordisk, will finish in about two and a half hours. They are definitely athletes. By contrast, the woman who finished the NYC Marathon in last place had multiple sclerosis and persevered with every single step of a journey harder than most of us can imagine, finishing in 35 hours and 27 minutes. Her dedication is admirable if not heroic. Does that make her an athlete?

Miriam Webster says an athlete is “a person who is trained or skilled in exercises, sports, or games requiring physical strength, agility, or stamina”. 

 

One of my favorite shots from last season. Definitely athletes.

I think I can do better. 

Being an athlete is really a state of mind. It’s about setting measurable goals, and pushing toward them. It’s about owning your health and your body, even when your work schedule is a mess and your child care is making it hard and you have PMS and a thousand other mental roadblocks and you just don’t want to do “it” today, whether the “it” is a run or a walk or a bike ride or an hour at the gym. But you do. 

No age discrimination.

An athlete is the teenage girl finding the courage to take a huge risk and try out for the team, even though she is not sure that she is good enough to make it. 

An athlete is the new mother, who can barely find the energy to get everything done in the day, going out for a run with her son in the stroller.

An athlete is the little girl who just scored her first goal and feels like she can do anything.

An athlete is the woman nervous at the start of her first race, hands shaking and goosebumps on her arms, carrying a set of aspirations for the day.

An athlete is the young student, training after class and before the start of her shift.

An athlete is the grandmother who decided that it is never too late to learn to surf, climb a mountain, take up dancing.

An athlete is the five year old with pigtails, pedaling her bike to school for the first time.

An athlete is proactive about her health. She is nurturing her body. She is strong and confident and giving it her best shot. She probably looks a lot like you, in fact. And that is totally, awesomely inspiring.

---

[i] A century ride is a bicycle ride of 100 miles (160.9 km) or more within 12 hours.

Tomorrow is my tenth wedding anniversary. It is also World Autism Awareness Day. That, in my life, is befitting.

Having autism, Henry had to learn how to give and receive different emotions. This, for so many of us, is intuitive...or I thought so. But in the process of discovering my son, I realized how little I knew about love. Henry has been my most gentle teacher.

My marriage to my husband nearly dissolved in the first six months of our union. We struggled with one another and battled through the challenges of combining households and lives as if we were fighting for breath itself. Ultimately, we were too very independent people who could only meet in the middle so far without combustion. To this day, we live together with a distance between us that is hard for many to understand but, over the last decade, it has come to be space in which our lives can take shape and our marriage can be at rest. It's where we press against each other only so far before we melt into the same sheet of skin.

When Henry came into the world with autism at his side, I had to love him just because. I had to understand that his future was uncertain...but with that, I realized the uncertainty for us all. I suddenly couldn't afford to love someone because of what they might do in life, or who they might be, or even because they might love me back. In eight years of living, Henry has never uttered the words I hear my daughter speak nearly every day: "I love you, mom." 

 

I had to love him because loving was enough.

And then I had to teach him what that love actually is. Is it a tone or an action? And what if tone means nothing to you? What if touch makes you anxious? 

 

In my life, love has often been the predictability of routine. It has been embodied in silence. It has endured heartbreak and misunderstanding and frustration. It has been holding hands with a weeping child who cannot explain why he is crying. It has been screaming at my husband in exhaustion, and watching him smile peacefully back. It has been patience and calm at times, and then it has been determined and strong when required. 

 

When I think back on the last ten years, I realize it has been a journey to the person I was meant to be. I'm grateful to the two men who brought me here.

Race Report : Tour del (SOUL STEALING MISERY) Sol

“Race a bike,” they said. “It will be fun,” they said. 

Sometimes, bike racing is not fun.

Thursday night, I met my borrowed ‘mates from Psimet-Zilla Racing to head to St George, Utah for the Tour del Sol Stage Race. Three days of women, bikes, and awesomely fast racing in weather forecast to be well above 75 degrees. What could be better???

Getting the bikes nice and shiny.

A lot of things. Root canals, bee stings, waterboarding…

As much as I want to belabor every minute of hellfest, I am still super tired from our long journey. I will summarize:

DAY ONE: THE TIME TRIAL

I generally have low expectations for a TT by virtue of racing on a road bike, but I woke up feeling really, really good, despite having taken full advantage of the crappy free continental breakfast at the motel. Fueled by simple sugars in the form of waffles and Frosted Cheerios, I was ready to crush some watts and destroy some women. Liz Gerrity was sporting a Spiderman skinsuit, and there is no way you can get annihilated wearing that sort of thing. 

 

The course is 20k and starts with one ascent, followed by a longer section of flat, and then a bunch of rolling hills with two final, small climbs to the finish. I knew I had to go out HARD because I do not climb well. I easily caught the woman in front of me just after the initial rise at the start, and then continued to smash it until the turn-around. 

Liz Warming up, and Peg rolling in!

I had a terrible sequence of three turns, where I probably lost close to 30 seconds, but the return trip is pretty much a straight shot, except that the pavement is all chip-seal, and you have to bomb it down the center of the road while cars are going by at 60 mph. There was not a ton of traffic, luckily, save one little brown Honda that had “I’m a meth addict” written all over it, and came by honking at all of us. That bit of unsavoriness aside, I managed to catch two more riders before the final set of hills. By that time, my legs were SCREAMING, but there was no way I was letting up even a little. I could see this chick from Vegas Velo right behind me, trying to chase me down, and there was no way I was letting some woman in a hot pink skinsuit and full make-up best me in a TT.

In the end, I came in dead middle of the field. Considering the mechanical advantage granted these women with their fancy TT bikes and disc wheels, I was reasonably satisfied with my result. Peg Hallberg from Psimet was just a couple places behind me, which was awesome since she and I tend to race really well together. Things were looking good. We were ready to CRUSH SOME WOMEN with our super-fast bike racing skillz.

DAY ONE CONTINUED: THE CRIT

 

After the TT, we grabbed some food at an awesome little Thai place and then decided to go nap for a bit before the second race of the day. It’s pretty suckolicious to go all-out on a time trial and then have to race all over again only hours later, and worse still because the crit is short, which means everyone is going to hammer it from the second the whistle blows. I definitely felt slower and more lethargic for part deux.

Peg and I wisely scouted spots at the front, and then spent the next fifteen minutes fighting to stay there. I got pinched in a few corners and found myself wasting energy sprinting out of every turn until I worked my way back up. I took a nice flyer off the front until I realized some crazy chick from Plan DNA was snarling next to me like I was the last mozzarella stick at Claim Jumper, and then I got scared and dialed it back in with the field. 

Eventually, both Peg and I had lost position and ended up squandering our meager reserves at every turn. Basically, we were way too aggressive at the start, and BLEW UP with about ten minutes left to go. The field was pretty much shattered and about seven girls ended up getting lapped. I found myself chasing with three other girls. Still, it was good enough to move me up one more place in the GC, so not all was lost.

In one last moment of ridiculous race shenanigans, the promoter had a CRAZY notion that it would be a good idea to do a Twilight Crit, but had obviously NEVER SEEN nor PARTICIPATED IN an event such as this. The crit is on an old airport runway above the town with NO LIGHTS ANYWHERE. They brought in four spotlights run on generators, which illuminated exactly four six inch spots on the pavement. EPIC FAILURE. The men’s race was actually cancelled because people were going to die. Weaksauce men. 

Sweet fancy Moses, I have never in my life witnessed anything more terrifying in the history of bike racing than a PITCH BLACK CRIT RACE.

That is, until….

DAY TWO: THE ROAD RACE 

 

So, I have all kinds of crazy race day paranoias. We shall visit them:

• • I feel feverish. I must be getting sick.
  • My throat is kind of scratchy. I’m totally going to get sick.
  • I’m feeling a little tired and rundown–I HAVE MONO. IT’S THE ONLY EXPLANATION.
  • I feel fat from all these Cheerios and Waffles. I will never fit in my kit, and I cannot possibly lug all of this up a series of giant hills.
  • My bike’s shifting has been a bit wonky lately, and maybe it will break in half on the giant hill because I am too fat to race a bike.
  • I forgot how to race a bike. Just now.
  • The race day weather report keeps changing, and I don’t know what to wear. I am going to die from heat stroke, or freeze in the rain and get swept down the canyon or maybe all three.

Usually, this is nothing more than nerve-filled mental nonsense. Usually. But that last bullet point was everything wrong with the road race of death.

Peg and I, before we hated bike racing.

The weather report had changed, and they were now calling for a 30% chance of rain and high winds…but it felt reasonably warm at the start, and I figured I would be done before it got cool, so I elected to race in short bibs and jersey and a wind vest. No gloves. I hate gloves.

Once we started, however, I realized things were going to be a whole lot crappier than I expected for a lot of reasons. For starters, the weather report said it would get to low 60′s but the entire day was overcast and I remained half-frozen throughout. Second, those 20mph gusts were relentless and only picking up. I started at the front, and quickly tucked in on the right side of the field, so I could get some protection from the crosswinds and sit in, saving my energy for the climb out of the canyon. It was easy to stay on top of my hydration and to grab food as I needed it. All was right in the world.

We were coming up to the KOM, and I had to decide what to do. The race was at the halfway point, and I was still in good position and my legs felt solid. I was in the main field with about 16 ladies, and everyone else was spread out behind us. The KOM is long, steep ascent with grades over 17-18%, and the climb was headed into the wind. Knowing I cannot climb, and not wanting to get dropped by these lean, sinewy women, I decided to attack at the base. Not to win, but basically to make sure that I wouldn’t get dropped off the back and die alone in the canyon and the wind. 

The never-ending rise continued. There were six or seven of us now trying to get up the crest of the hill and score the time bonus, and I was starting to feel a bit lonely since I had lost my teammates, and I was desperately leapfrogging to try and find a wheel here and there and give myself a break. This was when I realized HOW BAD the wind had become. I was blowing all over the climb, along with everyone else. No one could hold their line, and everyone was forced to stand FOR THE ENTIRE ASCENT because it was simply unmanageable. At the top, we had 50-60mph microbursts. 

 

I had a Choose Your Own Adventure moment where I seriously contemplated saying “Screw this race” and flagging down a car. Seriously. Like, I was near tears trying to GET UP THE HILL. I made it to the top, and I was wrecked. I turned on to the road to Veyo with the other girls, but my legs were destroyed. The road continued in the demoralizing upward grind.

I kept hoping for some descent to just spin out my legs. Finally, the field broke apart, and I ended up a chase pack with four other women, who were all totally off their rockers. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was because it was now FREEZING and no one could shift because their fingers were like bricks and cramping, and it was raining and cold and awful. But these women were INSANE. Two girls would attack the other three of us in the chase pack. I was finally like, “Who are you racing? The people up the road or the rest of us? Because this is not smart.” Like, I am not the BIKE RACING EXPERT, but it’s going to be HELLISH to bridge with two people, and totally manageable with five.

I spent the next ten miles dying in the wind. I watched a dude in a pink skinsuit get blown to the pavement in the middle of the interstate. There is nothing sadder than watching a full grown man in a hot pink skinsuit flag down a wheel car and plead with them to let him end his day on the bike. It happened. I saw horrors I cannot even express here. Liz actually made the decision to temporarily abandon the race and GO INTO A PIE SHOP before finishing with a bunch of other chicks. Do you know how BAD it has to be before you GET OFF YOUR BIKE IN A RACE? FOR PIE? Peg cried.

Truly, it was unsafe beyond any measure. We were racing along a MAJOR HIGHWAY, with cars whizzing by at 70mph, and there was no way to predictably keep the bike on the road. There was a long series of descents that were absolutely terrifying in the wind. I have never been THAT scared before. Certainly never on a bike. Every time a car came by, I assumed it was to tell us that they were neutralizing the race, but it never happened. 

And then, it started to hail.

At this point, I was totally cracking. I was about to crack. I couldn’t take another second. We were no longer in a paceline or even an echelon because it was too dangerous with the winds. My mouth was filled with sand. I was getting pelted by hail. I was freezing and MISERABLE. And then I saw the “FINISH IN 10k” sign. I decided that I was just going to hammer it the next six miles so I could end this stupid, horrific bike race. 

IN THE END

I came in 16^th overall in the GC. Peg was 20^th. Liz actually won $40 dollabillz for her 10^th place finish.

We got into the car, and decided to jet home without ever looking back. 

The road out of Utah was a mess. Blowing snow and high wind warnings. There were times we could hardly see the road. We were eating Swedish Fish and Cheetos because we elected not to stop for real food as we were just trying to just get the hell out of there before things got any worse. 

Once over the Colorado state line, things calmed down a bit. Except for Liz. Liz was busy making plans to give up bike racing forever and make it in professional croquet. 

The race pretty much crushed my soul. It should be called Tour del SOUL CRUSHING FACE SMASHING AWFULNESS. 

And then, just before the Vail Pass….

Road Closed. With less than two hours to my warm bed, we found ourselves STRANDED. Snow and high winds. Again. We’d been driving for TEN HOURS, racing for two straight days on crappy food and little sleep. We’d survived the WORST RACE IN THIS HISTORY OF BIKES. And then, we were stuck.

The road did reopen, and I got home around 2:30 in the morning. Alive.  I’m glad no one crashed and that we all made it home safely. 

I don’t know how to feel about my performance. The result was ok, and there were some decidedly good moments of bike racing. I also made some really bad decisions on the bike that cost me returns. On the whole, though, I have pretty much decided to just never think about this race again. I’ve suffered on a bike more than once, but NOTHING comes close to this.