Biffing

Outside the wind is howling and churning up snow that resembles tapioca pearls. Indeed, Friday afternoon was the last vestige of a balmy and sun-soaked Indian summer. I am full of self-satisfaction when I say that I spent that glorious afternoon on my mountain bike lapping up every scrap of it. Sherry and I had made plans to play in the dirt on 2 wheels, but she had to cancel at the last minute for grown up obligations. My plans for play were wedged between 2 grown up engagements as well: a staff meeting (snore!) and an appointment to speak with my billing people. The staff meeting went 20 minutes later than planned (don't they all?)--I almost cancelled the ride for fear of arriving late for my next appointment.

Fear, shmear---I'm riding! I pull into Dryer Road Park and changed into my bike clothes in the car with 9 guys riding around the parking lot unbeknowst of my lack of modesty. I don my Camelback and helmet (all dressed up and ready to party!), clip in, and motor up A-train. 4 years ago when this park opened I remember this and all the trails being more narrow. I'd like to think that my riding skills have improved so much that the trails seem easier to ride, but it's more likely a combination of that and the trails widening and flattening out over time.

I start of with the flat, twisty trails: Ziggy and Treebeard. Without someone in front or behind me, I ride my own speed and carefully pick my way around the turns. It was good to not ride rushed and get comfortable with balancing at slow speeds. Don't get me wrong---I love to ride mtb with others. It pushes me out of my comfort zone. However, riding alone helped me be more confident in that comfort zone.

I rode over the rock gardens on Ziggy without dabbing--a first! Ziggy is the only trail at Dryer with rock gardens and that's a strong word. They're more like rock flower beds. Because the trail is flat with tight turns, the trick for skipping over the rocks is to carry enough moment through the turns and have some speed. The old mtb mantra: Speed is your friend; Brakes are the enemy. Yes, but speed is scary. Brakes feel secure.

Which brings me to biffing. On the Bikespeak forum (I'm growing weary of the Slowtwitch forum and its Iron-douches), a newby mtb rider asked how often people biff per ride. A few experienced sounding riders said about 3-4 every year, spectacular crashes that leave them unable to ride the next day. That's one every 3-4 months! I've only had 2 crashes that have hobbled me in the last 5 years. I must not be riding hard enough.

Then I think: rarely have I had a mtb ride where I am not bruised, scratched, had the wind knocked out of me, or all three--baby biffs. I don't think I crash less than I did when I first started riding. I just don't think about biffing as much as I used to. My first mountain bike was a 1991 Trek Antelope. I remember being so scared of crashing and falling that when I did it hurt ALOT. Now I just assumed I'm gonna biff and check for the flesh wounds in the shower after the ride.

I turn down Owl's Maze, marked with the letter O. O is for Old friend. This trail is the longest in the park, with descents, climbs and tight twists off-camber and around trees. I love this trail and know every leaf and root on it. On Friday, I am alone with all my memories of chickenshit unclipping and baby biffs on this trail. On that day, I finally LISTEN to myself and stay clipped in, weight back and ahhhh...glide over the spots where my left foot would've unclipped for security and caused a spill. The tree where I had caught the left edge of my handlebar and went down hard loomed up the trail. I've been triumphant since that crash in leaning away and clearing that tree. But this time I catch my left handlebar again. The wheel turns almost perpendicular to the top tube. I calmy and quickly turned it back and kept riding, shiny side up. I expected to biff, but corrected in time. A small victory against old fears.

I go on to clean a short, rooty climb with a small ledge that I've always had to unclip halfway up. I rode Owl's Maze again just to do clean that climb twice and convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke. The ride concludes with a spin down S trail, a lovely, swooping trail through maples and oaks. I fly down an off-camber descent; and my back wheel slides under some wet leaves. I panic and grab my back brake, further locking up my back wheel. DUH. The bike skids out from under me and the top tube slams into my right leg. The daily biff. Brakes really are the enemy. I would've been better off speeding up and unweighting my back wheel. Oh well, next ride.

So it seems that old fears/past pain can be conquered by a combination of accepting them and revisiting them and making new, more positive experiences. Mission to be accomplish with a brave, open heart and shin guards.

Wah! Wah! Wah!

As you may recall, after I signed up for Penticton, I declared to dedicate a generous portion of my time and energy to swimming. My retirement from general surgery has given me the luxury of free time for rest, a predictable schedule to have a consistent basic training week, and more energy to build up strength in my noodle arms to move myself through the water. My plans included Masters twice a week with another 2 swims for "longer sets". I even found the best lane mate and personal swim coach--Janelle!--to further motivate me to swim and fine tune my stroke. I was gonna leave a flaming wake of fire behind me in Lake Okanagan with my Mike Phelps-like swim speed.

Sounds good, huh?

I didn't make it to one Master's class this week. No, my arms didn't fall off. No, I didn't catch rabies and have hydrophobia (remember that from "Old Yeller"?) My basic week has me swimming (in the evenings--that's due to Master's scheduling) on the day of my long ride and on my busiest day at work. Pretty lame excuses. I just didn't want to go to the pool: the water's cold, it's late, I'm pooped, wahwahwah! So I'm gonna drag myself to the pool this afternoon and swim---all by myself. No Janelle. Sniff.

Obviously, the petulant 5 year old Kitima got her way this week without even having to hold her breath during the tantrums. What is so damned horrible about swimming? My immediate answer is that no one truly enjoys doing something they're not good at doing. Yes, but I'm not very good at mountain bike yet I can't wait to get out on the dirt, knowing that I have at least a 90% chance of crashing/falling during each ride. At least swimming doesn't leave me scratched up and bruised.

Then Janelle reminded me: IM drills. GAWD! Do I hate IM drills. I propel myself backwards during the breast stroke; swim in place, bobbing up and down, during butterfly; and feel like I'm drowning during the backstroke. So wonder I suck at the drills---which is all the more reason I should be doing them.

So let me revise my answer to the above question: I don't truly enjoy swimming because I'm not good at it. However, I will and should persist if I feel that I'm improving---which is not just a faster 1000m free time trial, a faster IM swim at Penticton. I want that immeasurable feeling of being able to catch and pull without struggle, to slice through the water like a blue fin tuna, to swim with a rhythm that feels natural. No one was born with any of those things (except Charlie the Tuna). If I learned anything from surgery, it's that it takes alot of patience and practice to make something look effortless.

Back in the water I go--IM drills and all. If I can make laparoscopic gastric bypass look graceful, I can certainly learn to swim 200m IM without making the life guards nervous. The next time that whiny 5 year old who doesn't want to swim throws a tantrum and holds her breath, I'll just have to throw her into the water.

Going Home

I'm back from a 3 day visit with my parents. Just Mom, Dad, and me: my childhood joys of being an only child fulfilled! Mom makes my favorite Thai dishes; and I feel so sated and at home. I helped Dad find some nursery rhymes and Christmas song CD's so he can sing those songs with my nephew. I confirmed with Mom that her cat, Rambo, is indeed utterly blind. With every homecoming, I find out a bit more about myself and my family's history.

After raking leaves from their yard, I find the shed to be tidy and organized just as I would have it. Yeah, that's where the neatnik started. My inability to throw ANYTHING away is mirrored in a cupboard full of old jars (neatly stacked) that have been reused the for the last 30 years for storing spices.

I truly enjoy my parents company. I've always thought that if they weren't my parents I'd still want to get to know and befriend them. The three of us hung out and talk about politics, the stock market, birds, food, and vacation plans for 2009. One of the best things about me finally growing up is getting to know my parents as adults.

I asked Dad about his childhood. He explained how he wound up with 3 different birth certificates and still no exact date of birth. Dad was born in his parents' home in a part of Bangkok where Chinese immigrants lived. Neither he nor his parents made a record of what day, month, or year he was born. He went to Chinese school to learn to read and write Chinese (of course) before he went to public school which made him a bit older than the rest of the kids in his public school class. The teacher asked for a birth certificate. When none could be had, that teacher drew one up estimating Dad's age and arbitrarily setting his birth date at Jan 1. The next year in school another teacher asked for proof of Dad's age (Mom says that's because he was the only kid in 5th grade with a 5 o'clock shadow). That teacher thought his birth certificate was inaccurate and issued another one with her estimation of his age. Couple of years later the Thai government had a census and asked Dad's parents for proof of their kids' ages. My grandparents told the census officer that they were quite sure Dad was born the year of the horse, during some waxing moon and other Chinese date keeping (the Chinese calendar is lunar). The census officer (who was Thai and had limited understanding and patience for Chinese lunar dates) said the birth certificate issued by the teachers was completely wrong and issued another one according to the Thai calendar (which is NOT like the Gregorian calendar that we have). When it came time to determine the birthday, the officer said, "How about Jan 21?" Sure thing, no problem! So we really have no idea exactly when is Dad's birthday or how old he is.

Dad went on to tell me how his family came from China to Thailand. My great grandfather lived in China with his parents and 5 brothers (we have no idea how many sisters as it was tradition to give away infant daughters to the families of their future husbands). During many years of drought and famine (they were rice farmers), my great grandfather and his brothers couldn't afford a water buffalo or ox to plow the fields. So they took turns as the ox, put on the yoke, and tried to push the plow. This plan failed miserably for obvious reasons. They determined that if they stayed in China they would surely die of starvation. They could leave and go to Thailand, face the unknown, possibly fail, and still meet their maker, but at least they'd die trying.

As it turned out, my grandfather came to Thailand (as Dad put it: "with only his sleeping mat and pillow"), worked hard, and became very successful as a merchant. After 30 years, he made enough money to go back to China, buy a home, and retire comfortably.

He packed all his earnings (in the form of gold bars) into an ox-drawn cart and sent his son (my dad's uncle) to Laos to exchange it for Chinese currency--apparently, the exchange rate was better there compared to Thailand. When his son returned with his Chinese cash, Mao Zedong took over China, closed the country off, and started the Communist revolution. My great grandfather's Chinese cash was now worth nothing. (Which really makes our current economic situation not seem so bad)

He and his son were crushed. However, my great grandfather continued with his profitable business, weathered the Japanese occupation of Thailand during World War II, and went on to retire in Thailand with plenty of gold bars to spare. My dad's uncle eventually went on to own most of the Toyota dealerships in Bangkok.

So I guess the moral of the story is:

• Famine and drought can starve you and Communism can take away your life's savings, they still can't take away your tenacity, drive, and ability to be successful.
• Never trust in paper money.
• Knowing the exact day, month, and year of someone's birthday isn't that important as long as you remember to celebrate that person's existence in your life.