Recent sound-bites from the Austrian media:
“Das ist puuuuure BEEF!” (FM4 Radio; apparently NOT referring to the ingredients of Wurst)
“Gibt’s hier der flower power hippie musik.” (ORF1 TV; only took 40 years to make it here)
“Horton Hört ein Who.” (FM4 Radio; more Seuss than Seuss?)
“Ich glaube nicht, Null Null Sieben.” (Classic Bond, auf Deutsch; even cheesier dubbed)
“Gibt’s nur FULL GAS!” (ORF1 FIS World Cup TV coverage; love it)
Santa Clara International Invitational Swim Meet, circa 1996:
The officials has just ended our warm-up session, so I climbed out of the pool and headed toward our team’s tent to dry off and stretch before prelims. Among the throng of swimmers fiddling with wet caps and googles, I noticed a little kid walking across the crowded pool deck.
He stood out because a) he was smaller than everyone else, and b) he was fully clothed. The poor kid wore his shorts as high as they would go – nearly to his chest – with his t-shirt tucked in. Worse still, his socks were pulled up to his knees, leaving only an inch or so between the sock and hem of his shorts.
I had scarcely noticed the kid when Sabir Muhammad stopped short in front of him. Without saying a word, the six-foot-seven sprinter leaned down and tugged the kid’s socks down to his ankles, untucked his shirt, and straightened his shorts so they fell at his waist – not his armpits. Sabir stood up, and with a curt nod of approval, kept walking. He never said a word.
On recovery days during the summer, I’ll spin along sparkling green roads en route to a sunny cafe patio, where my teammates and I will relax over cappucinos. Inevitably, those are the days people ask, “So, this is what you do for a living?” And I answer truthfully: yes.
Of course, this isn’t the whole truth.
Today, for example, the rain poured and the skies threw buckets of hail at my head. I pedaled through snow, slush and puddles under the incredulous stares of bundled-up pedestrians and motorists. This is also what I do for a living.
Days like today are what keep me from feeling too guilty on those lovely summer days while I sip fresh coffee in the warm sunshine and say, “Yes. As a matter of fact, this is what I do for a living.”
No modern holiday is so closely identified with consumption as Thanksgiving. Most related statistics are quoted in units of millions and billions of pounds of food and excess kilocalories, concern for which has given rise to an online prevalence of holiday calorie counters. However, a focus on overconsumption wholly neglects more profound meanings of the Thanksgiving holiday, not the least of which is the title of the holiday itself!
The holiday’s origins may be mired in a less-than-savory history, but in modern times, the holiday has become more of a collective time-out for coming together as family, for reaffirming community bonds and for reflecting on all that is good in life, on all we have for which we are thankful.
In fact, for all of the calories consumed at Thanksgiving tables, there are all of those calories burned on countless “Turkey Rides” organized across the country. Cycling communities everywhere get together on this day to enjoy the outdoors, a sense of community and a spirit of gratitude. I wonder if anyone has ever compiled statistics on how many people participate in Turkey Rides, on how many calories are burned, on the side effects of focusing on the positive, or genuinely feeling a part of a community? Those are the kinds of statistics I’d like to see, and in my opinion, we could use more holidays like this one.
Turkey Ride in Los Gatos, CA
The holiday season is upon us, as are – consequently – the corollary holiday treats. Somewhere, Starbucks is selling a pumpkin spice latte and a peppermint mocha with sprinkles. Here in Graz, Adventkalendars (neatly packaged tests of willpower) fill grocery store shelves; bakeries offer the dense, fruity-sweet Kletzenbrot; and the Christkindlmarkt sparkles with lights and Keksebacken and smells of warm Punsch and Gluhwein. The celebratory spirit is almost enough to warm your insides through, but there’s nothing quite like having a hot drink or warm little snack steaming in your hands on a cold city night.
Among the tempting variety of less-than-healthful options, I’ve found a new training friendly holiday favorite: roasted chestnuts.
I can smell them before I see the little Heisse Maroni kiosk, cheerfully lit among the festivities. The Maroni Man tosses the next batch over the coals with casual flare, then scoops a steaming cupful of the aromatic nuts into a carefully folded newspaper cone and hands it to me. My bare fingers wouldn’t venture from my wool pockets for anything else, but the warm paper cone fits perfectly between my hands, cozy and steaming with the rich, roasted chestnut smell. Each little chesnut – split open from the heat of the coals – is hot and smooth against my fingertips as I peel away the shell to find the waxy, warm center, chewy and sweet in my mouth.
Like a morning cup of coffee, a Viertel of heisse Maroni tastes better as part of a ritual. The buttery-rich flavor is inextricably linked with the Frohes Fest, with plunking down a coin on the ceramic plate at the Heisse Maroni kiosk, next to the hot coals and roasting nuts, among the bustling market and sparkling lights of the Hauptplatz. The little paper cone has become as integral a part of my holiday experience as pumpkin pie, though perhaps a bit more healthful!
After six months of racing through countless states and countries, I’m done living out of a roller bag, at least for the time being. Home: my own pillow, a closet, my own coffee mug every morning at my very own desk, and above all, the dmp.
Being back has also meant no bikes for a while, which is good for the ol’ noggin. Instead, we’ve been hitting the alpine trails and savoring a tantalizing visual buffet.
Hoher Sonnblick, Kolm Saigurn
Hofburg, Vienna
Trail in Mixnitz
Bärenschutzklamm, Mixnitz
Der Herbst
Dachstein
Dachstein Glacier
Riesachsee
Buchberg, Bischofshofen
Wilde Wasser Alm, Untertal
More photos at http://picasaweb.google.com/ambermalika
The other day, I stopped by the grocery store on my way to a friend’s party to pick up a little libation as my contribution to the festivities. I dressed up a little, wearing a pair of fun high heeled sandals for the occasion. I’m 5 ft 10 inches without heels, so I guess you could say I stand out a bit with the addition of a few inches.
As I perused the refrigerated options, a little kid – probably about five years old – rounded the corner, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as he caught sight of me. He ran back to his mom, who stood only a few feet away, and tugging at her skirt, pointed at me excitedly, saying, “MOM she’s HUGE!”
Some celebrities claim to be huge in Japan. Apparently, I’m huge in the grocery store.
Since my last post, I raced in New Mexico, flew to Austria, spent time in Graz, visited Slovenia, then raced in France. Better than boring you with the blow-by-blow accounts of the travels, I offer a photo narrative of the more amusing highlights.
Rushlee downs the last of our Survival Mix at the Tour of the Gila. Little did I know I should have packed a suitcase full of it for the Tour de l’Aude.
While resting up a bit in Graz, David and I stumbled upon this gem: an Irish Pub called O’riginal.
Word.
At 400 years of age, this is the oldest vine in the world, which David and I got to see during our visit to Maribor, Slovenia. It still grows grapes from which are made a precious wine.
Team America in France! The U.S. National Team gears up to race at the Tour de l’Aude in the south of France.
We’re on the Mediterranean Coast, but no one is much interested in the beach when there is eating, sleeping and internet surfing to do.
Speedos only in the French pool.
Good thing there is a vending machine to sell them, lest you forget your own!
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We moved to a cabin in the mountains during the stages in the Pyrenees. Our cabin came complete with these wildly posh towels.
Our cabins also featured the All In One Bathroom, where you can shower, use the toilet and brush your teeth all at the same time. Amazing!
Hey! I’m relaxing at the beach!
Just kidding. It’s my pillow. We’re still in the Pyrenees, and cold.
Camping is fun! And fashionable.
The internet cafe in Villegly, France. Desperate times call for desperate measures, as we poach a wireless connection from outside the town hall.
This will probably be my most vivid memory of the Tour: fresh Pain served daily.
DO: Eat at Famous Dave’s! Our hosts Andrea and Steve Hensler took us out on the town for some tasty BBQ and pecan pie in downtown Redlands after the race. You gotta love anything that advertises with “Fire for Hire!”
DO: Ride with the next generation. On Tuesday last week, our small TIBCO contingent in the southern part of the sunshine state rode for close to 40 miles around Newport Beach and Irvine with these kids, and they weren’t soft-pedaling! These guys and gals were hauling over the hills and through the headwinds, taking the corners like pros. We had a blast getting to know them, and helping lead a few of them out for the final sprint. Thanks to Jet Tanner for organizing the ride, and to all the VeloSport Sho-Air riders who came out to join us!
DO: Ride the Space Cycle at UC Irvine! My good friends Jason and Jeanine have been living in Irvine the past couple of years, and I finally got a chance to visit them in their (not-so) new home. Jason’s post-doctoral research involves some work with NASA and the UC Irvine Space Cycle, investigating exercise solutions for astronauts while living in space. The space cycle is essentially a human powered centrifuge: the faster you pedal, the faster you spin and the greater g-force you feel (check out the videos here). The contraption explores whether coupling exercise and artificial gravity in space can help astronauts preserve muscle mass, bone mass and cardiovascular function. I managed to pedal myself up to 3 G’s!
DO: Visit Laguna Beach.
DO: Ride the Ventura Coast.
DO: Ride Tiny Bikes.
DO: Fix your cycling tan lines!
DON’T: Be a Fred and break your rib. I took myself out warming up for the crit on Sunday. I won “Hubbard of the Day” and got to spend several hours in the ER being poked and prodded. I ended up with two stitches, requisite road rash, plenty of gravel in my hair, and a broken rib. Doh.
