Losing My Sport

  Pedaling my one-speed town bike along a nearby strip of urban parkland, I recently flashed back to a park from my childhood. I remembered  that my best friend and I never walked when we came to the park's curving swath of glorious grass. Instead, we sprinted. It was always a race from start to finish, feet flying, elbows pumping. We tried to beat each other, no holding back. Our young muscles were so ready to launch, we couldn't help it. We were runners. At the end we'd break into a walk, catch our breath and continue to College Avenue.

  This had little to do with organized sport, it was simply pure physical expression. We took it for granted, sure of our corporeal potential, playing games to test our limits. Climbing, running, skating, leaping, somer-saulting. My siblings and neighborhood friends would replicate the Presidential Fitness test; setting up our own 50-yard dash, etc. Being strong was an important aspect of my identity. I studied Judo and enjoyed my strength and agility. When running, I imagined I was a long-distance messenger carrying an important dispatch, the urgency of the idea helped me add miles.

  Bicycling soon became my gateway to being physical and exploring. It started with riding to the library on my brother's bike. In high school it freed me from waiting for the bus. I got a Raleigh with Campagnolo components, started reading books on cycle racing, and keeping a mileage log. I still ran some, working up to the half-marathon distance. My first real pair of running shoes had the iconic yellow swoosh and waffle patterned soles. The day I got them, I fell asleep that night with them still on my feet.

  With a cycling federation license I began bicycle racing. I'd spent a year saving up enough money to buy an Italian racing bike in my exact size. (I eventually made a career in the bicycle industry.) After so long training alone, I discovered the powerful feeling of training and competing in a group. Riding in close proximity to scores of other athletes, practically touching elbows, cornering at high speed, holding on during tough climbs, going all out in highest gear to win a sprint. Getting up early to go on long training rides no matter the weather. Riding distances of 60 miles or more in early season endurance rides. Being accountable to teammates, having teammates to rely on. Coping with flat tires or mechanicals. I was a flat-fix champ, beating the stopwatch in order to quickly get rolling.

  During training and racing we used the magic of drafting: taking brief turns at the front against the wind, then tucking into place behind a teammate, eating up the miles, keeping a high rate of speed. An amazing cooperation that has to be experienced to truly understand. A motivated group of riders using this technique attains a higher speed than any one rider can maintain alone. A group carries you above your self-described limits. Loathe to let others down, you match your effort to the wheels around you, even if it hurts; you let the paceline define what you can do. It is huge the way this elevates your performance. There are limits; if you get "dropped," you're left to fight the wind alone.

  The years of high-level cycling were something I assumed I'd do forever. I've been able to see and do so much thanks to cycling. I told someone recently that I'd always pictured myself being a grey-haired but still ambitious cyclist, climbing the paved road up Colorado's 14,000 ft. Mt. Evans or some such, well into my later years. That may not have been entirely realistic but I intended to try.

  After over a decade of racing, including a couple of silver State Championship medals and a trip to the Women's World Cycling Trials, the endless routine of training, working, eating and sleeping left me restless for change. I retired from racing and started riding just for fun. This was freeing, but an adjustment. I missed the camaraderie and the rigor of training with others, but I felt glad to stay home on weekends and do something as banal as mow the lawn. No more long drives crammed in a van, arriving to a windy course in the dark, lining up to use the porta-potties before start time. Athletes know that sport is more than just competing; there is a great deal of meaning just in the mindful preparation, the practice of skills and long periods of physical movement. I looked forward to continuing that aspect.

  A few times during the last year or so of competition, I was hit by bouts of fatigue or ill-feeling. Odd because my training, nutrition, and recovery schedules were on target, the way they had been those (too few) times I'd sprinted away from some of the fastest women cyclists in the country on my better outings. These events didn't seem like much at the time. Then the winter after retiring, I was doing some cross-country skiing with friends. I started to feel shaky and had to stop. I wondered if I had hypothermia. It wasn't terribly cold, but we decided that was probably it. I went home and took a hot bath, shaking with full-body muscle tremors. It would be a long time before I knew the cause. 

  The episodes eventually increased. Off and on I did rides of reasonable distance with decent capability, riding for enjoyment with other former racers. Sometimes I'd be an instigator, I was always known as a good sprinter. Other times I'd start out, only to have to turn around after a couple of miles, go home, and lie down. This eroded my confidence.  I searched for reasons; maybe I was coming down with something. Maybe I'd eaten the wrong thing.  
  Increasingly severe symptoms took me to the ER.  I never was found to have much other than an odd EKG (but not classically worrying cardiac signs) and low levels of potassium.  ER visits started happening several times a year, with less dramatic episodes of weakness in between. Doctors told me they could find nothing specifically wrong. I went without a diagnosis for a long 7 years, making the most of my energy when I could, and feeling compromised the rest of the time. In the interim I was tested for many things but the cause remained a mystery.  Finally, a doctor in a new town decided that my recurring low potassium needed further study. This led to a nephrologist's diagnosis of a rare kidney defect, which was causing me to dump essential bicarbonate and vital potassium. My body was going into acidosis, my electrolytes were off, causing arrythmias. My kidneys were trying to compensate for the defect but became progressively less able to cope. 

  It was a relief to finally get a diagnosis and to start treatment, which is lifelong. Though mostly effective I still chase feeling well, versus occasional but less severe malaise. But I don't dwell on the lost time. I decided to write this just to name the elephant that has been in the room for so long. The greatest adjustment has been trying to regain an identity as a strong, active person. Part of me hoped treatment would reset things to "normal," I'd hoped I would be taking on real physical adventures again. Some days, I do alright. I ride my mountain bike more often than my racing bike. I twist the throttle on motorcycle rides to get the feeling of speed back without exhausting myself. But active efforts often dig a hole for the following days; a day of physical work or focused exercise can mean days of down time. On outside appearance I may seem ok. I wonder when I turn down invitations from others to ride or do an adventure, if it appears as a lack of commitment or willingness to try.  Not liking to make excuses, I usually just let people think that's the case. It's not the same as feeling a lack of fitness. A healthy person doesn't experience this systemic flaw I'd wish on no one.

  Surrounded by athletic friends and family, I have learned to mostly be the facilitator, instead of the athlete.  I drive the shuttle car, maintain the bikes, wax the skis, repair the boats, screw studs into running shoes for winter. I capture their adventures as photographer. I do shorter distances and turn around early. I don't talk a lot about sport tactics or training regimens anymore.

  But I did have some glory days. I'm grateful I had many years of pursuing a sport. I'd made sport and being physically strong a big part of who I am, or used to be. In the end, I think of myself as very fortunate. I find it hard to take myself or my condition too seriously. There are so many worse things that people go through.  And while I may have lost riding as a sport, cycling is a lifestyle. That's something I'll never lose.

-all photos author's-

Twin Lakes

August in Colorado is one of the best times to get up to a higher altitude. The hot temperatures on the front range and lower valleys feel too warm to a Coloradan, even if it isn't as humid as the midwest states, or as blazing hot as nearby desert states. Record temperatures this year make that more true than ever. Going from 6,000 feet in elevation to over 9,000 feet for a getaway, is worth a ten degree drop or more in temperature.



On the way to Independance Pass, highway 82 rolls past a tiny town, hardly recognizable as such. Two lakes in view are joined by a narrow neck, like an hourglass, and collect the snowmelt from surrounding peaks, with some that are over 4,600 meters high. (Mt. Elbert, the highest in Colorado, measures some 14,400 feet by the latest geological surveys.) The town of Twin Lakes rests there, mostly unchanged from its early days in the late 1800's.

A couple of dozen buildings are clustered along a few dirt streets, many boarded up but still showing the care builders used in their construction. A charming white clapboard schoolhouse sits at the end of dirt lane, the imagined voices of long-ago schoolchildren seem hard to hear now. A couple of lodgings are open, a general store, an art gallery, and a gas pump that seems to work. Historic buildings are marked with for sale signs.



The few locals seem to know how to divide their lives between this place and jobs elsewhere that keep them solvent. Most know how to do more than one job, whether it's maintaining summer lodgings, cooking for a weekend barbecue concession, or helping park an empty sheriff's car along the highway to slow down lead-footed drivers. There is no thronging crowd, no lighted intersection, no real restaurant anymore. One log-sided hotel is empty, though it was open as recently as 12 months ago. Seems there are a succession of brave or foolhardy attempts to make a go of it in this place that only sees traffic for some five months of the year. But you can find a few tiny cabins to rent, even a collection of rooms in an attractive and well cared for lodge.




The most excitement seen here lately was the brief appearance of a professional bicycle race, with seasoned European pros tackling the high altitude terrain of Colorado.


It seems fitting that this dignified yet quirky little town only has a small purchase on this grand piece of landscape. The mountains around have endured even longer, the town fits in perspective rather well somehow.


-photos by the author

Location:Colorado

Focus

Thinking today about the word focus. Well, about the concept of it, and of a certain kind of focus, that I suppose fits into the category of mindfulness.

I like to be aware of my surroundings in a loose and unconditional way. Not tensely expecting, yet not neglecting. Maybe this was influenced by an early study of martial arts. Anticipation of possible moves; being ready. (It's wasteful to prematurely launch into a specific posture if you are instead going to be asked to respond to an opposite move.) Honing your reflexes, holding a neutral stance, training your impulses to be able to leap into action in any number of directions, then return to a core stance.

My take on focus is somewhat different than behavior that resembles "tuning out." That variety of focus I regard as hypnotic, in a way. For example, I know of people who can be engaged in a task, a book, a phone call, or some other thing, and they are completely unable to describe any other activity that took place around them during that time. Not one thing. They might claim that they were in fact cognizant enough to know that surely nothing of note happened in that space of time. Meanwhile, it might instead be true that they were surrounded by activity, noisome and busy; such that their attention was probably warranted during the interval. But they "tuned it out." I'm not making a judgement on this, just pointing out a behavior that is one kind of focus.

Outside of this hypnotic kind of focus, another type comes to mind. One remains aware, while giving appropriate priority to a focused task. This attentive concentration at the same time keeps a figurative eye on the horizon. One isn't too easily distracted by other things; those are noted, filtered, and ignored or responded to only as needed.

I often find myself attentive to a task in a focused way, so that my immediate gaze, thoughts, posture, and movements reflect a quality of attention that wants to do the best possible job, and that gives due respect to the current arena of interest. This may mean that in the middle of a careful operation or tricky mechanical maneuver, I may drop something on the floor, but I won't immediately stoop to pick it up. An observer will think I didn't notice that it fell. Their comment is usually, "you dropped something" or similar. They may even pick up the item for me. I'm pretty sure that when they drop something, their first impulse is to stop what they are doing, and pick up the object. Even if they don't need the item in order to complete the task. I'm not faulting that person's impulse completely; but in a shared working environment, I don't encourage that style. (Don't get me wrong, I don't have tools or parts all over the floor; of course I do pick them up, when it makes sense in the order of things. Everything we do may not have the urgency and implications of something like, say, surgery, but there is sometimes good reason to resist the urge to "scratch one's nose."

It's just that If I'm working with someone on a detailed task, I don't want them breaking off just when the target is in view, just when they need to keep their eyes on their part of the task. I want them to focus. Being distracted by a fallen pen, lid, extra tool or whatever, to me is a possible sign that they aren't really paying attention, or fully engaged in the crux of the project. They may think I'm not present, when I curiously ignore the item. I am present--but not a slave to what to me is a mere distraction. I should say I'm not talking about the drop-in friend, or an untrained helper or "gopher" when I say this. Their best use while they learn may well be to work the periphery, pick up fallen items, procure parts and tools as needed for key workers. But I'd model to them to gravitate toward this kind of focus when they're at the center of a project.

Unless it's broken glass or some other hazard, I try not to break stride if I don't have to. The thing I've dropped, I almost always do notice as it falls. But my first impulse is to stay on point unless I really need the object. This is a style of focus I only sometimes notice in others.

Picture a chef in the kitchen, prepping food items, scooping skillfully cut pieces from cutting board to bowl. A few bits drop to the floor. In kitchens I've been in, it's the better chefs who finish the immediate task, and only then attend to incidental casualties. There are many reasons to focus in this way, and efficiency is high on the list of reasons. Why bend at each event, when more is sure to fall? Are they sloppy? Don't assume so. Are they in favor of a messy kitchen? Doesn't necessarily follow. If you watch the entire scenario you may see that a good chef ends each task with an equally focused period of straightening. The best clean and restore order as they go--but at logical intervals, not in jerky corrective maneuvers. Their focus is on the end product, and on which steps are essential to getting there, getting there on time.


There is a pace, a flow, to my favorite kind of focus. The order of tasks within a project is key. Not that I'm compulsively obsessed with the order; a new encounter with the same task may present things in a different order, and that's okay. Part of being good enough to do a task is being flexible enough to conquer it in different ways. But each encounter still benefits from avoiding fumbling with something twice if a more logical approach can prevent that. It pays to take a moment at the outset to think about the order of tackling something. A hasty focus on false priorities wastes time, and puts the effort off track.

This mindfulness or focus may be easier to develop for use as a technique alone. It is possible, but  harder to create in a team environment. I think of different endeavors, where two minds (or more) need to coordinate and focus together. I think it is a rare thing when it coalesces into a high order of working in tandem or unison. Many times what you get instead is closer to a clumsy compromise of shared effort.

In over ten years of competitive cycling, I only encountered perhaps three team mates who could naturally put together such a shared focus. This out of scores of team mates. It was completely gratifying to experience. Think of competing with someone who tuned in so well, that you barely thought about exchanging positions and they were there, taking the front, making your two-person team feel like one person. This can't merely be agreed upon in arbitrary schedules or split times. Changing conditions, terrain, and relative strengths being displayed over the course, it takes a sensitive and focused team mate to feel the pulse of the competitive machine you are trying to create together. Only then can expert skill be applied in pushing the team to its best effort. I had one team mate who needed no words between us, instead using experienced intuition and knowing what signs to read. (We hardly needed a speedometer to know our speed down the course when competing as a unit-- and once won a Thanksgiving turkey to prove it!)

In thirty years of working in a shop or trade environment, it was also the exception to sync up in this way. My dad was one who could, uniquely so, with a non-verbal kind of leadership that mostly modeled how to do a task. Succinct words of advice or troubleshooting, not a lot, kept the work pace and quality in line.

My oldest brother shares my craving for what I call "poetry in motion" in performing skilled tasks. He hates wasted steps and meandering approaches to problems. He recounts anecdotes of fellow workers habitually wasting time by making endless trips to obtain tools or supplies. After a while it was questionable if they were merely ineffective at making progress, or just lazy. Scouring around the jobsite eats up a lot of time, and at the end of the day little gets done. I love my brother's solution to this, at least the part about "not having the exact tool on hand." I love his approach because it is mine, too. One can learn to improvise, to keep the work moving. This doesn't mean spudging up a precision part by mauling it with the wrong tool. It does mean knowing other possibilities, and using them. A kind of selective "MacGyvering." If you have any kind of literal or metaphorical Swiss Army knife, you should know how to use it, and then some. Be able to do the job right in more than one way. (But do make it right.)  And try an extra helping of focus.