Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | May 20, 2011

The Magellan Spring/Winter Chicago Half Marathon

When I signed up for the Magellan Chicago Spring Half Marathon, I thought “A run in mid-May along the lakefront sounds lovely.” When I woke Sunday morning to temperatures in the low forties and rain driven by 20-mile-per-hour winds, “lovely” was not the word that came to mind.

I’m a fair weather runner. I always have been. I won’t run if it’s too cold. I won’t run if it’s too hot. Sometimes I’ll run in rain, but only if it’s a calm drizzle on a warm day. So when I looked out the window to see gray skies and wind-driven rain, I wasn’t happy. It looked awful out there. In fact, it looked like the perfect day to crawl back in bed. But, alas, I had publicly declared I was doing the race and therefore felt compelled to go through with it. As I walked towards the start through the wind and driving rain, I vowed to never again announce my race intentions.

The weather put a damper on the pre-race buzz. Instead of cheering and whooping while waiting for the start, runners stood huddled together, pulling their hats low over their eyes. Several people had covered themselves in plastic garbage bags in order to stay dry. I wished I’d thought of that.

I stood elbow to elbow with other runners, wishing I had a little more room to stretch. Fortunately, I had a secret weapon: a lingering cold that had settled in my chest, leaving me with a deep, sharp cough, the kind that makes people in public areas move farther away. I was no longer contagious, but as I stood shivering at the start, hacking away, I realized I sounded like Typhoid Mary bent on spreading destruction. People gave me a wide berth. Soon I had plenty of room, in spite of the crowd.

Having been stuck in gear check for what seemed like eternity, I was too far from the start line to hear any of the announcements. I don’t even know if they played “Start Me Up” as the gun went off.  But eventually the crowd oozed forward and we crossed the start mat, turning onto the lakefront path. The wind hit me full force. I looked out to see Lake Michigan churning, with large waves crashing into the concrete sea wall. Not exactly a nice day for a jog.

As we started, I was amazed at how many people had braved the elements, and not just the contenders who had a shot at winning. The crowd was full of mid- and back-of-the-pack runners. As we got underway I realized there were several walkers. I wasn’t happy about running in such conditions, but walking the course would take twice as long, something that sounded like a miserable proposition. And yet, there they were, making the best of it. What’s more, I saw at least one person running with an artificial leg, and I believe one person was visually impaired, running with a guide. Suddenly, my hardships of having to get up early and deal with a little wind seemed inconsequential.

Surprisingly, within a few minutes, everyone was in a good mood, in spite of the weather. I smiled as I saw the running juggler pass by. There were runners of all types, from the semi-pros decked in technical fabrics and high-end accessories to the guys loping along in baggy gray sweatpants. We all merged together like a school of fish, following the path around the Shedd. I thought about all the races I’ve done on that stretch.. It was like a trip down bad-memory lane: there’s the spot where I wanted to quit the CARA 20-miler, up there is where I almost twisted my ankle in the Hot Chocolate race, this is where I thought I was going to die during the Chicago Triathlon.

The course was an out-and-back route, and yes, some people turned back early, but most kept going, even the walkers. What’s more, I was shocked to see spectators on the course, cheering in the rain. Around Mile 2, I passed a woman standing by herself, bundled up in her blue winter parka, applauding us as we went by. Was she waiting for someone in particular? She wasn’t holding a sign, so it was hard to tell. She just stood there, alone, clapping incessantly and smiling.

As we went along, I thought “Well this really isn’t that bad.” Once I was soaked through, a little more rain didn’t bother me. Then we made the turn back north. The wind. Oh, the wind! It was blowing hats right off people’s heads. Waves smashing in from Lake Michigan launched spray towards us, as if we weren’t drenched enough already. Runners nearby debated whether it was more like something from The Perfect Storm or White Squall.

I put some of my cycling knowledge to use and looked for big guys to draft behind. I found one, a tall hulk of a man, but he was running too fast for me. I kept up as best I could, but soon dropped off. I then came upon a large guy wearing a bright yellow shirt and tucked in behind him. Unfortunately, he was going to slow for me. I stayed with him for a while, since I wasn’t concerned about my time and mainly just wanted a break from the wind, but eventually I moved on.

As I headed back north, I was surprised at how many runners and walkers were still coming the other way. Talk about dedication. What’s more, as I got closer to the finish, I saw that the lone clapping lady was still there, wrapped in her blue parka, smiling and clapping. A dedicated good friend, braving the elements as a demonstration of affection? Or a slightly insane person on a weekend leave from an institution? We’ll never know.

Finally, I made the turn away from the breezy lake and crossed the finish line. Dare I say it was kind of fun? Fun in a ridiculous way. As fun as anything can be when you are soaked to the bone and have rain dripping off your nose and you’re coughing so hard you think parts of your insides are going to fly out. Yup, that’s why I do these things. Because they’re fun.

Lovely day for a jaunt along the lakefront

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | May 11, 2011

In Which the Lone Wolf Decides a Pack Might Be a Good Idea

I like to think of myself as a Lone Wolf when it comes to running or riding. Of course, that’s not because I’m aloof or a rebel, but mostly because I’m too disorganized and lazy to train with anyone else. I’m starting to wonder, however, if I should change my ways.

The problem is, I don’t like other people. I don’t mind the people themselves (usually), but I struggle against the constraints that come with them. Constraints like having to meet at a certain time, go a certain distance, at a certain pace. I like to indulge my inner free spirit and run (or bike) wild. Actually, that sounds much more exotic than the truth, which is that I don’t like having to stick to a schedule.

The biggest obstacle to running or riding with a group is that other people usually want to go early in the morning, before the drumbeat of daily activities starts sounding. And I do not, under any circumstances, like getting up early. Most groups like to go at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning. Usually the crack of dawn on Saturday finds me in bed, tangled in a morass of covers with a pillow over my head. And when I’ve attempted to ride with friends later in the day, competing activities always seem to push our plans later and later until they are abandoned altogether. Running or riding with other people is, quite simply, too complicated for me. I have one friend with whom I sometimes do last-minute runs (as in, I text her as I go by her house to see if she wants to go), but anything more formal than that is beyond what I can handle.

However, I’m starting to realize that this group thing has its appeal. At bike camp, I discovered I like riding with a group more than I thought. Once we settled in and I felt comfortable with the people around me, I realized I was sustaining a much better pace than I would on my own, and not just because of the benefits of drafting. Having other riders around kept me more focused. Usually I start to zone out a little, slack off on my pace, and spend more time checking out the scenery than working on my cadence. Riding with the group, I discovered, is more like a workout and less like a sightseeing tour. Maybe it’s worth putting up with some schedule constraints in order to become a better, faster, more focused rider.

Recently, I had an experience that suggests running with a group might offer the similar benefits. Last weekend I had a mini family reunion of sorts and I was able to run with my brother and my niece, who recently did her first marathon. I hadn’t seen either of them in who-knows-how-long, so I thought it would be a nice way to catch up with them and get a little exercise at the same time. Just a little fun run. Or so I thought.

We met up for our run and first of all, I was surprised that we started running right away. No warm up. No chatting. We just hit our strides. And then, whoa! Those strides were fast. “Good lord, they’re a bunch of jackrabbits,” I thought. “I can’t possibly keep this up! This is ridiculous. This is insane. This is impossible. I have to tell them to slow down. Well, huh, I seem to be hanging on ok, even though it’s a full minute-per-mile faster than I’m used to. I’ll just hang on as long as I can.” So along we went. And guess what? I was still able to participate in the conversation, and not just with breathless grunts. Yes, I was going faster than my feet normally plod, but I realized I was actually running, not just jogging. Hmm, maybe this was a good thing.

Would I have kept the pace up on my own? Not in a million years. I’d go right back to checking out the real estate, looking at flowers, and being distracted by animals (squirrel!). But running faster was a good thing. A thing I should continue doing. And so I’ve realized that I need to join a running group. Now I just need to find one that doesn’t meet so darn early on Saturday mornings, because although the pack has it’s appeal, the Lone Wolf still likes to sleep late.

Photo courtesy of Evgeni Dinev / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | May 2, 2011

My First Time Trial, or “How Embarrassing, I Don’t Even Have a Pointy Helmet”

To borrow a phrase from that wise philosopher Britney Spears: Oops, I did it again. I signed up for an event I was completely unqualified to do. I foolishly attempted a cycling time trial. Yes, I stuck out like a sore thumb, but it was a learning opportunity. I’ve already formulated a plan for my next race, and I can’t wait.

My friend Nan, who’s a much better cyclist than I am, somehow talked me into it. I was reluctant, but one day last week, in a moment of wine-induced weakness, I clicked the “Register Now!” button. Clearly, I need a breathalyzer attached to my computer to prevent me from signing up for events under the influence because, let’s face it, this has become a bad habit of mine. If anyone wants to start working on that technology, let me know. I have friends who could use it too (they know who they are) (Desiree).

As usual, I had my pre-race “What have I gotten myself into?” feeling. I knew I’d be out of my league. I never ride fast, unless I’m late for something, like dinner. I don’t have the fancy-schmancy equipment. No time-trial bike, no aero bars, no skinsuit, no pointy helmet. I toyed with the idea of taping a paper cone to the back of my helmet to make it pointy, but I couldn’t find one big enough. I resigned myself to riding with my normal, blunt helmet.

And so I found myself, once again, getting up early on a Sunday morning. But instead of putting on my Sauconys and my race belt, I grabbed my bike shoes and my embarrassingly unpointy helmet. I loaded my stuff into the car, taking my tri bags from last season, just in case I got the urge to eat a PowerBar with a 2010 “Best By” date. I met up with Nan and another friend, Kate, and we were off to the race.

I was surprised to discover, however, that time trials are nothing like running races. Running races have sound systems with big speakers blasting music and announcers getting the crowd pumped up. There’s the ritual call-and-response with the announcer saying things like “RUNNERS! ARE YOU READY?” and everyone screaming “WOOHOO!” as loudly as possible while waving their hands in the air. Yes, it’s a bit cultish, but it works for us.

Generally speaking, running races have a gun or horn to signify the start, and then the obligatory playing of the Rolling Stones “Start Me Up.” I don’t even like the Stones much, but it’s become a Pavlovian thing: I hear Mick and my feet start moving. Sometimes there’s even music on the course. Then, as you get to the finish, there’s a banner that says, appropriately, FINISH, often with a big balloon arch. As you cross the line, there are friendly race volunteers who say “Good job,” regardless of how pathetic your time is, and they hand you water and Gatorade. Sometimes you even get wrapped in foil blankets. There are always bananas and bagels. Frequently, there’s beer.

Well, this event was nothing like that.

If running races are like this:

then this time trial was more like this:

There was no rock music. No announcer. No big sign that said “START,” and what’s worse, no big sign that said “FINISH.” Fortunately, Kate had tipped me off to the fact that the finish line might be, shall we say, understated. In fact, the finish line consisted of a guy in a chair next to some orange cones with a small 8.5″x12″ piece of paper that said “Finish” in teeny tiny letters. No chip timing mat. No balloon arch. No phalanx of race volunteers to reaffirm your rock-star status and generally make you feel good about yourself. Nada. I was a little disappointed. Heck, if I’m getting up at 5:45 AM, I want some hoopla.

I checked out the other athletes, all of whom seemed to be doing just fine without any hoopla. There were skinsuits and pointy helmets galore. In fact, it looked like a band of sinewy, skinny aliens in matching outfits had arrived from another planet. I looked at my baggy jacket and very unpointy helmet and felt slightly inadequate. What’s more, I had wheels with spokes instead of disk wheels, or what I call Whooshy Wheels because of the “whoosh” sound they make as the rider flies by. There were plenty of athletes sitting with their bikes on trainers in the parking lot, warming up. We warmed up the old-fashioned way, by riding around.

Soon enough, it was almost time to start. We headed over and got in line according to our assigned start times. It was an individual start with riders starting 30 seconds apart. Nan was ahead of us, with a few riders after her, then me, then a decked-out guy, then Kate. The start line was quieter than a library on a Monday morning. I chatted with Kate, who was just behind me, and we felt compelled to whisper. I resisted the urge to run back, hop in my car, pull it up to the start line, roll down the windows and blast some tunes (Start me Up, of course!). Instead, I stood quietly in line. I suggested to Kate that we start The Wave, but no one seemed to notice what we were doing. We silently inched forward. Soon it was time for Nan to roll out. I waited for four more riders to go. Then it was my turn.

I approached the line. The race official double-checked my number and then asked “Woman over 40?” to confirm my racing category.

“Yes,” I replied. Then I added “You’re supposed to tell me I look good for my age.”

He paused, still looking down at his clipboard. He fiddled with the paper. He looked up at me, clearly perplexed.

“It’s a joke,” I whispered to him. He didn’t seem to get it. He started the countdown, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and I rolled out.

“Well this isn’t very exciting,” I said to myself as I pedaled along. The scenery was lovely, but I was all alone. I thought briefly about my experience at the Helena Tri when I rode completely by myself, and of course, this song popped in my head:

Then I heard “whoosh whoosh” as the guy who started after me sailed by. Fast. I barely caught a glimpse of his skinsuit and pointy helmet as he went. I pedaled along into the wind, for what seemed like half of eternity. Finally I saw a rider in front of me. Oh look, another person! Clearly, he was suffering from some very debilitating injury, because he was about to get passed by yours truly. I pulled up next to him. We chatted briefly, commiserating about the wind. I told him to have a good ride and pedaled on, back to being All By Myself.

I soon heard the whooshing sound again, and again, and again, as more riders with fancy wheels and pointy helmets passed me. Lots of riders. Scads of them. I started to worry that kids on tricycles might come flying by me, so I picked it up a little bit at the end. And then, I saw it, the grand finish line, as noted by the tiny little sign on the side of the road.

My time was slow, but I didn’t care because I do these type of events for the party afterwards and the free beer. Alas, there were neither. But, I have to say, everyone was very kind. It was a beautiful day for a nice ride on a lovely course. And it was a great learning experience.

I’d like to do another time trial, but I know now that the key is the pointy helmet. Everyone who passed me had one. Clearly, that’s my ticket to a faster finish time (yes, it’s the helmet, not the leg strength or the cardio capacity) but I don’t want to spend money to buy one. I decided on the ride (having had all that time alone with my thoughts) that what I need is take the witch’s hat from my kids Halloween costume and put it over the helmet, pointing backwards. Voila, pointy helmet. If I cover the spokes of my wheels with some construction paper, it’ll look like I have those Whooshy Wheels. Then I just need to attach a boom box to the back of my bike so I can play some Stones and kick it up a notch. Yes, I think I have a plan.

Someone with a pointy helmet

Riders without pointy helmets.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | April 30, 2011

Reflections on Being A Biker Chick

I arrived at biking camp largely unprepared and not knowing what to expect. I had second thoughts from the moment I got on the plane. It was a lot of money to spend on a sport I’m not very good at. It was complicated planning a week away from home. I knew a couple of people, but for the most part I’d be spending this carved-out time away from my family with complete strangers, and I don’t like complete strangers. I wondered if for that amount of stress and cash I should have gone to a spa instead of a biking camp. But you know what? In the end, it was worth it. All of it.

Fortunately, once I arrived, the Vision Quest coaches made everything easy. They were always congenial and helpful. I have to confess that I was a little intimidated riding with Robbie Ventura the first day. Actually, I was freaking out. But Robbie was a great: not bossy (ok, maybe a little bossy, but hey, that’s what coaches do, right?), very constructive, totally approachable, and he passed the most important test of all: he was funny. Not nearly as funny as Dave Noda, mind you, but he could engage in some witty banter, a very important criteria in my book. And all the other coaches followed the same model. Marty was a riot, Gardie was chipper and positive, Dan seemed like a long lost brother, and Tobias? Well, Tobias was my favorite, because he advocated for longer breaks for us ladies, noting that it takes us longer to use the restrooms. A true gentleman.

The problem with the coaches, of course, is that they were with a group of 24 women. They could barely get a word in edgewise. Yes, we were the ones who were supposed to be listening to them, but you can’t expect to get two dozen women together and not have a lot of chatting. It’s a gender truism: the ladies like to socialize.

Alas, we didn’t have a lot of downtime at camp. I’d brought along two books, expecting to have some hours relaxing by the pool. I barely made it through two chapters. Most days, by the time we got back from riding, it was already approaching mid-afternoon. We’d walk in to find a healthy and delicious lunch buffet spread out for us. We’d promptly sit down and inhale food for our starving bodies. Right after, we had quick “express massages” in the next room. Then we’d try to spend a few minutes in the NomaTec inflatable compression boots, which seemed to work quite well, even if they looked a little strange. Throw in a quick shower and some stretching, and before you know it, it was time to for dinner.

Fortunately, we were able to get in touch with our social side after dinner every night. The first night we played Pictionary, which I’m usually quite bad at, but somehow I managed to do alright when teammate Melissa G was drawing. Either great minds think alike, or we just happened to have seen all the same movies.

The second night, we were lucky enough to have pro triathlete Kate Major pay us a visit. She told us, in her very sweet Australian accent, about her journey to becoming a pro. She was cheerful and charming and what’s more, it turns out Kate is good buddies with my pal Coach Nina! Kate decided to stick around and ride with us the next day, and I had the good fortune to be ride with her for a while. We talked about Nina, agreeing that she is, quite simply, one of the sweetest people in the world. Kate was a sociable rider and seemed to enjoy chatting as we pedaled along, until, that is, we hit the climb and she effortlessly sailed away from me. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

The afternoons were filled with various activities, which I suppose could have been swapped for an hour by the pool, but I simply didn’t want to miss anything. One day we did a late-afternoon screening of Race Across the Sky 2010 (featuring none other than my favorite pro-cyclist, Montanan Levi Leipheimer!). The next afternoon we did some wine tasting at the nearby Kendall Jackson winery, trying not to nod off between sips. After dinner, we had more team games (who knew that the hula hoop would be coming back in style?) and enough chatting to tide us over until the next day.

By the end of the week, we had bonded into a fairly close knit group. Once we were back at the hotel, the distinctions of fast rider or slow rider, advanced rider or beginner, fell away. We were just a bunch of women on vacation, away from our day-to-day responsibilities. We chatted, we laughed, we joked around and we empathized with each other. For a week we weren’t moms, teachers, doctors, managers, consultants, pilots, or anything else. We were just a bunch of gals who like to ride bikes.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | April 27, 2011

Biking Camp: All Good Things Must Come to an End

I woke up on the last day of Vision Quest‘s biking camp to find various parts of my being arguing with each other. My heart was sad that camp was over and this would be our last ride. My nose, however, picked up the scent of sweat-soaked bike attire, suggesting it was time to go home and do some serious laundry. My brain then kicked in to protest that going home was a bad idea, because it meant doing things like laundry, dishes, and having to make my own bed. As I went to sit up, my legs chimed in that they’d had enough and were going on strike. After some quick contract negotiations, they agreed to one more day of biking in exchange for some time on the couch the following week. Whether my various body parts liked it or not, we had one last ride and then it was time to say goodbye to lovely Santa Rosa.

Our scheduled ride for the day was the course for Levi’s MedioFondo, part of Levi Leipheimer’s King Ridge Gran Fondo event. Who is Levi Leipheimer? Only one of my favorite pro-cyclists ever! He’s from Butte, Montana, and my Montana neighbor, Mrs. Staples, also from Butte, said she remembered Levi when he was growing up. “He’s a good boy,” she told me. Dominates the Tour of California for three years and gets a podium finish in the Tour de France? Yes, I’d say he’s a “good boy.”

I was hoping Levi would show up to ride with us, but apparently that pro-racing circuit keeps one rather busy. Maybe he’ll appear at my door in Montana one day. You know, just to say hi. In the meantime, I was happy to ride the routes of his adopted hometown, Santa Rosa, one last time, including the killer Coleman Valley Road. The day was clear and sunny, the route would take us to the Pacific and back. It had the makings of a perfect day, assuming my legs cooperated.

We were split up into groups, and I was once again with my new bike BFF KC. We rolled out of Santa Rosa on roads that now felt like home, enjoying the sun, the scenery and the company. Our group divided into sub-groups and I found myself riding with Coach Gardie who led us along the Russian River. I thought briefly of how many Russian River wines I’d consumed over the years. The number was staggering. I fought off the urge to stop at every winery we passed.

Soon enough, there was a change in the flora and the first faint stirring of a sea breeze. We were nearing the Pacific. We went up a small climb, and there it was, bright blue and glinting in the sun, a vast open ocean. We pedaled along the Pacific Coast Highway, stopping at a state park to get some snacks from our SAG wagon. I stood for a moment admiring the view, searching for sea lions in the surf, lost in my thoughts, when I heard someone yell that we were rolling out. What? I didn’t even have time for pictures! Heck, I hadn’t even finished eating! I headed out of the parking lot with my peanut butter sandwich dangling from my mouth, trying to clip my cleats into my pedals, while also trying to put on my gloves, while also trying to chew and swallow, while also trying to steer my damn bike. After a few minutes of swerving like a madwoman, I got my shoes, gloves and sandwich all where they needed to be, and heading down the Pacific Coast Highway. I alternately focused on the road in front of me and gazed out at the crashing ocean to my right. I experienced some significant real estate envy when we went by a cluster of modest homes with expansive views.

Coach Gardie pulled my focus back to the road, however, when we approached a sharp hairpin turn. He instructed me to follow his line as we sped downhill into the turn, veered sharply to the right and out of the turn up a small incline. It was like being on a roller coaster. I felt as if my stomach had actually left my body and been flung off the side. I laughed, then grimaced with a slight wave of nausea, then laughed again.

I was still reveling in the excitement when Gardie motioned that it was time for us to turn away from the Pacific and up Coleman Valley Road. To say it was steep is like saying Donald Trump is self-confident. It went up. And up. And up. Our group fractured. I found myself climbing alone. Every now and then Robbie Ventura would appear out of nowhere and he’d spend a few moments trying to distract me from the pain and encourage me on. Then he’d effortlessly pedal on to the next person.

The views were stunning, but I had trouble seeing through the sweat dripping in my eyes. My pace slowed to the point that I may have been going backwards. I counted off 10 pedal strokes at a time, agreeing that I’d just do 10 more. Then 10 more. Then 10 more. I was about to keel over when another rider from my group, Kelly, drifted past me. She’s a petite but strong rider, light as a feather,and she was gliding along the way an empty plastic bag might float in the breeze.

“Thanks,” I grunted in response to her encouragement as she sailed by. I then went back to counting 10 pedal strokes at a time. Finally, just as I was getting to the top, my pal KC pulled up next to me. We alternately cursed the hill and lauded the views. We relaxed, happy to have reached the top, until we hit the next climb. I heard a bad TV announcer in my head proclaim “But Wait! There’s More!” Are you kidding me? Apparently we hadn’t been quite at the top, after all. There was more cursing and less scenery appreciation, but eventually we made it to the top – the real top. Then came the descent.

Now, KC is quite the little descender. Me? I’m a big chicken. I figured KC knew what she was doing so I let her lead me down the whole way, I just followed her line and did what she did. The road was rough, the patches of sun making it hard to gauge the road surface. It was difficult to distinguish between gravel and shade. Fortunately, there was almost no traffic, save that one car that appeared out of nowhere and almost took us out. KC did an excellent job reacting and averting a collision, and I just did what she did.

All too soon, it seemed, we were at the bottom. We assembled for a brief rest stop, but this time I was ready to roll out early. Our group had fractured and caught up with the group ahead of us. We shuffled and re-formed with different riders and different coaches. Once again, I found myself riding back towards Santa Rosa coached by the one and only Dave Noda. We only had about 20 miles back to hotel, and after what we’d just done, it seemed like nothing. But when we hit a small climb, my energy lagged a little. At that moment, like an apparition, Robbie Venture appeared out of nowhere (how does he do that?) and distracted me. He even sang. Elvis Costello. He passed along some music trivia about the song “Allison.” And then in a flash, he disappeared again.

Dave meanwhile, was left to shepherd us back to the hotel. Since it was the last ride of the trip, he didn’t let us take it easy. Instead, he pushed us to ride as hard as we could, even convincing us to race to a street sign on a straightaway. By the time we got there, my legs were screaming. Even Dave Noda couldn’t convince them to work any more. The hotel appeared up ahead, and my body cheered.

Somehow, we ended up being the first group back. (Where’s my cash bonus? Seriously, someone owes me some money.) The major perk to being first to the hotel, of course, is being first at the buffet! I went in, grabbed a plate and loaded up. Then I noticed no one was with me. Where was everyone? I looked outside and saw them all standing in the parking lot, socializing and taking pictures. I was conflicted. On one hand, this was our last ride and it was a nice bonding experience to stand together, cheering the other groups as they came in. On the other hand, lunch looked amazing. Finally, the tug at my heart won out over the growl in my stomach, and I joined in the picture-taking melee in the parking lot. We chatted with each other, reflected on the week, and vowed to stay in touch. Eventually everyone came around to their senses and we went inside to eat.

The ride stats? Well, according to my Garmin we had 3800 feet in elevation gain that day. Coleman Valley Road registered as over 1000 feet of climbing in less than 4 miles, with about 800 of that in less than 2 miles. No wonder I was so hungry. As I sat eating my second helping of the fabulous lunch spread, I looked outside to see that the skies had opened up and it was hailing. The Santa Rosa Weather Gods had taken excellent care of us. Camp was over, my legs were recovering, my stomach was full, my mind was relaxed. Let the rain come down.

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