May 15, 2010 Fontana Race

I started racing four-cross (4X) again this year. It's kinda like snowboard cross (link goes to X-Games snowboardcross finals 2008), but not nearly as insane. Maybe.

After racing 4X at the Fontana Winter Series on a borrowed cross-country bike (somewhat like trying to shoot the rapids in a dinghy), I decided to get a dedicated 4X bike. I found a Yeti DJ for sale on a bike forum, which arrived at the house last Thursday, three days before the Golden State Series race at Fontana. Thanks to my mechanic Steve who dropped everything he was doing to cater to my racer-girl whims by checking out the bike and making a few modifications, the Yeti was ready to roll in 24 hours.

Saturday morning, Mom and Jane and I head north to Fontana. Looking at the field of my competitors, I know this will be a good race. All these girls are strong riders.


From left to right, there's Robin who races BMX and is a good gate starter, next in the pink helmet is Mary who rides like a boy and scares me, then there's me in the white, then Nancy who rides and trains all the time and often comes out ahead at these races. Wow. So... I just don't want to embarrass myself. I plan my race strategy, which is essentially: Beat them all out of the gate, then beat them all to the first berm, then beat them all to the first straight-away, etc. You get the idea. There are ideal positions on the course that you shoot for, and the rider out front has the advantage of taking that line.

I take a few runs down the course. Although I haven't ridden this bike before today, I feel really good on it, comfortable on the course and comfortable in the gate. Since there are 4 of us, there will be two motos (heats), both worth points, with the 2nd moto breaking any ties.

Robin in lane 4 pops her tire as the gate slams down, a technique I have not mastered.

We line up in the gate, Robin and I are pretty even out of the gate, I'm the first one to the first turn by a nose, and then the first one down the straight-away, having the advantage of the line I want through the berm. Adrenaline is pumping and I am giving it all I have. I have no idea where the other girls are, but they are not in my peripheral vision. I charge ahead.


As we come through the last straight-away at the bottom of the hill, Mary is on my inside as we enter the turn. Then two things happen: I hit my brake, knowing my skill won't let me corner at that speed, just as Mary on my inside expects to occupy the space I should have just vacated had I not hit my brake. Mary clips my rear tire and the two of us go down in a heap of bikes and dust. Number three girl is right on us and gets caught in the tangle as number four rides right past to take first in that heat. None of us are hurt; we scramble back up as fast as we can, crossing the finish line. I take third in the first moto. Disappointing, but that's racing. It's never over till it's over.


We all push our bikes to the top of the hill for the final run, only this time things have changed for me. I had started the first run as a focused hard-charger with an edge. Now I am just a fraction unsure, scrutinizing my semi-slick fast-rolling tires for the first time and knowing I don't trust them leaning in fast corners. Thoughts of wiping out cross my mind. That's all it takes to sink a rider. Not that I hold back, but I am no longer fearless; I've lost my edge. Thinking about this after the race, I realize that rather than making the other girls fight to take away the line I've chosen, I mentally yielded. This, of course, cost me the race. Trailing the other girls by the time we enter the last straight-away, I come in fourth.

In my post-race evaluation, I am pleased with my efforts in the first moto, and re-learned some important lessons in the second. I'll swap out my tires, work on my sprints and cornering, learn to trust the bike and myself, and get those girls next time. Grrrrr.


Epilogue: We left Fontana as soon as the women's awards were called, so that I could get back in time to lead the church choir, the director being away. In a frantic attempt to pitch tone 4, I hit my thumb with the tuning fork in such a way that I was not sure if I'd cracked the bone. By the end of the service, it was starting to turn red, and within a day it was swollen and purple. Thankfully not broken, just badly bruised.

I am the only person I know who can put on body armor and a full-face helmet, crash in a race, emerge without a scratch, then get injured in church choir.

Special thanks to: Steve K my mechanic, Mom and Jane for cheering, Donnie Jackson and family for a great race series, and my husband Steve for the new bike, and photographers Mike Lord at six3events.com and Andy at bluefirepictures.com.

Snow Ride in Idylwild

Oh boy! My first snow ride! My mechanic and riding buddy Steve K and I went riding in Idyllwild, down the Ernie Maxwell Trail.

The snow was about 2-3 inches deep in most places, and although for us San Diegans it was a very brisk 34° F, the wind was hardly blowing which made the temperature seem mild.

Me crossing the stream.

There is something magical about looking down and seeing snow in your tires and hearing the crunch of ice as you ride along in the stillness of the late morning. Your nose is cold and the air is crisp, and right at that moment, there is no place you would rather be.

Steve on the trail.

Me coming down the stairs.

My faithful steed. I love this bike.

The colors of the manzanita tree were particularly beautiful offset by the snow.

I'm so glad we went to Idyllwild. Although we were only there a day, it was time well-spent. There's great riding year-round, friendly people, and beautiful scenery.

Bike Ride to Little Itlay, or How I Spent my Summer - Part 3

Stories from the summer…

Many mornings, after the first bottle but before the first nap (the baby's, that is), I load up Jane in the car or in the Burley trailer behind my bike and head to Donny’s Cafe, the local hangout for coffee lovers, cyclists, or anyone who enjoys talking over coffee with friends and acquaintances.

There are a number of little groups who gather regularly at Donny’s, and somehow Jane and I found ourselves joining the table of local retired men, many of whom are cyclists. Most mornings, a handful of them will be sitting, sipping coffee and talking about boats, model trains, Jim’s most recent escape from the Kaiser facility (I mean visit to, visit to...), or about the other people who aren’t there.

After seeing their group every other day at the cafe at the same time that Jane (about four months old at the time) and I would arrive, I asked if we could join their table. I’m sure they thought it would be a one-time occurrence, and politely invited us to sit down. Within no time at all, Jane had worked her magic on them and one or another of them would make faces at her, or bounce her on his knee.

Still, I didn’t consider that we were accepted as “Honorary Old Farts” until we returned from a family reunion in Texas in July. As I carried Jane up to the patio where they all sat, I was greeted with calls of, “Well, where have you been?!” “You didn’t tell us you were going out of town!” and facetious “Who’s that?” which was answered promptly with, “That’s Jane’s mom.” I smiled and thought to myself: Nice! Like Jane Goodall with the great apes, they have come to accept me as one of their own.

On Thursdays, the whole gang of them (often six or eight men) will show up for a bike ride from the cafe to downtown San Diego or to the Chula Vista marina to have lunch. Although I would sometimes show up to the cafe on the bike with Jane in tow behind me in the trailer, they never asked me to join them on their bike ride. I hoped that they would, but I wanted to be sensitive to the “guy time” thing. After all, I’d already infiltrated the ranks AND brought an infant with me.

Then one Thursday in mid-July, I showed up to the cafe with Jane in the trailer, expecting to take a 45-minute ride with her around the golf course after coffee, when one of them looks up and says, “So! You’re coming with us today?”

What? Today? Me and Jane? “Um… sure!” I stammer, “ We’d love to come. Where do you guys go?”

“Little Italy. We have lunch at Filippi’s,” Kevin tells me.

Little Italy is about 13 miles away, and might be the farthest we’ve ever ridden with the trailer. But the route is simple, mostly flat, we have plenty of diapers and formula, and if it gets to be too difficult, we can always turn around and go home. Excited about the sudden adventure looming large before us, Jane and I load up to go.

As I write this, it occurs to me how much my life has changed. “Adventure” used to mean traveling alone across Spain, continuing over to Israel following my husband’s ship (the USS Austin that time) into three ports on a Mediterranean deployment, or hitchhiking alone from a remote part of northern Russia back to St Petersburg. Now, with a baby in the Burley trailer, “adventure” is taking a bicycle day-trip with a bunch of retired guys. I reflect on these adventures with equal fondness and gratitude that I can be in the right place at the right time. I wouldn’t miss any of these adventures for anything.

Riding up Harbor Drive

Mike, Jim (in yellow)

Coming into downtown San Diego

On the bike path across from the convention center

Mike, Tony

Laura and Jane make it to Filippi's (and yes, I carry a skirt in the trailer)

The Old Farts: Kevin, John, Bob, Dave, Mike, Jim, Tony

Stephanie and Dave (it's Dave's birthday)

Jane plays under the chairs. I'm hoping she will tie some shoelaces together...

Mike across from the tall ships (Star of India)

Leaving Downtown San Diego headed to the Embarcadero.

Mike, Tony on the Embarcadero at Seaport Village

We all have a wonderful lunch at Filippi's and I meet Stephanie, their very patient and obliging waitress. I find that Jane is very well-behaved and content as long as she is dry and not hungry or thirsty. Although we leave the house that day at 9:15am, and don't return until after 3pm, Jane seems to be happy to be along for the ride.

Another great adventure for me, and a first of many for little Jane.