WCCC Conference Race Report

Probably not super exciting for everyone else. But I had fun writing it (although it didn't go as I planned). Anyway, the jest of the matter is the conference was awesome! My team is awesome! Cycling is awesome! Yay bike racing!

Day 1: 16:30 All packed up and ready for battle, the remaining troops assembled and loaded into the trucks that would take us to the front lines, the final crossing, the point of no return. For some, it had been long, demanding, and brutal fight that had whittled out the strong from the weak. While others, who had joined the ranks later, had felt similar early blows from different opponents. However, they were there: together; they had made it and as the trucks pulled away from home, there was no turning back.

It was a long haul. Legs cramped, eyes blurred, and heads nodded as we followed the gray clouds into the eye of the storm. But Spencer, the only male to make it in our unit trudged on, unbeknownst to what was awaiting us. Upon reaching our quarters for the night, our fearless leaders settled matters with overly-enthusiastic nightman while Martina and I watched the car. Soon, the rest of the brigade filed in. Tired from the long drive and preparing for the battles ahead, people were quiet and slowly slipped into the respectable, mirror-filled, light-blinking rooms.

Day 2: 06:00 After a night, of stuffy-hot, restless sleeping, the first few trekked downstairs. The dark, foreboding sky lured over our heads as we fueled up on bitter, muddy coffee, stale bagels, and mushy oats. As we drove out to the Piacines, we strayed from the path in order to deter the enemy from following our tracks. The battle began promptly at 10:30 as the first of our men headed out along the road.

After a brief and frightening asthma attack, our unit headed out accompanied by my loud (obnoxious) panting for the first 10 miles. It was a smooth start: girls from other units attempted to foil our plans with their horrendous bike-handling skills but we fought on. As we slowly climbed Panoche Pass, we saw stragglers from the men’s groups laid to waste on the side of the road. We held together until mile 10 when two girls set off on an uphill attack. We chased and our group of twenty-five narrowed down to 9.

When we cut the two attackers (both from UCSD), they tried to escape again but, alas, we pulled them back into our group. The girls from Cal and I stayed on the offensive: pulling our way up the hill and amping up the pace to try and remove any free-loaders. We were unsuccessful. The horrendous pink kit could not be removed from our lines. She wouldn’t pull, she wouldn’t do work, she wouldn’t even let you back into the pace line. At the turn-around, we saw those chasing us and, I was pretty certain Martina was going to get back on. Jessica and Erika looked pretty happy as they finished the climb no longer amidst the crazy Cal riders.

It was smooth sailing until the last two kilometers when people realized the end was near. At 1 km, pink kit tried to make a move. I marked her (bad idea) and she faltered. With .4km left, the other girls charged. Legs burning, bikes blurring, we dashed across the white line with StanFUrd as the victor.

15:30 We had a problem; Danny, our only hope for victory, went down and needs to go to the hospital. So as usual, our fearless girls unit (plus Spencer minus me) are called into action. From what I gather, it was a long ER visit. In the San Benito Hospital, x-rays were taken, wounds were stitched up, x-rays were looked at, and wounds were unstitched and restitched taking a total of 7 hours. (side note: Kings won just for Danny!)

Day 3  06:00 The day started the same but without the long drive. The clouds were ominous and looking as though they were ready to bust. On trainers, we strategized and prepared for the 5-corner, flat criterium. Twenty-five women, the largest group so far this year, would start the race. It was fast. From the beginning, Cal’s giant squad made attack after attack. Martina, with her experience, pursued and commanded pursuit of the girls. But alas, the inability to corner by some of the girls and having the horrible luck of getting stuck behind them, pushed some of us to the back. Martina held strong. Pink attacked and Martina was on it. One lap to go, she was right there. 200 meters, Martina was not faltering…. VICTORY!!!

Grocery Store Rant

Every day I wake up thankful to be from California. It's an amazing state! (Besides some political issues which we won't get into today.) There's not very many other places where people are so friendly, the food is fresh and local (for the most part), the weather is gorgeous, and you can train outdoors year round! Not to mention the fact that I am a college student living 3 blocks from the Santa Barbara coast! 

So then, what's the problem. Life is paradise right? Well, essentially, except I went somewhere this weekend that really bothered me. While in Irvine, for a cycling race, we visited our fair-share of grocery stores. Because, as hungry and active college students, our minds think about two things: bikes and food. We went into the typical grocery stores, Albertsons and Whole Foods, which you take for what they are. They don't hide anything or pretend to be anything they're not. Albertsons is sterile and white and uninviting and Whole Foods is pretentious, yuppy, and healthy. 

But then we went to one more: Henry's Farmers Market. Because registration for our individual time trial race was stationed in the parking lot of the strip mall, food shopping was unavoidable. However, we originally just went into the market to use the restroom and change into our kits. Upon first entering, I was so excited! Bulk bins, produce, produce, and produce! It looked like my ideal kind of market. I was stoked for lunch and thought this would be a healthy alternative to whatever else was around. In the hour leading up to my race, all I could think about was food (I was getting kind of hungry). While I raced, I thought about not keeling over and killing the race (I placed third). But after I finished, my thoughts immediately returned to, guess what, food! 

Exhausted, hungry, and thirsty, my teammates and I ventured again into the market. This time, however, with one goal: buy lunch. As a fruit and veggies lover, I was immediately attracted to a giant display of strawberries (score!). Everything looked, as the name implied with farmers market, organic. However, I was sorely mistaken. The strawberries, although cheap, were not organic. They didn't even look fresh. I had to pick through to find some that looked descent. In fact, the organic produce section was small and depressing. So, against my better judgement I settled on the conventional strawberries. Turns out, it was a bad investment; they tasted like cardboard. 

I then ventured around the rest of the store with the hopes of finding a good salad bar or at least some sort of prepared salad. No such luck. Almost everything was conventional. In fact, what really took the cake was the fact that the deli case had a broccoli salad made with (you guessed it) HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP! Really now, this is supposed to be fresh salad and you put HFCS in it! Are you joking me! My hopes for lunch were ruined! I couldn't believe it! What kind of store puts HFCS in deli case salads? Shame on Henry's Farmers Market. 

So today, after our criterium, I was amazingly happy to step into the giant pretentious Whole Foods. No HFCS anywhere to be found. Not to mention that its salad bar was completely organic! So even though I'm still mad at Whole Foods for giving in to GMO's they're the best alternative as far as main stream market's go. Of course, I will pick coops and independents whenever possible, but it's not always an option. 

I don't mean to preach, and I'm not going to start lecturing about the need to change the food system right now. However, I just really was depressed how misleading that supermarket was. Well done America, you are amazing at false-marketing. Anyway, the important thing is: be smart with your food choices. Know what you are buying because, remember, you are what you eat. 

Scribbles on Paper

I go through phases. Sometimes, all I want to do is write and sometimes, the last thing I want to do is write. Most of the time, however, it's not because I don't like writing or I don't have something to say, but because I don't know how to write my thoughts. I'll start the dialogue in my head of what I want to say and grab a pen and paper to start writing and then you know what happens?
.
..
...
....
Absolutely nothing! I stare and stare and stare at the paper thinking that if I look long enough, something will magically appear. But alas my inability to write leaves the page blank. I question if anything I am thinking is worth writing down and if so, can what I write actually convey the true message? So I stop and let my thoughts get all jumbled in my mind.

I love writing, it's a great release from every day life. If you know me, you know I have issues conveying myself through spoken words. Writing, however, is the opposite (at least when I can convince myself to write). I can create a steady, coherent stream of thought instead of just a puddle of random ideas.

So I guess, I'm going to use this space to make a promise to myself. It won't be as dedicated of a promosie as others who have done the same thing but it will be enough for me. So here it is: starting today, the 12 of April 2011, I will write at least once a week. Meaning that, since today is Tuesday, I have to have a new post written each week by Tuesday 8 p.m.

There it's out. No turning back.

Santa Barbara Thus Far...

Three years, one month, and fifteen days ago, I entered college. A frightened, excited, nervous, freshman, I said so-long to my parents and opened a new door. My dorm door. Brown, wooden, heavy: it slammed whenever someone closed it. I spent countless nights staring at that door. Worrying, stressing, crying over friends, boyfriends, grades. The stupid little red markings on the tops of papers and tests that I was convinced predicted my entire future. Where I was going, if I was going to succeed, how I was going to become successful if I got a B- in math 34a. 

That door became my Great Wall of China. It kept me safe and secure inside the eleven by thirteen box of a room. When a man with a gun came into my building, my door secured my safety. When numerous nights blurred through my tear-soaked eyes, that door hid my sorrow from the world. Its sanctity left me free to explore my own thoughts.

When my freshman year finally came to an end, I escaped through that door like a sky diver jumping out of a plane. No regrets, no turning back. I was done. Over. Finished. I was moving on. Liberating myself from the confines of that giant wooden door. Escape didn't come easy, however, that door followed me. Reminding me of the sadness that filled my heart. I heard it slam, as I said goodbye to my first love, with a gut-retching BANG symbolizing the end. 

Or beginning-- as it followed me to my first apartment. A small, wooden cabin complete with mold in the shower and a draft under the door. Fresh air for freedom, for life. It was my time to shine: to break free. Or so I thought. But again, that heavy, hideous door held me in. I bundled in my blankets in fear of letting the cold, bitter wind sting my face. 

Like a bear, I hibernated all winter. Too afraid to show my cookie-dough filled belly and my blotchy cheeks to the outside world. I waited and waited and waited...I counted down the days until summer--April, May-- June just never seemed to come. Like the warmth brought by the first light after a frost-bitten night, summer meant the start of something new and I yearned to shed my winter coat. 

Beginnings? I didn't care. I needed a revival: a rebirth. I couldn't stand the door holding me in any longer. My legs longed for the outdoors and to stride across the dusty, tarred California road. I ran: as fast as I could run, I ran. I leaped through a new, open door and into tomorrow. It wasn't cold: it wasn't dark: it wasn't lonely. I wouldn't let it. I couldn't. I fought it. With sweat and laughs and smiles I broke down that wall. Slammed the door on itself and ran away. Through fields, over hills, and across streams, I ran.

My legs carried me to Berkeley: a drastic change from the flat, dirty square-mile of Isla Vista that I had refused to call home for two years.  After countless interviews and nights slept on my future boyfriend's couch (in order to avoid sleeping in a shared apartment with a thirty-year old creep), I found my new home. It was an eight story apartment complete with three Norwegians. Within five minutes, I felt more comfortable there than I ever did in my drafty cabin. The smell of fresh white paint and the new IKEA furniture, that should have felt so sterile, were a sharp contrast to the warmth and happiness emitted from the Norwegians. No more heavy, wooden doors: there wasn't a door in the world that could block out their sun. 

I was happy. My rejuvenated legs carried me through the Berkeley hills. With new friends and a new love, I conquered my world. My legs became stronger and my heart became warmer. I was liberated. Free to pick thirty pounds of peaches on a delightful Davis day. Free to ride my new road bike the forty miles between Petaluma and Point Reyes Station. The door was open.

The rest of that year flew, with the speed of a lear jet, twelve thousand miles away to South Africa. I broke all ties to my California life and jumped feet first off a forty-five foot cliff into a rushing African river. For my six month stay, I ran, I biked, I climbed-- my cockroach infested room could not keep me at bay. Though a piece of my heart was left in Berkeley, my head was light and my smile glimmered against the blue African sky. A sky so big that all I wanted to do was explore. 

And I did. And I have. Everything. Everywhere I could. South Africa, France, England, Germany. Side my side with my best friend, we wreaked havoc across the continents. Biking, running, jumping: we were unstoppable. 

When I finally returned to California in July, I was eager to begin my senior year at UCSB. I had learned and I had grown. I was going to face my wooden door. I was going to defeat it. I was strong. Two triathlons and a 175 mile bike ride proved to me that I could hold my own. When I walked through the white door that hid my new house, I immediately knew this year was going to be different. I was overwhelmed with bright colors, not just from the walls that were freshly painted pink, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple, but also from my housemates whose each  unique style and flare perfectly complemented each other.

I had found it. The peaceful, easy feeling I had been searching for throughout my entire college career. For the first time while living in Santa Barbara, I feel like I am home. No more hiding under blankets in a dark, damp apartment.  No more tears, save for tears of joy. I was free: a 13.1 mile run in a Half Ironman Relay in Vegas and a super sprint triathlon around the UCSB campus wearing nothing more than my high school, varsity swimsuit and a smile. 

...No more doors.

2 Months Back

I've been meaning to write this post for 2 months; since the 26th of June when I arrived at LAX tired from traveling, excited to see my family, and  relieved that almost everything on the trip went perfectly. I say almost because I had one major catastrophe.

The 50 kilogram bag that I was carting around was stolen in Cape Town. The morning Jeff and I were supposed to be headed to Europe, we walked out to our rental car, which was unassumingly parked in the hostel parking lot, only to discover the back window punched in and my bag gone. Wonderful right? What was supposed to be a fun morning hiking up Table Mountain turned into a stressful, tear-filled morning of filling out police reports and realizing what I no longer had.

However, as terrible as having five months of memories and possessions stolen from me, the experience really wasn't that bad. Jeff and I ended up sampling all the coffee shops in the Cape Town airport, which at least gave me a much needed caffeine buzz to make it through the day. Not to mention, that Jeff somehow weaseled our way into a first class lounge which was a lot more comfortable place to spend the last 3 hours in the airport. Plus, on the bright side, I no longer had to cart a giant bag around the streets of Paris, London, and Cologne.

France, England, and Germany went by in no time and before I knew it, I was on Air Tahiti Nui heading back to California...

As much as I loved South Africa (and am longing to return), it is great to be back in California. Six months abroad has made me appreciate California and the US so much more than I could have ever imagined. It has also made me more humble and more conscious of all the injustices and issues around the world. I will have to expand more on that at some later time, however, those who have seen me since I've been home have heard my two cents regarding that matter.

Since I've been home, I've been eating and cooking a lot (thank goodness for all the choices of food available and California), cycling, running, and swimming a lot (I completed my first triathlon last week), and stressing out over the fact that I graduate from UCSB in 9 months!

But C'est le vie! I have to enjoy the end of my undergrad experience right? 

I'll write more later, but for now, I'm supposed to dash into the city to sample some vegan Mexican food!

Cheers!

3 weeks turned into 2

I leave Pietermartizburg in 2 weeks. 14 days and my study abroad venture at University of Kwa-Zulu Natal comes to an end. It’s difficult for me to fathom that after a term at Berkeley, and a term at UKZN, I’m fourexams away from ending my year long hiatus and returning to being a student at UC Santa Barbara. In fact, I've already picked classes for fall quarter. And I have already chosen my living situation for my senior year.

I’m so happy I chose to study abroad in South Africa and especially Pietermaritzburg. It has been such an eye-opening and humbling experience. Considering my limitations in languages and my desire to participate in an immersion program, I don’t think there are many other places I could have gone to experience such a unique cultural experience. I think I have said it before, but South Africa is so diverse and so divided. It has so many good and bad qualities associated with the fact that devastating political, social, and racial turmoil exists.

Before I came, I had the idea that the World Cup was going to have such beneficial affects for the citizens of South Africa. In actuality, it has not benefited the local population at all. Millions of dollars have been allocated to building new stadiums and increasing tourism, however, nothing has been spent to improve the quality of living for the nation’s citizens. The country is littered with filth from people unconcerned with the environment or the future. Half of the time that I have been in Pietermaritzburg the municipality has been on strike: meaning that trash is not collected or if it is, the city does not have enough money to bring it to the large land-fills and instead, just burns all the small dump sites. Therefore, not only is the air filled with smog from heavily polluting vehicles, it is also filled with the fumes and smoke from burning garbage.

Not to mention that recent political and social events have heavily increased the racial tensions among the population. Honestly though, the racism is just making the situation about ten times worse. I hear people talk and use derogatory terms and racist comments like it’s as normal as commenting on the weather. I don’t think I go a day without feeling offended people of the ignorance and disrespect towards one another that people though. So many people complain that the root of the problems in South Africa are based on lack of education, however, by using racial slurs, no matter the circumstance, it’s just proving that the ‘educated’ are just as ignorant as they people they are degrading. It just makes me so sad and so angry that there are still such social injustices and inequalities here…

However, at don’t mean to rant about that right now. I would more like to talk about the fact that I’m really going to miss South Africa once I leave. For all its problems and issues, it really is a beautiful place. The landscape and the scenery are amazing; I only wish I had more time (and more money) to explore them. I would have loved to visit Botswana and Namibia- actually, I would have loved to have visited every other country. Not to mention, it would have been so nice to work on archaeology here. I could honestly see myself coming back in a couple years in order to go to grad school or to work here. South Africa has so much history and culture that’s not only apparent in the people but also in the environment. Five months in this country, on this continent, is in no way long enough for me to be here. I know I will come back.

3 weeks left in Pietermaritzburg

shoot! I wrote something up last night to put on here because I know I've been horribly slacking the past month. However, I saved it on my laptop instead of my flashdrive. Therefore, I'll post it next time I get on the internet. I'm sorry! I really meant to put something up!