Electrifying Ride & Hanging Laundry

The lightening stuck 100 yards away. I know that I screamed, and Dan said he did too, but the simultaneous echo of the booming thunder drowned out our voices. It was Thursday, May 26 and the Montpelier Area Mountain Bike Association group ride has barely exited the Irish Hill trails when the storm (that eventually dropped 5 inches of rain on Central Vermont in a few hours) closed in fast.

Despite severe storm alerts (and tornado, as I learned later), 8 of us had chosen to meet anyway, hoping to sneak in an hour and a half loop through the Berlin Town Forest before it unleashed. Reaching the far end of the loop, we noted the dark skies unfurling from the west and the remote rumble of thunder. Our heart rate quickened as the wind picked up and we quickly rolled out the trail recently worked on by a crew of volunteers. We reached the road and with lightening flashing all around, drafted each other along the several miles to our car. Although no rain was yet falling, urgency motivated our pace.

With about a mile to go, a lightening bolt hit a field along which we were traveling. I felt a vibration travel through my body, Chuck said he felt in in his left shoulder and John saw a tree light up. "I think I just found another gear," I shouted and stood up to hammer the final hill to my car. Not a second after I threw my bike inside, did the deluge begin. Large drops - and eventually hail (which I learned later was marble-sized in Roxbury) - came crashing down.

I realized later that an "every man/woman for him/herself" drive took over in my moment of terror. I never looked back to the others in my group while I pedaled frantically ahead. The same hope that had me believing that two rubber tires would protect us from a hit - despite the close proximity of a water body like Berlin Pond - had me sure that everyone in our group was spared. I didn't feel good about that and hope that I would be more available to others if ever in an emergency situation in the future.

I was still shaking and amped when I arrived home to a house lit with candles. Phil and the boys were watching the lightening through the big living room windows, which continuously lit up the sky. Eventually, I slept well under the pounding sheets of rain on the metal roof, knowing I was safe and comfortable.

I learned the next day that others were not so lucky. That our inconvenience and brush with danger paled in comparison to the troubles it caused others. Flash flooding wreaked havoc on residents and businesses in Barre, Montpelier, Plainfield and numerous other Vermont communities. Families were rescued from houses surrounded by water and employees waded through waist deep water in a futile attempt to retrieve inventory from basements.

The next day, an early road ride along Route 2 in Middlesex had me seeking a detour as a brown, churning, debris-filled Winooski River crossed the road, making it impassible. My detour proved risky as well, as a rode through bottom bracket-deep water flowing across Lover's Lane. Later in the day, Phil and I took the boys into Montpelier where we found the folks at Onion River Sports and Three Penny Taproom in the ally behind their businesses. Pumps were running full gas to drain basements and they were biding a little time with frisbee golf and premium beers. Everyone looked tired and bummed out. From what I hear, Phil had been in Montpelier and got word of the flooding in the early hours of the day, Kip had roused a number of employees out of bed and they were dealing with the scene by 5 in the morning. They lost gear, displays and eventually held a flood sale for 45 bikes.

Other businesses were hit harder. Kismet lost a basement of food and called on the community for $55,000 in donations or loans in order to re-open. Capitol Stationers estimated over $20,000 of office supplies ended up in the dumpster.

The bittersweet part of this all is how beautifully people come together around disasters and tragedies. Neighbors and strangers helped clear debris. A group of Montpelier residents organized a flood fundraiser. Although I didn't help out this time, I remember clearly the time I did. The Mad River overflowed its banks in the late 1990's when I was living in Waitsfield. Many roads were closed so I got on my bike and rode into town. When I heard that American Flatbread lost $10,000 worth of firewood, I showed up and spent the afternoon hanging hundreds of George's dedications on clothespins to dry.

Although most roads and bridges will be repaired, people will move on, and businesses will recover, I hope the bigger issue that is the greater context for all this will not be lost. The storms this season have been powerful, intense and wet. Vermont - and other states and countries - has been setting records for rain, snow, tornadoes, droughts and hurricanes.. The grave impacts of climate change are right in front of us - giving us a taste of what might become more commonplace, not to mention more extreme. Bill McKibben recently published a powerful editorial commenting on how our society would rather not see the connections between the fires in the southwest, the tornadoes in the midwest and the floods of the south. Because it would make us face the facts and force us to change our energy-consuming ways.

I know I could do more on the energy issue. As a crusader and lover of social movements, I give as much as I can to causes, as a professional and volunteer. I've dedicated decades to protecting our landscapes, ensuring the well-being of children and providing access to physical activity for everyone. Why can't I hang my laundry?

I saw a haunting film at the Vermont showing of the Telluride MountainFilm Festival a few years ago that featured the changes to the global ski industry due to global warming. It featured Vermont ski areas that no longer exist and illustrated the dramatically-reduced snowpack in Chamonix, France (where I skiied and snowboarded in 2000). The film also featured a brave and brilliant kid who has launched a campaign using simple, catchy phrases (I Hang, I Ride, etc..) and information kiosks in public places to raise awareness of the simple things that invididuals can do.

I guess the writing is on the wall. I was not struck by lightening, I did not lose my home or anyone in my life from flooding, tornadoes or wildfires. I can still ride my bike on all the trails I love at home. I can still dream of all the beautiful trails in the world where I hope to ride in the future. So my kids can, too, I see that I need to do more. Phil has been pursuing solar panels to support our electricity use, and I'll pledge here - on this (somewhat) public forum - to hang my laundry this summer. It's at least a start.

Opening Day

The ski chairlift hanging from a tree. The artful sign on the trail named "Permission". The moose ribs. The microclimate amid granite boulders. I ticked off these landmarks on my favorite trails this week, as bike trail networks opened one-by-one. The rumor mill had been buzzing. "I heard Millstone is open." "Darling Hill at Kingdom Trails is ridable." "Dan Smith's is dry." After a rainy weather pattern had me riding dirt roads (albeit lovely) a month too late, spring fever hit me with the force of a perfect endo.

Once the trails open, there is no turning back to dirt roads for me. Last Saturday's dirt road ride was a sweet, swan song. Mandy Wisell and I embarked on the circumnavigation of the Northfield range, knocking off 6 towns along the way (Middlesex, Moretown, Northfield, Roxbury, Warren, Waitsfield). We passed bucolic, pastoral landscapes, adorned with classic symbols of country living: baby lambs nestled in the woolly locks of mama sheep; garden beds black with overturned soil, chainsaws buzzing around small building projects, Morgan horses playfully teasing each other; an older couple sitting on the front porch of their farmhouse. One scene was right out of Vermont Life magazine: a youth driving a tractor hauling brush down a narrow, sugar maple-lined lane, his father navigating the way and an old yellow retriever trailing slowly behind.

Below is a documentation of my obsessive behavior this opening week (if you are a work colleague, please stop reading here). I like to think it was boot camp training for the BC Bike Race - an immersion week of 13 hours of technical skills building and muscular endurance efforts, but in reality, it was more like gluttony ...

Tuesday: Heather Steinhour and I wound our way around the Stowe Town Loops, past the chairlift, down and up Bear Run, and tracked the dry upper loops a few times. We laughed how our depth perception was rusty at times, but mostly, the muscle memory was all there.

Wednesday: Euphoria. That's the first word to come to mind to describe what it feels like to descend Burning Spear. Other choice phrases would be: slightly out-of-control, but mostly-in-control; Polaroid picture-taking in my mind, every second, every section; remembering lines with fondness; flowing like water.

Wednesday: I brought the kids back to the Waterbury trails after school. They trialed the pump track while I donated $20 to the guy working on some jumps because he is raising money to have IRide rebuild the park (he is selling Waterbury Bike Park T-shirts to buy materials). We headed up the hill that serves as the gateway to the trails. Carson pushed his bike most of the way and then rode the last lip. Awesome determination. Austin walked alongside me (as I was pushing both my bike and his), slugging from his water bottle and telling me how he was "saving his energy for the ride." Cracked me up.

We stopped to chat with Jared Hossfros and his daughter, Lilliana, and then wound through the tall trees of the Campfire trails. As I followed my enthusiastic sons (who were hoping to again meet up with the "girl in the purple helmet"), I marveled at how impermanent life is. I first rode this trail over 10 years ago. I recalled the essay I wrote for Bike Magazine in 2006 (see post below) about rolling over this pine needle-laden path during different phases of my life, with friends who mean alot to me. Now I am following my kids, who aren't young children anymore, but curious athletes of their own.

Thursday: I met Barb Patterson at the Montpelier pool and we climbed up the Sparrow Farm Trail to Dan Smith's between Jacob and Horn of the Moon. We meandered over hill and forest, momentarily losing the trail at times because of leaf litter, but mostly botanizing while biking. Patches of Dutchman's Breeches were in full bloom, appearing like tiny pantalooms hanging upside down from carrot top-like greenery. Other favorites were there for the admiring: star flowers, red trillium, spring beauties, wild oats, trout lilies, and violets.

Thursday: I joined the Montpelier Are Mountain Bike Association group ride hosted by Steve Bolduc in Middlesex. Steve's trail-building plays with the gentle and steep grades of the hillside and there are plenty of breath-holding drops (all with go-arounds). Bill Bruzzese and Kip Roberts and I took a loop at a junction marked by the skull of an animal Steve has come across. The entire carcass of a moose took me by surprise next, but served as a reminder of of those we share the woods with.

Friday: I met Liza Walker and Lisa Lavoie at the Waterbury trails. We caught up as we climbed. Biking is a social sport, but there is definitely an art to storytelling or chatting. Stop too much and the ride feels too fragmented. Talking while riding takes away from focus on technique. It is also a little cruel to ask a question of someone climbing a hill with compromised breathing. It takes skillful conversing in short sound bites or snippets, interspersed with bouts of charging downhill. Ultimately, it reinforces the value of having a beer together after a ride. Then, you can just ride.

Saturday: I did a solo ride at Millstone Hill with my dog, Ali. Where a few weeks ago I was craving friendship on the trail (invitations to as many as 9 people in one week, resulted in one person to ride with), this week I had shared my experience so much that I was looking forward to listening to music or practicing mindfulness. From the parking lot, I followed the red loop through familiar and favorite trails, however, after Scrambler and Little John, I was delighted to find myself crossing the road and entering a section of the network that I had never been on. I was told that there are other new sections, too, making Millstone a place to keep coming back to throughout the summer and fall. I'll certainly be spending the hours here in preparation for the 12 Hours of Millstone in July (as a two-person team with Heather Steinhour) and the Millstone Grind in August.

Sunday (tomorrow): An extended rain will set in and make me ok with skipping the first race of the year: Flower Power at Catamount. It will help me return from my self-imposed "spring break" to more of a work/ride/home balance. I know my family will be glad to see me ante up around the house. On Monday, I'm sure my colleagues will appreciate an increased presence in the office (don't get me wrong, I'm at my desk at 5:30 am in an attempt to compensate for my "extended lunches"). I'll feel reward in checking off another week of training for the BC Bike Race, hopefully, leading to confidence in my preparation on race day, 7 weeks from today.

Releasing the Brakes

Revised version was printed in Bike Magazine, fall 2006

Releasing the Brakes
By Kelly Ault

It was a ladies bike night like any other - same friends, same trail, same June mid-week night. Single file, we snaked around the rusty frying pan hanging from a jagged tree branch to enter the Campfire Trails. Struck silent with anticipation, we followed the path beckoning from between mammoth tree trunks. We rolled our bikes to the edge of a great pitch, enjoying a moment of suspension. Then, with a releasing of the brakes, we were gone. Euphoric hooting could be heard from below, inspired by the thrill of speed, precision of reflexes, and the smooth guiding of handlebars.

We stopped for water - grins still on our faces - when three mothers approached, pushing swaddled babies in joggers. There was a heavy pause, marking an unspoken exchange. The women in mud-speckled bike skirts could almost be heard thinking, “that will soon be us.” The mothers in comfortable sweats were also wistful, “I remember that feeling of freedom.” We said our hellos and continued along our temporarily different paths.

Two years later, the group again saddled mountain bikes on a warm summer night. But this time, it was a “moms make a comeback” ride. It had been six months since I gave birth to twin boys. The arrival of Austin and Carson sparked monumental change, reinventing everything from identity to lifestyle. Before I realized what had happened, my bike pump was collecting dust while my nursing pump was working overtime. Sleep-deprived eyes pored over catalogs of children’s gear rather than bike parts. I barely noticed that I hadn’t left the house in two months. But as winter gave way to spring, the tug of wildflowers in the woods was too strong to ignore. Although I had embraced the transition to mother, I needed to re-connect with the athlete I used to be. I called up the ladies, who were now mothers, too.

That summer, our urgent riding was driven by the need to return home before the end of naps. Grinding up hills, we commiserated over the endless chore of changing diapers and gushed with adoration about our kids. Hauling down mountainsides, I once again experienced the feeling of freedom. The ability to generate forward motion and go fast was a stark contrast to my sedentary home life. The vivid color and ripe smells of the woods were overpowering. Through the frivolity of aimless wandering, I briefly forgot my considerable responsibility for two other beings and remembered my desires. Although it was temporary, those moments of quiet woods, camaraderie and pumping adrenaline were my own.

Riding became a pure source of independence. The hours on the trail empowered my goal-oriented self, providing the perfect counterbalance to my unpredictable days at home. I could be patient with the slow progress of my boys’ developmental milestones - the first smile, word, or step – because riding gave me the structure and results I didn’t want to impose on parenting.

Over time, the ladies began to bypass the fluid Campfire Trails, instead opting for the narrow, wilder ones that wound around over-sized boulders and across dried-up riverbeds. One evening, an impulse to test skills brought us to Burning Spear, known for its trickiness. We took our time negotiating log bridges, rock spines and drops. We rode “do overs” to the point of perfection. As mothers, our patience and encouragement for each other felt as familiar as if we were observing our babies learning to crawl. Collectively, we felt pride. Individually, we felt a powerful alignment of our dual selves - both mother and athlete.

But most nights, it didn’t take much more than a handful of loops on undulating terrain to get my fill of freedom. Mere minutes of reverence in the tranquil piney woods brought balance. Overcoming a trail obstacle provided a long-standing sense of accomplishment. As I returned home after each ride renewed and ready to resume my parenting role, it was clear that satisfaction with riding strengthened my satisfaction with motherhood. And no one deserved that more than the double toothless grins greeting me at the door.

Motherhood and My Time

18 hours a week is a part time job. 18 hours is daytime (in absence of night). It is also the number of hours my training plan for the BC Bike Race has me riding this week.

The fog was still thick as I pedaled past the Brook Road farm at 6 am this morning. A newborn calf was standing close to its mother-the same cow I watched giving birth to it a week ago: A large black mass heaving up and down on a pile of hay in the field with a small white head poking out. Today is Mother's Day and most mothers I know are awakening to the smell of coffee and well-intentioned baking efforts, not an alarm clock. But, here it is Sunday and I'm not quite set up to hit the 18 hour mark for the week, hence my dawn rising.

I actually didn't mind one bit. I'll have coffee and pancakes waiting for me after a 2.5 hour spin in the cool, quiet morning air. But more importantly, I love this time of day. Dawn is my favorite time to ride the Waterbury trails in the summer, when I feel that I alone am witnessing the wakening of the forest. Not to mention I feel clarity and healthy the rest of my day.

I constantly struggle between taking "my time" and giving it to other things in my life - family and work, friends and community. I try to take the 18 hours from sleep or sometime where it might not impact others, but ultimately, the guilty feeling creeps in over the long Saturday ride or the short work day on a Wednesday. With Phil riding his 18+ hours, too, planning schedules becomes a juggle of needs worthy of a circus act.

But today - Mother's Day - I found the perfect balance. After my ride, breakfast and Phil's ride, we took the boys on a meandering drive to Rutland to bike Pine Hill Park. It is a cool place, with landscaped trails (and gardens) and artistically designed bridges and features. The problem was in order to go down the flowing, well-bermed trails, we had to first climb up. While this philosophy is well-understood by adults, it is not the most motivating approach for two 7 year-old boys. Paint your own picture with a few hints: sibling rivalry; going up a trail called "the ledges;" going down a trail called "broken handlebar;" spectacular air...and crash landing. Despite a few rough patches, however, we hooted around the woods and the kids were grinning until the minute they fell asleep, fully entangled with the dog in the backseat.

We all learned about ourselves today - found what we needed for ourselves to be happy and to be part of and contribute to our "pack." And, it made me think that if my riding can expose them to the thrill of riding ("I slammed it!" Austin said proudly after going off a jump), then it may not be such a solitary activity.

Next week, the 11 hours on my plan will feel light, and I'm sure I'll redirect those 7 extra hours into the kids, the laundry or the job or volunteer work that fuels me.

Water Whirls

It was a neck warmer, not a pair of ski goggles (see previous post), that I donned at a last minute. A few hours later, I was praising my impulse, as it served as a towel for regularly wiping the splatter from my face and neck. The precipitation had been relentless over the past few weeks, almost daily alterations between snow and rain, winter and spring. The weather was even confused within one moment in time where it was sunny and (still) showering.

The theme of each ride became water and I spent great periods of time in awe at the power of roaring waterfalls (the one on Chase Rd was reminiscent of one I've seen in NH's Pemigewasset Wilderness) and the determination of overflowing streams, as well as resignation over the continued existence of snow patches on the fourth class roads I was traveling.

It provided plenty of fodder for practicing mindfulness while riding; taking one full minute to listen to the sounds of water, taking one full minute to feel the numbness from cold of one thumb, taking one full minute to observe the sensation of fatigue in my glutes and the deliciousness of deep breathing as I arduously pedal up - yet another - muddy, gap road.

I'm curious about mindful meditation and how a quiet mind might improve my mountain biking. I've always been a mental "chewer and stewer" when I exercise - I've had half a mind to consider riding time as billable hours the way I can creatively brainstorm a work project. Yet, that makes me highly distractable on technical singletrack, as well as gives an "in" to negative thinking that inevitably creeps in during tough races.

By trying to focus on the present moment and not ruminating on the stories of the past ("I've been riding in the rain for 2 hours now") or the future ("there is still a ways to go on this climb"), I have noticed a difference in how I observe the nuances of my surroundings day-to-day. The trout lily leaves that I passed two days ago were topped with tubular-shaped flowers yesterday and were fully open and star-faced today. I can only strive for the "bliss effect" that some describe when race efforts feel effortless, and hopefully time it for the fourth lap of next Sunday's Flower Power race at the Catamount Outdoor Center.

Mindfulness to Maintenence

"Why is chain lube black?" asked my 7 year old sons' best friend, Park, as he watched me lube up the chain on his bike. I tried to think fast. "It has petroleum in it and petroleum comes from oil, which is black," I replied. Evidently satisfied with my hack of an answer, Park swung a leg over his saddle and spun off to join the pack of 7 neighborhood kids doing laps around the driveway.

I have always been honest about how mechanically under-developed I am compared to my level of experience (20 years of mountain biking) and the women I compete against (semi-pro and pro). I can even laugh at myself at times, like the time over the winter when I tried to thaw out a frozen bottle of chain lube by putting it in the microwave, only to have the thing burst into flames within seconds. Shouldn't I have know that lube is a flammable product? Or more recently, when it took me almost an hour to change tires on my bike stationed behind Onion River Sports, soliciting assistance from Kip, Phil, Zach and Tristen along the way (I still need to drop off that 6-pack).

But, there are times when I haven't laughed so much, like when I blew all my CO2 cartridges over two flat tires at the Coyote Hill Classic last Memorial Day and had a long hike out along flowing and fast singletrack. I've convinced myself that my brain is not naturally oriented or instinctual about these things (which is true), but the reality is that I've come to use that as an excuse.

The truth is that I am impatient. I'd rather get on with the "do-ing" of experiences, rather than futz around getting ready. Despite being an obsessive organizer of logistics, I'm not sure I enjoy the process as much as appreciate that thorough planning often leads to smooth execution. And, I want myself and those around me to get on with enjoying what we love to do.

So, I've decided that this is the year to learn bike maintenance. I've already started off by getting to know my new bike, a Trek/Gary Fischer Superfly 100 29er. I've researched tires for different conditions (spring in Vermont and British Columbia in summer; I got the tubeless thing down a few years ago, but now am discerning between 1.9-2.2 widths), pumped up the shocks, gotten a bike fit and tried to understand the best approach to making the adjustments. Next, will come some trailside practice - although I know how to break a chain, change a tube, adjust a derailer, my lack of application makes me slow and forgetful about the sequence of things.

I'll get there. In fact, I did buy a new heart rate monitor this year - I mean, really did the research, rather than just buy the first one I saw - to find one that didn't have a bunch of functions I didn't need and looked somewhat feminine. I found it in a Suunto M1 - it's white and still a "wrist bagel" but I actually read the manual. Hopefully, I'll have a better answer for Park next time, as well as be able to take care of myself and others on the trail.

Today, it is spring again and I should start getting really for the day's riding adventure with Mandy Wisell. We'll see how many towns we can hit as we circumnavigate the Northfield Ridge (Middlesex, Moretown, Norhtfield, Roxbury, Warren, Waitsfield). And, tomorrow's Mother's Day will find me on the trails, as Phil and the kids treat me to a trip to Pine Hill Park in Rutland. It should be at least 5 degrees warmer down there....