Skip to main content

Back to reality.






After nine days in the wonderful state of Colorado, it was back home to Kansas City. Sigh. We had a fantastic trip, visiting friends and family in Denver, camping (yes, I made it through camping), relaxing at Beaver Creek and watching the Leadville 100 mountain bike race.

Our one night of camping (thank god) was fairly uneventful. A giant bull moose came through our campsite, which was awesome. I was taking pictures like paparazzi, until BF warned me that moose can be aggressive. I got in the car.

Being a logistics person, I was concerned with the details. Primarily, where do you go to the bathroom. (There were no port-a-potties at the campsite.) Most triathletes are adept at relieving themselves on the road, so I've never had a problem peeing in the great outdoors. But peeing wasn't the concern. What do you do when you have to GO. And the answer is you dig a hole and then bury it. Fascinating. And kind of gross. My first thought was what if I dig a hole where someone else already dug one? But fortunately, that didn't happen. So moose spotting and hole digging were the two most interesting things about camp.

BF and I had aspirations of doing all sorts of activities once we arrived in Beaver Creek. We had mountain bikes, hiking gear, swim stuff and there was even a yoga studio. The reality was quite different. We ate, lounged, slept and shopped. In three days, there were two hikes and a yoga class. It was awesome.

The final leg of the journey was to Leadville to watch a friend do the race. I was blown away watching these folks push themselves. I imagine it was like what Ironman was 20 years ago. And like watching Ironman, by the end of the day I thought I could do this race. BF and I will both enter the lottery for next year. Secretly I hope he gets in and I don't. This may be an event I'm better suited to cheer for.

For the record, I didn't wear the cowboy hat the entire time.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Zack, the Smiths and a Gift Card

I’ve lived in my house for three years. Apparently, some guy named Zack has also lived in my house for the past year. Or at least Bill and Annie Smith (not their real names) in Overland Park, Kansas think he lives at my address. They send him a lot of cards – thank you notes, just for fun cards and yesterday, I received Zack’s birthday card. Obviously for me to know what kind of cards they send, I open them. The first time I received one, I “Returned to Sender,” but not since then. They keep on coming and I keep on opening them. It’s like reality TV, but through the mail. I’m not proud of my actions and suspect it’s illegal for me to keep opening Zack’s mail. But now I’m genuinely interested in how he’s doing. Zack got a new job last fall (Attaboy card), gave the Smiths Big 12 Tournament tickets (thank you note), and he had a birthday this week. Until yesterday, there was nothing of value in the cards besides sweet sentiment. But in the birthday card there was a Pla...

The Softride Has Left The Building

Today I bid adieu to my first triathlon bike – a Softride Rocket TT named Sally. (“Ride, Sally, Ride...”) While technically still mine until the ebay auction ends tomorrow, she has been dropped off at the bike store for clean up and packing. We’ll ship her off to the new owner this weekend and that will be the end of my beam bike era. A Softride is considered old school in the triathlon world and is mocked mercilessly by roadies. Sally has a carbon beam, no down tube and 650 wheels – basically the low-rider Cadillac of bikes. While it doesn’t have a stiff suspension or a brag-worthy weight, it has one thing – comfort. This is something I desperately needed when training for my first Ironman. Sally raced at Kona in 2001 and Wisconsin in 2003. She was dependable and attention-getting. Like riding a motorcycle, Softride enthusiasts also offered the casual hand wave when you encountered another one on the road. However, there are fewer out there these days. The Softride...

Adding Some Color

I distinctly remember my first encounter with food coloring. It was love at first chemical-laden sight. Mom and I were icing sugar cookies. We'd made a bowl of white icing. Then she broke out the food coloring. I was memorized by the bright colors and giddy at the thought of mixing them. Like most six year olds, I believed more was better. So the icing started a lovely pink after a few drops of red. Next came lavender with some blue. Then Mom turned her back just long enough for me to reenact the movie Cocktail with food coloring. Every color was going in and hell with a few drops, more is better. This is fantastic, I thought, as I created a rainbow in the bowl. I stirred with glee until I realized the rainbow was disappearing. The icing was turning a disgusting shade of gray-brown. This was terrible. No one wants to eat icing that looks like poop. So you're thinking, nice little story Jen. Way to point out that more isn't necessarily better. But that's actually n...