Hunkering down

My faithful fifteens of readers know that Miss Tasha has been having herself a bit of a tough time with the whole money situation. Business is slow, I still have all these goofy-ass medical bills to pay plus my own insurance costs, etc. and so on, and due to all that, I was getting into a bit of a panic, though I wasn’t quite there yet. As my dear friend Adrienne told me, “This is no time to panic! Unless it’s a perfect time to panic.”

It’s time to panic.

You see, while as my resume will attest I’ve done a lot of great contract work over the past number of years - work that my clients have been thrilled about - my one truly steady source of income has been the market research work I’ve done for one particular company that specializes in such things. For ten years now – yes, ten – I’ve researched and written reports on a vast range of topics, from soup to gardening to footwear to oral care. You name a consumer good, chances are I’ve written about it. All the editors I’ve worked with have loved my work – and no wonder, considering some of the other writers they’re dealing with.

I have seen some of this other work. It has not been pretty.

So imagine my surprise and shock when I discovered just yesterday that I’m not being assigned reports due to…..who knows. Some random concern about timeliness? Which begs the question – if a report that’s turned in on time is deemed by the company to be not on time even though it is on time, in how many ways can one’s head explode? So that’s clear as fuck-all.

Concerns about quality? Hmm, let’s see. There was a report that I did in November that the QC guy (who needs to justify his existence to the company) took issue with. Living as he does in the tony enclave of Kenilworth, he apparently was unclear on a few concepts as far as research that I put into the report were concerned. What? People are struggling with a poor economy? Business at second-hand shops is booming? No!

And then there’s the work for the company that I’ve taken on the past that’s consisted of rewriting – yes, entirely rewriting – the shoddy work that other writers have done. There was the entire consumer section for one report, which consisted of statements like the following:

“Black people buy more biscuit dough because it goes well with their fried chicken, which they love and eat constantly, which is also why they will purchase items with the Aunt Jemima symbol, as she with her nappy hair and broad features represents the down-home cooking of their childhood, with chitlins and other black foods.”

No, I’m not making this racist shit up.

Then there was another report where, also in the consumer section, the Asian consumers were referred to as “boat people,” or, for a cute little colloquialism, just “boaters.”

Clearly, that’s some quality writing there.

So it’s unclear why I’m suddenly and inexplicably and with no warning persona non grata. Hell, I didn’t know there was a problem until the report-scheduling guy ignored all my emails, and didn’t respond to one until I called him and left a message, as he ducked that call too.

I can only conclude that their new research director, a woman with editing experience but no background or experience in actual market research, is perhaps fearful that The Cancer is contagious – kind of like cooties. Or maybe she thinks I’ll suddenly be stricken by a sudden bout of The Cancer! Like gout or something. That’ll render me somehow unable to complete my assignments. This is the kind of forward thinking I suppose the company wants to be known for, always alert for any possible problems on the horizon, no matter how remote. After all, that report that I was assigned that happened to coincide with my cancer surgery, bike crash, broken collarbone and brain injury two years ago – yeah, I finished that one. Even though I couldn’t even type at the time. But you never know, so one must always be alert for potential shirkers.

Now, I know what you’re all saying. You’re saying “Now Miss Tasha, be that all as it be, we ain’t here to hear ‘bout your problems, we be here to learns abouts the training and stuff, and fo sho to be some kind of entertained!”

I realize this. I’m one of billions of bloggers out there, a minute speck in the Blogosphere, and I’m sure if I depart, by tomorrow there’ll be six wanna-be bloggers to take my place: The Shake-Weight Route to Pasadena, and so on.

So in that vein, I present to you my latest in diet advice, that I’m sure will hone my already-almost-perfect-athlete’s physique to an even greater state of perfection. We all remember my Stillman's diet, which proved to be a bit tricky on those long bike rides:

The there was the liquid diet, which was certainly a happy one, though perhaps not the most productive.

My current one, therefore, is borne out of Need and Opportunity, or as we call it, Neeportunity. This is akin to when you’re on a bike ride and need to do some intervals, and you see a hill so you ride up and down it, even if said hill is on someone’s property. Or when you’re on yet another long ride and need some quick fuel, so you stop at a nearby donut shop. This is the kind of opportunistic thinking that’s made me the goddess I am today.

So for my latest diet, it occurs to me that I need to a) not spend money I don’t have, and b) get my ass in shape for this summer’s cycling adventures, to include my Crazy-Ass Bike Ride Across Iowa, or CABRAI. I think that’s what it’s called. And who is it that has enough food stored in her place to last through the next millennium, due to her Ukrainian-bred tendency to buy food in bulk when she sees it in a store? Yep, yours truly. I honestly think I can go months living on what I have in the house, between the cans of tuna and frozen chicken breasts, and so on. Oh sure, scurvy might be lurking around the corner due to a lack of fruits and vegetables, but you can’t have everything.

Because you see, the timing of all this – and the unexpectedness of it – is really shitty. Not only do I have the regular bills, plus what I’m sure will be an early property tax bill (unlike the fall one, which they delayed by several months until after the election), as well as the root canal that I need, but…. I also found a lump in my breast this morning. The right one. The cancer one.

Now, do I really think this is anything? No, I honestly don’t. I really think it’s scar tissue or the port that I still have in there, or even a frisky meandering implant. Though it’s a bit of dejavu that I have my every-six-month mammogram schedule for Monday – which is just what it was like for my original cancer diagnosis.

So I don’t think it’ll be anything, but at the same time, it pisses me off, because my first thought was, oh for fuck’s sake, can’t I get a fucking BREAK around here once in a while? And I don’t mean a break that’s just a lack of bad news, as in “oh whew, it’s not cancer.” Or like the Ukrainian National Anthem, Ще не вмерла Українa, which translates to Ukraine is Not Yet Dead. Gee, yay.

And I don’t even mean I need the seriously amazing luck, like winning the lottery. No, I just want a garden-variety decent something happening in my life. Oh, you know, like say having one of the many potential projects I have out there actually come to fruition, where some company realizes – hey, you’re exactly the kind of brilliant person we need, you with your fan-fucking-tastic resume and your amazing experience!

Seriously, is that too much to ask of the universe?

Apparently so.

The path to greatness - what it takes

Armed with my salt rinse solution – and yes, I started going places with a little vial of salt in my purse – I then turned to finding a dental practitioner. Which was how I wound up at Brushin’ on Belmont, a place that I drive by every day after leaving the dog park with The Kone, and which got good reviews on Yelp. Hmm. I should have been wary when I called and they insisted I tell them which specific tooth was causing the problem. Umm, if I knew that, I might just pop that sucker out using the ol’ string-and-doorknob method, eh?

But I go in anyway. And it’s a very nice place, and conveniently close, but…..

Dental technician: Okay, which tooth is the problem?
Me: Umm, I’m not sure. The whole right side of my mouth and jaw hurts, the pain isn’t from any one tooth.
DT: But you have to pick a tooth!
Me: Really, I have no idea – but this tooth did crack about a mont….
DT: Perfect! We’ll take an x-ray.

They take an x-ray of that one tooth, and then the dentist comes in.

Dentist: Okay, this tooth is clearly the problem. You need a root canal.
Me: But are you sure? Why is the pain so widespread? I can’t even tell where it’s coming from!
Dentist: That’s normal – the nerves wrap around like that.
Me: But….don’t you think there’s an underlying infection?
Dentist: No, I don’t think so – it’s just that tooth that needs to be fixed.
Me: But…can’t I have some antibiotics just in case? I swear I think there’s an infection causing this agonizing pain.
Dentist: I really don’t think you need any…
Me: PLllllllllllllllleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaseeeeeeeeeeee……….my first-born for some antibiotics!

Good lord, now I’m sounding like a junkie looking for Percocet or whatever the narcotic du jour is these days. Luckily she acquiesces, because I’ll be damned if I’m leaving without them. And I’ll be damned if the antibiotics don’t actually start to work! Yep, within a couple of days, the pain is drastically reduced – imagine that. But I still need a dentist, because I have no confidence that I’ll get a root canal on that one tooth and that’ll solve the problem. I don’t believe the dentist actually even looked at my teeth – and then charged me $107 for the privilege of the sole x-ray and the consultation which consisted of a 5 minute conversation. Not too shabby – for them.

Thus begins my quest anew for a new dentist – and though I get a lot of good recommendations, I go with the one of my friend Alton, who raves about his guy, Dr. Codel. And here was my first conversation with them when I called to make an appointment.

Me: I have a bad tooth that’s causing horrible pain. Well, it might be one tooth – I’m not really sure. I need a dentist who can figure that out.
Nice appointment girl named Bernie: Okay, I can help you with that!
Me: Because I really can’t take it anymore and I just went to another dentist and they said it was this one tooth but I don’t know and I’ve taken to popping whatever pills I have at home and drinking whiskey….
NAGNB: Did it help at least? The whiskey?
Me: Well, kind of. Or at least it just knocked me out. By the way, sorry I’m babbling, but this has just been horrible, I can’t sleep, the only that helps is a salt rinse so I’m walking around with salt with me at all times…
NAGNB: Oh no, you’re fine! It’s always good for us to have as much information as possible! Oh, what kind of dog do you have?

She hears Kona and Timmy barking in the background, and after I tell her, she waxes eloquent on how much she loves dogs. So that’s it, that’s all I need to hear. I’m talking to people who are okay with my nonsensical babbling, and they love dogs. Score! Well, it’s not like Yelp was much good, now was it?

Finally, the big day – and thankfully, by now the pain is almost gone. We’re down from 24-hour pain, to maybe a couple of hours a day. Huh, imagine that. I’m chit-chatting away with Bernie, who’s wonderfully awesome, when I get sent back so that Dr. Codel can check out my teeth. And lo and behold, he actually does a pretty thorough inspection, and as he looks at my x-ray, we start chatting.

Dr. Codel: Oh, I see you’ve had a root canal on this adjacent tooth.
Me: Yeah, my teeth have always sucked, no matter how well I take care of them.
Dr. Codel: Hmm, interesting….
Me: What?
Dr. Codel: Oh, the way they did the root canal. See how they used a screw? A ridged one no less? Those aren’t really used anymore, because they have no give or flex, so there’s a greater chance your teeth will crack or break.
Me: Oh great – I’ve been paying big bucks for shoddy dentistry.
Dr. Codel: Well, it’s just that there are so many more advanced techniques. For example, some endodontists are using carbon fiber inserts for root c…
Me: Wait. WHAT??? Did you say……carbon fiber?
Dr. Codel: Oh yes, absolutely – there was even someone who insisted on a titanium cap for a tooth.
Me: Titanium?? So you’re saying that to match my titanium collarbone, I could have a carbon fiber TOOTH? And then a titanium cap? Okay, that might be a bit expensive. But an AERO TOOTH?
Dr. Codel: Well yes, that’s one way of looking at i….
Me: SWEET! Sign me up! Root canal, here I come!

I give the “V” for victory sign, as I think most people do when they’re told they need a root canal, yes? And yes, Dr. Codel does check out all my other teeth to make sure they’re not the problem – and then after giving me a referral to a root canal specialist, doesn’t even charge me for the consultation.

But clearly the bigger lesson here is that the path to greatness is never easy. Look at me, for example – not only was I willing to completely shatter my collarbone so that I could have a titanium collarbone (i.e. the very definition of aero), but I also got The Cancer (implants = more buoyancy for swimming), and finally the toothache from Hell (= an aero tooth). Now, I’m not saying this is why I’m known as the Triathlon Goddess – but, this is why I’m known as the Triathlon Goddess. Are you willing to do what needs to be done to reach my exalted stature? Yeah, didn’t think so…..

Adventures in Boobages

Today I went to see Dr. Fine, aka Plastic Surgeon to the Stars, for some Boobage adjustment. It’s been a while. I had been under the impression that for this appointment they’d remove the marvel known as ports from the girls (sob!), so I changed my original appointment which was right before the Great Alpian Adventure, thinking stitches, vicodin and the like. Turns out, Dr. Fine, genius that he is, was in no hurry to remove them.

Dr. Fine: So, how are they doing?

Me: Good, but you see how this one is a little bigger? Well, maybe not bigger in terms of volume, but it projects more so it seems bigger.

Dr. Fine: Well, you know, most natural breasts aren’t the same size…

I just look at him, with a face fraught with skepticism.

Dr. Fine: Or we could remove some saline from the left one to make it smaller…

Now I look at him in horror.

Me: NO! No! We’re not making the Boobages any smaller!

Dr. Fine: Okay, so we’ll add some to the right and see how that looks.

Me: Yes!

Then the fun starts. Because you may recall, dear reader(s), that when we tried a Boobage adjustment back in June, on the left side, the port had flipped around and was thus inaccessible. The port being attached to the saline implant, hence making the Boobages wonderfully adjustable. As it turns out, it’s a good thing we couldn’t adjust then, because the right one wound up being smaller, thanks to the radiation which continues to fuck with your skin and tighten everything up. Cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.

So there we are, Dr. Fine with a needle poking around for the port, which has somehow drifted down to my ribcage. Poke poke poke.

Dr. Fine: Hmm, it seems to have flipped…..

I start chuckling. He keeps poking around.

Dr. Fine: You know what, I’ll anesthetize the area, and then try again…

At which point I start giggling, rather uncontrollably.

Me: Don’t you remember? This is exactly what happened with the left one!

Dr. Fine: Really? Because this really doesn’t happen often at all.

Me: Well, I do have the worst luck of anyone I know, so……

Luckily this time he gets the port flipped around, and Boobage Adjustment commences. For those curious or not in the know, this procedure is probably exactly what you’d imagine it to be. Insert a needle attached to a big-ass syringe, this one with 50ccs of saline. Push saline into Boobage. Watch Boobage get insta-bigger. Yes, it’s kind of like blow-up doll technology for CancerChicks. Instaboobs!

Then we’re chatting, and I mention to Dr. Fine the GAA…

Me:….and you know what? You were right – the lat flap didn’t affect my cycling at all!

Dr. Fine: Glad to hear it – I didn’t think it would. That muscle really is just used for pushing down.

Me: Oh, well, I haven’t tried swimming yet, so I’ll have to see how that goes…

Dr. Fine: Well, for most people and their typical splashing around, this won’t affect them either.

Wait. Splashing around? This was like déjà vu all over again! Of course, the difference being that the last time we had this conversation, I was in a state of deep cancer angst, still trying to find doctors and figure out treatment, hence less able to see the humor in the situation. Now? Now I just agree that the few seconds difference in swim times won’t make much of a difference for a Triathlon Alpian Goddess such as myself, and note that it’s the bike that really matters anyway. And we smile, understanding each other perfectly. And we leave the ports in – so yes, these babies? Still. Adjustable.

Rock$tar.

Next month on the Boobage front: tattoos!

Miss Tasha the Alpian Goddess

The next morning, our first full day in Annecy, I bustle out of bed, determined to get to Roule Ma Poule and trade in the Clown Bike so that I can go suffering up another mountain. After all, isn’t that what being in France is all about?

Of course, when I get there, I come up against what might be termed a whole lot of indifference to me and my little problems.

Me: I’m here to get the small bike we reserved!

French Guy: Oui? But ve have no smalls.

Me: Umm, but you’re supposed to. See right there, in your little book, we reserved a small. This is not a small.

FG, with a shrug: I can do nothing about it.

Me: How about calling the other Roll My Chicken store?

FG, after a brief call in which he merrily blathers in French: They have no ze smalls either.

Me: Well, this bike is the wrong size, and not the size we ordered.

FG: I can do ze nothing about it. Call back at 5 and ve vill see if there is another. Or you can trade for one of zose bikes!

He points to a row of hybrid-commuter-bikes that have everything but the basket in front – though maybe they have that too.

Me, with steely glare: No. That will not do. I assume this means I’ll be getting a discount.

FG: Oh, oui, a discount!

Not that I give a rat’s ass about the discount – I just want a bike I can ride – but at least it’s something. Sigh. I ride around town for the day, check back with the store at 5 – no smaller bikes, of course – then head back to the hotel, deciding that I’ll take a different route than the super-busy one that Stacey and I took the other day. I start off on a lovely cobblestone road, with cute little shops and people wandering about. Ah, France. So lovely. This road is still busy, but by now I’m getting to be a master at making my way on busy streets, charging ahead when the light turns green, dodging and weaving through crazy drivers. I get through one particularly busy intersection and think to myself, my, Stacey would be so proud of me!

Then as I’m cycling I’m thinking, where the hell is the street I’m supposed to turn on? Hmm, I didn’t recall there being an overpass on the map. And a cloverleaf. I look to the right – oops, good thing I didn’t go that way, as that’s clearly a highway in that direction. I guess I’m supposed to go straight. I set off confidently, making my way up another hill with ease.

To find myself on a highway. Oops.

Finally after much map gazing and car dodging and in general dithering around, I realize that the street that I was so proud about getting on through, traffic lights and all, was the one I should have turned on. What’s that saying about pride going before a fall, in which you get squashed like a pancake because you blundered onto a super-highway? Yeah, that one. That’s me in spades. But seriously, can't these French people even come up with visible street signs? Seriously people!

That evening as I’m sulking about the Clown Bike, Stacey comes in all chipper and sprightly talking about her latest ride, where she only got lost 3 times as she went up and down 5 or 7 mountains, I forget how many exactly.

Stacey: So you should go out with me tomorr..

Me: I’m riding up Semnoz! I’m getting up that damn mountain if it kills me!

Stacey: But there are other climbs that are much prett….

Me: I’m going up Semnoz! I don’t care about pretty! I just want another damn mountain!

Stacey: But if we go rid…

Me: Clown Bike is so horrible that if I have to ride some distance before we get to the mountains, I’ll never get up the damn mountain itself, I’ll be in such a sad state by then. Semnoz or bust!

Stacey: But…

Me: Semnoz! Tomorrow!

Stacey continues downloading maps and routes and directions onto her Garmin and iPhone, while I plot my revenge against one more Alp. Since Ade told Stacey that he thought she’d like Semnoz (and she decided he was on drugs at the time), but didn’t say the same to me, I feel a bit….underestimated. I can climb UP those damn mountains, dammit! I can! Is it MY fault they make it so hard to get back down them?

Annecy – Day Three

So what can I say about Le Semnoz that hasn’t already been said? Perhaps something about how damn boring it is working your way to the top, since it’s all through a forest? All. Of. It. For 3 hours. The most entertaining thing I saw consisted of two men in super short-short-shorts frolicking and gamboling about through the woods, with their hiking poles helping them scamper nimbly over boulders. For a second I felt like I was on a gay porn movie set, but soon enough it was back to boring trees. And that’s saying a lot, since we all know how much I like trees and nature and all that crap.

But when you’re puttering along up a mountain that has grades of 12-14% and is unrelenting, and it’s taking you hours to get to the top, then I can tell you that you’re pretty much cursing the forest, the trees, the French, their love of hairpin curves, and anything else you can think of. I hate France! Those damn French!

I make it to the top. 15.1 miles, 4,306 ft of climbing. I now officially proclaim myself a goddess of Alpian climbing. And now I can relax and take in the other sights and sounds of France, in my, umm…….last day here? Damn, how did that happen? But I love France - we need more time here!

First things first though - I have to walk down this mountain. Of course.

The hills are alive....

Clearly Ade and the gang are getting a bit intimidated by my Alp-climbing prowess, because suddenly he decides that Thursday, day 5, will be a “rest day.” Bah, I spit in the face of rest days! Granted, they’ve done about six times more mileage than I have at this point, but I’m sure I’ll make that up soon. Really soon.

In the meantime, the claws are truly coming out, and I can sense the jealousy as my status as a triathlon goddess becomes known.

Sarah: I have to admit, I have an 11-28 cassette on my bike, to help with the climbing. That way I can spin right up!

Ade: Yeah, I make sure I have at least a 12-27 on my bike, and a compact crank.

Me: Waaaait a minute here. An 11-28? A 12-27 and a compact? So, umm, why is it that on MY bike I just have a 12-25 and a regular crank??

Ade, laughing jovially: Oh, ha ha, that’s to just make you work a bit harder there!

Then there’s the matter of that damn hill, on which I almost killed myself the first day.

Me: Well, if no one else is going riding, maybe I can just get a ride down to the bottom of the damn hill? I’m not going down that thing.

Viv: Oh, just give it a try! Go ahead, you’ll be fine!

Kevin: Go on, just ride right on down!

Stacey: Try it!

Hmm.

Me: Stacey, how fast did you say you’ve been going down the mountains here? 15-20mph?

Stacey: Right.

Me: And your max speed so far – even going 16 miles down Col de Madeleine – has been 33mph?

Stacey: Yes, so……

Let me interrupt here to give a small lesson on the laws of physics, especially the one that says that a rolling stone gathers no moss, especially when it’s careening helplessly down a mountain. Kevin, Viv, and the rest of our gang, especially Stacey, are all what we’d call wee folk.

Miss Tasha, at the current moment, despite her best efforts, is not.

This means that when I just start going down a hill, I’m picking up more speed than our wee folk. This means that on the average, non-mountain road the other day from La Tania to Meribel, I hit 34 mph. This means…well, you get the idea.

It basically means that I’m not riding down That Damn Hill, even though if this were a cheesy Lifetime movie we’d have Chariots-of-Fire-esque music playing in the background as I triumphantly and gloriously make my way down TDH, and then do hill repeats on it, and then make my way back to the chalet and we all have a Very Special Moment, and the last shot is of all of us toodling off into the Alpian sunset.

My life – needless to say – is not a Lifetime movie.

So while the others rest, I ride around, and do head up the steep hill to the town of Meribel, where I buy several hunks of cheese, and then realize I have limited ability to actually bring them back to the chalet on my bike. It turns out though – in case anyone was wondering – that one can do a pretty good job tying said bag o’ cheeses to one’s handlebars and then white-knuckling one’s way back down even a steep hill. Who knew?

I continue to avoid TDH like the plague.

Day Six

The group is going off to conquer more mountains somewhere, and I decide that this, our last day in this part of France, is a good day to do some hiking around here, as it turns out there are little signs and numerous walking paths in every direction. I set off on my little jaunt, stopping at a store and buying a crusty baguette to tuck into my backpack. Finding the right path isn’t quite that simple though. The first one I see hardly looks like a path, and it goes straight up into the hills. So naturally I take the gravel path that looks more civilized…..and ends at someone’s house. Damn. Even the walking paths here are all either straight up or straight down.

I climb and climb, and do my best Sound of Music imitation, twirling around in the grass, though only briefly before the good people of France decide to cart me away. I don’t think I need to take any chances at this point.

France is beautiful beyond words.

Another day, another Alp.....

Day Four

Ho hum. Climbing an Alp is just sooooo…yesterday. Okay, not really. Last night I cornered Ade to discuss today’s plan with him, because I got the sense that that The Problem With Tasha might have been stressing him out a bit. So, I pre-empted him and whatever he was going to say.

Me, cornering Ade in the kitchen: So Ade, about tomorrow….

Ade, starting to babble: I’m sorry, there’s no way I can work it so you can go tomorrow, the descents are horrible, and we….

Me, interrupting him: Ade Ade Ade, it’s okay. When you started talking about “scary hairpin turns” and descents that were “a bit of a mess” – well, I know I’m your Problem Child…

Ade: No, not at all! It’s ju…

Me, firmly: I’m your Problem Child. I know that. But I don’t want to be the Pain In The Ass client as well. So I figure that tomorrow while you guys go off, I’ll do that road that goes from Mirabel to Courchevel, then climb up that, then do some hill repeats until I’m bored with that, then go to Mirabel for a latte. The road to Courchevel doesn’t have any crazy descents, right?

Ade: No, they’re all sensible. Are you sure that’ll work?

Me: Positive.

We beam at each other, having come to an understanding, i.e. that I may be a chickenshit, but I’m not a PITA chickenshit. So that’s something.

So here we are on day four, the group setting off for day two of the Tour De Alpes, Stacey heading out the door and still fretting and whining over her ability to finish the ride. “Sandbagger,” I mutter.

“What’s that?” asks Stacey.

“SANDBAGGER! You’re a sandbagger!” I exclaim. “You always claim you won’t be able to make it up the climbs, but then you always do! Just go out there and ride, you’ll be fine! Oh, and have fun,” I add cheerily, striving as always to be my usual helpful encouraging self.

They’re gone, and I set off on my own ride, through the village and then straight up, as usual. When I realize that the hardest part of this ride is – of course – at the beginning, where you get hit with 12% grades up towards Meribel Village. I pass a bakery as I’m going through the town, and somehow manage to avoid stopping there and calling it a day. I know, the willpower here, well, it astounds.

Suffice it to say that the rest of the ride is the usual torturous climbs, but I make it far up enough Courchevel to consider this Alp #2 That Miss Tasha has Climbed, and as I head back, my goal is to work on descending. I remind myself that I’ve never had a problem with this before, so suck it up, buttercup. This kind of works, as I force myself to stay off the brakes on the road back to Meribel, and even though I only hit 34 mph, I consider this a victory of sorts. Or least it’ll have to do, for today.

Shortly after I get back, the rest of the troops arrive as well, chattering about their own ride, up and down one mountain after another. Stacey of course managed just fine.

“See, I told you you’d make it up! How do you feel?” I ask, smiling.

“Great, but did you hear what tomorrow’s climb is? Oh my god, there’s no WAY I’ll be able to get up that bbasdhyiuyoiUBY^*&^@*#^$jasbkagf nmph…….”

I honestly have no idea how Stacey keeps winding up with these socks in her mouth all the time – truly, it’s a mystery.

Back in the saddle again

Day Two

By morning, I’m over feeling sorry for myself – I’m in the French Alps, for god’s sake! – and am curious to find out what the plan for the day is. The rest of the group is going some distance away to ride 6 crazy mountains or something like that, while I’m heading somewhere closer to climb some other mountain, one that meanders up for 15km at a 10% grade.

We go our separate ways, and it turns out my ride takes me up through a national forest, and is as gorgeous as everything else in this part of France. It’s so beautiful here that it seems like one big cliché – flowers and flowerboxes everywhere, adorable French villages and houses, mountains looming in the background, etc.

So I happily zip my way up the mountain at an astonishing 5-6 mph pace on grades that range from 8-12%, and when I get to the top, what’s one of the first things I see, almost like a good omen? Yes, you guessed it – a cheese shop. And having done much of my training in Wisconsin, I know the drill here as well – I head into the shop to buy my required allotment of French cheese.

As I wander around this little mountain town, the wind picks up even more and it starts pouring – and I can only duck into shops for so long, because of course they all close between noon and 4. But luckily, just then Shelley arrives to pick me up and we head back to the chalet for a snack of bread and cheese. We’re happily eating away and having some tea, when the rest of the group shows up, hypothermic and wet to the bone. Apparently the weather was so bad where they were headed that they just went to Annecy and wound up doing a flattish short ride around the lake – in the pouring rain.

I definitely think I got the better part of the deal on this one…..

The gang's all here

The night before we’re leaving London to head to the Alps, I wind up with a migraine. Great. Not the most auspicious beginning. We land uneventfully in Geneva, and camp out in the airport, since it’ll be a while before the Alps Cycles people will be by to pick us all up. In the meantime, we start looking around for any likely compatriots.

Stacey: There, those people have bike boxes!

Me: I thought you said it was mostly women in the group. Notice how those are all guys?

Stacey: Oh, right.

Me: So what do you think the other women are like? I’m envisioning a coffeeklatsch of semi-schlumpy women who thought it would be fun to do this as a lark. Ride around in the Alps, stop for baguettes, that sort of thing.

Stacey: Umm, sure. It could be that. Or they could be uber-fit women who’ll kick our asses.

Me: I’m going with semi-schlumpy. It makes me feel better. What do you think the chalet we’re staying at will be like?

Stacey: Don’t get your hopes up. In most places “chalet” is just another word for “barracks.” I’m not saying it’ll be bread and water, but…..well, don’t get your hopes up.

At one point, I see a guy across the arrival area who has a bike box, and looks like he’s waiting for someone to pick him up. He looks really fit though, so he obviously doesn’t fit into my little scenario of women and the random couple of male wanna-be cyclists who don’t know how to change a tire and put in a hundred or so miles of riding a week. You know, the guys that’ll be on this trip. Then a girl with a bike box walks up to him, but she too looks young and insanely fit, so I discount her as well.

That is, until I see a guy with an Alp Cycles sign walk up, and those two gravitate towards him. Great. 2 down, 2 to go. There’s still hope.

We all pile into the van and set off, at which point I realize 2 things: a) France is really hilly. I guess it has something to do with that whole Alps thing they have going on, and b) Migraine + twisty windy roads+ tendency to get motion sickness = not a good thing. Making a great first impression as always, I spend the whole car ride trying to not get sick, especially as we go up the 10km winding hairpin switchback road that leads to the chalet. Please don’t let me be sick, please let this ride be over soon – these are my thoughts, so I don’t pay too much attention to the roads we’re on. This will prove to be a mistake later on. A big one.

Finally we arrive at our barracks, aka chalet, which is……stunning. Cozy, warm, delightful, gorgeous. And the view is amazing – as again, we’re basically at the top of a mountain. Or what most of us Yankees would call a mountain, though which is probably nothing more than a speed bump around here.

And not only are we greeted by this beautiful chalet, but there’s also a feast laid out for us, of tea and bread and jam and delicious homemade cake, made by Amy, who’s cooking for us for the week and seems hell-bent on insuring that none of us loses any weight this week.

In addition to the 4 of us picked up from the airport, apparently there’s one more woman coming, Penny, whose flight got delayed. The other woman supposed to be on this trip stopped contacting the Alps Cycles people a few weeks ago – hmm, I wonder what she knows that we don’t. “Penny”, though – that sounds to me like a good, sturdy sort of name. I picture a German hausfrau type wearing a housecoat, schmata wrapped around her head, kind of like Fraulein Schweiger in the Sound of Music, i.e. the one who wouldn’t get off the stage. She’ll be slightly giggly and will have brought her own basket as the most important piece of bike equipment, so as to be able to tote around the jars of jam she’s planning on buying on her biking excursions around the French countryside. Yes. That sounds right. Penny will be my savior, make me look good in comparison.

* * * * * * *

“Hello! I’m here!”

We look up from the first of many delicious dinners to see a thin, uber-fit blond woman bounding into the chalet, full of irrepressible energy, vim, and vigor. I’m tired just from looking at her. Of course it’s our wayward colleague Penny. So much for my vision of the giggly hausfrau. Sigh.

But hope springs eternal and all that, so later after she sits down and we’re all chatting, I see the M-dot necklace around her neck, and ask her which ones she’s done, thinking that she’s probably done a token Ironman and figures that’s enough to get her by for a week in the Alps.

Penny: Oh, let’s see……Cozumel, Rosenberg, New Zealand, South Africa…….(goes on to rattle off about 15 IMs)

Sigh. She also doesn't ask me which Ironmans I've done. I can guess why.

* * * * * * * *

So to sum, here’s our Cast of Characters for the week:

Kevin: The guy we saw at the airport, who has the official title of Nicest Guy on the Planet. Seriously, he’s that genuinely nice.

Sarah: The other person from the airport. Young, obviously fit, and also a racing cyclist. Of course. I want to hate her but she’s too bubbly and nice.

Penny: Not only uber-fit, but also a journalist for Cycling Weekly. Since she apparently kind of fell into the writing/editing gig, I want to hate her, but I can’t because she very nicely helps me set my Garmin so that it shows gradient, and also takes the time to show me a bunch of other useful things on it. Damn!

Clive and Viv: 2 other people who come in late, and are here to do some off-road cycling. Both sweet as can be. And of course uber-fit.

Ade and Shelley: Officially the Nicest Couple in the World, who own the Alp Cycles company and will be taking care of us for the week. I don’t think they know what they’re getting into, poor folks.

Chris: Works for Ade and Shelley, very nice, I’ll be seeing a lot of him during the course of the week.

Then of course there’s me and Stacey. Stacey, who is perfectly capable of climbing mountains but doesn’t think she can, and me, looking like the token fat lazy American who didn’t do any training for this. Well, at least the fat part is right.

That night, as I go to bed, I remind myself of all the training I’ve done. You can’t come from a base of doing Ironman races and then ride 1400 miles in the 5 weeks leading up to your trip and still be totally incompetent on the bike, can you? Umm…..you can’t, right??