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Somehow this funny little story turned into post from CareerBuilder.
1 Comments
Published on Monday, September 14, 2009 at 10:35 PM. 
My most recent project at work has been the particularly mind-numbing task of reformatting and editing forty-seven resumes that are going to be included in a proposal. Resume formatting is horribly boring and repetitive, so to pass the time I've started actually paying attention to the content of the resumes. It amazes me to see the kind of poorly-written tripe people put in the document that is intended to represent the sum total of their professional selves. Some resumes are obscenely long, detailed, and impossible to follow, while others describe entire years spent doing a job using a single bullet point. The best resumes (and by "best", I mean the most likely to entertain people around me) and the ones with objective statements, because 95% of the time, the statements are pointless crap.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
Exhibit C:
There were several slightly less awful objectives that included statements like "provides an avenue for advancement" and "maximize your company goals", but not one objective said anything compelling or hire-worthy about the writer. I don't claim to have any valid expertise in resume writing, but I can tell you that if you put it on paper and even your mother doesn't give a shit, you should probably not send it to an employer.
Some helpful hints. First, delete the objective statement entirely. Potential employers don't care about your objectives, they care about theirs. They are not going to hire you to make your dreams come true; they're going to hire you to be a cog in the company machine.
If you are unwilling to part with the objective statement entirely, then at least try to remember that companies are not going to select you because they want to give you a chance to grow. You're not a young, magical plant. Don't bother dressing up your desire to start your career or get ahead with fluffy words. Tell the employer what you will do for them and be specific. State specifically why you rock and leave out the wishy-washy personal adjectives (everybody is a "motivated team-player"). When you have put something down on paper, read it out loud and then ask yourself, "Can more than half of the planet say the exact same thing and have it be true?" If the answer is yes, then my answer is DELETE.
On the other hand, somewhere some poor girl might be stuck reformatting your resume some day, so please do her a favor and lump on the dumbest, most ridiculous objective you possibly can. It will brighten her day and she will laugh and then make fun of you on the Internet and be happy that you exist.
Exhibit A:
"To utilize my education and professional experience, while increasing my leadership abilities, to contribute towards achieving goals in a business environment.”So basically you have a deeply unique and meaningful goal that is shared only by every single other person who either has job or aspires to have a job. I shall hire you at once!
Exhibit B:
"Find an entry-level position that will not only challenge me, but afford me the opportunity to serve my country."Serve your country? This isn't the Peace Corps. You're applying for a paid position (obviously you don't care what kind, just as long as it's the bottom rung of the ladder) at a private company. Try McDonald's. You can serve your country fries.
Exhibit C:
"To be a dedicated employee, doing the best job possible and learning new things. Helping other people to be what they want and need to be for success. To make the company I work for successful."I don't even know what to say here, but I don't need to because I'm too busy choking on all the vomit.
There were several slightly less awful objectives that included statements like "provides an avenue for advancement" and "maximize your company goals", but not one objective said anything compelling or hire-worthy about the writer. I don't claim to have any valid expertise in resume writing, but I can tell you that if you put it on paper and even your mother doesn't give a shit, you should probably not send it to an employer.
Some helpful hints. First, delete the objective statement entirely. Potential employers don't care about your objectives, they care about theirs. They are not going to hire you to make your dreams come true; they're going to hire you to be a cog in the company machine.
If you are unwilling to part with the objective statement entirely, then at least try to remember that companies are not going to select you because they want to give you a chance to grow. You're not a young, magical plant. Don't bother dressing up your desire to start your career or get ahead with fluffy words. Tell the employer what you will do for them and be specific. State specifically why you rock and leave out the wishy-washy personal adjectives (everybody is a "motivated team-player"). When you have put something down on paper, read it out loud and then ask yourself, "Can more than half of the planet say the exact same thing and have it be true?" If the answer is yes, then my answer is DELETE.
On the other hand, somewhere some poor girl might be stuck reformatting your resume some day, so please do her a favor and lump on the dumbest, most ridiculous objective you possibly can. It will brighten her day and she will laugh and then make fun of you on the Internet and be happy that you exist.
My grandmother is dying. She has about a million things wrong with her health at this point, and even though she has proven to be incredibly strong and resilient, each day that goes by is a day in which she gets a bit weaker and a bit closer to the end. This past week, she moved into a hospice care center where she will spend the rest of her fading life.
The funny part is that she is has been through so much and yet still she survives. As a family, we've all said our final goodbyes a half dozen times, we've planned for and expected the worst, and we've heard multiple bits of bad news about her health from doctors who are certain this time will surely be the end. I even stayed up late one night last week, crying and waiting for the call from my father. And yet Grandma is still hanging out at the hospice center, probably taking up yoga or competitive knitting as I write this.
People who have heard that my grandmother is dying generally ask if we are close, and that's a hard question to answer. After my grandpa died about ten years ago, my grandma became a different person. She was easily irritated for the first few years (who could blame her?) but then settled into being a strong, independent woman who had her job, her friends, her life, and her travels around the world. Back in 2003, she even took my parents and me with her on a tour around Ireland, where she and I shared a hotel room the whole time. I thought that would be so awkward, but after the first night or so, it felt completely natural to stay with Grandma.
In the years since then, I never visited as much as I should have, but I tried to call once in a while to at least say hello and let her know I was thinking about her. She has the same attitude about the phone as I do; I'll call, she'll ask a few questions about my life, thank me for calling, tell me she loves me, and hang up. Wham, bam, we're done in under a minute or two. The one time she kept me on the phone chatting for almost fifteen minutes was so remarkable that I called my parents afterwards to share the news.
I also sent her letters and cards, sometimes to just check in and tell her about my life and other times to wish her well if she was ill or to share good memories about my grandfather on the anniversary of his death. She used to tell me when I was younger how much she enjoyed my thank you notes and cards, so I like to think the letters I continued to send brought her happiness when she opened the mailbox.
Now she is in a hospice center, so I can't call her house or mail her letters to anymore. The funny thing is that this has made me realize that I was partly reaching out to her because it made me feel close to her. Writing to her wasn't just for her sake, it was for mine as well. I don't know what I will do when she is not around anymore to even open a card I bring to her bedside.
If history is any proof of what's to come, that'll never be an issue and she'll probably do the eulogy at my own funeral in fifty years. I would love that, because the idea of never hearing her voice on the other end of the line or getting a card from her on my birthday is too much to even imagine. I've gotten a small taste of that sorrow each time we think it's the end of the road for her, but every time she bounces back, I forget that feeling, forget to make time to go visit her, and keep on pretending I have all the time in the world.
I was going to wait to write about her until after she goes, because I figured that would be the right time to say something. But I chose to write this today because I just read the website of a friend who lost someone close to him last week to cancer. He had kept a candle burning in his kitchen for years throughout her long battle, but now that she has died, he no longer keeps the candle burning. I wanted to share the story about my grandmother so that I could explain that starting just over a week ago, I began wearing a small silver cross - not because I am in any way religious, but instead because she is and it is my way of honoring her, her life, and her beliefs. I will wear this cross until she is gone and then long after, until one day the chain finally wears away. I will wear it to remind me of her and her strength and grace, to remind me to be a better, kinder person, and to remind me that she loved me in her own way and I loved her in mine.
So you see, my friend, there is no reason you should not still keep lighting candles to keep your friend in your life. People we love lose battles to age or disease, they move on to new and better places where they no longer hurt or feel weak, but those of us who are still here should not stop doing what we can to remember and honor them.
The funny part is that she is has been through so much and yet still she survives. As a family, we've all said our final goodbyes a half dozen times, we've planned for and expected the worst, and we've heard multiple bits of bad news about her health from doctors who are certain this time will surely be the end. I even stayed up late one night last week, crying and waiting for the call from my father. And yet Grandma is still hanging out at the hospice center, probably taking up yoga or competitive knitting as I write this.
People who have heard that my grandmother is dying generally ask if we are close, and that's a hard question to answer. After my grandpa died about ten years ago, my grandma became a different person. She was easily irritated for the first few years (who could blame her?) but then settled into being a strong, independent woman who had her job, her friends, her life, and her travels around the world. Back in 2003, she even took my parents and me with her on a tour around Ireland, where she and I shared a hotel room the whole time. I thought that would be so awkward, but after the first night or so, it felt completely natural to stay with Grandma.
In the years since then, I never visited as much as I should have, but I tried to call once in a while to at least say hello and let her know I was thinking about her. She has the same attitude about the phone as I do; I'll call, she'll ask a few questions about my life, thank me for calling, tell me she loves me, and hang up. Wham, bam, we're done in under a minute or two. The one time she kept me on the phone chatting for almost fifteen minutes was so remarkable that I called my parents afterwards to share the news.
I also sent her letters and cards, sometimes to just check in and tell her about my life and other times to wish her well if she was ill or to share good memories about my grandfather on the anniversary of his death. She used to tell me when I was younger how much she enjoyed my thank you notes and cards, so I like to think the letters I continued to send brought her happiness when she opened the mailbox.
Now she is in a hospice center, so I can't call her house or mail her letters to anymore. The funny thing is that this has made me realize that I was partly reaching out to her because it made me feel close to her. Writing to her wasn't just for her sake, it was for mine as well. I don't know what I will do when she is not around anymore to even open a card I bring to her bedside.
If history is any proof of what's to come, that'll never be an issue and she'll probably do the eulogy at my own funeral in fifty years. I would love that, because the idea of never hearing her voice on the other end of the line or getting a card from her on my birthday is too much to even imagine. I've gotten a small taste of that sorrow each time we think it's the end of the road for her, but every time she bounces back, I forget that feeling, forget to make time to go visit her, and keep on pretending I have all the time in the world.
I was going to wait to write about her until after she goes, because I figured that would be the right time to say something. But I chose to write this today because I just read the website of a friend who lost someone close to him last week to cancer. He had kept a candle burning in his kitchen for years throughout her long battle, but now that she has died, he no longer keeps the candle burning. I wanted to share the story about my grandmother so that I could explain that starting just over a week ago, I began wearing a small silver cross - not because I am in any way religious, but instead because she is and it is my way of honoring her, her life, and her beliefs. I will wear this cross until she is gone and then long after, until one day the chain finally wears away. I will wear it to remind me of her and her strength and grace, to remind me to be a better, kinder person, and to remind me that she loved me in her own way and I loved her in mine.
So you see, my friend, there is no reason you should not still keep lighting candles to keep your friend in your life. People we love lose battles to age or disease, they move on to new and better places where they no longer hurt or feel weak, but those of us who are still here should not stop doing what we can to remember and honor them.
Race Report: Welcome to the Thunderdome, Bitches.
1 Comments
Published on Tuesday, September 08, 2009 at 8:02 PM.
This past Sunday was the Shenandoah Mountain 100, a one-hundred mile bike race through the mountains of Virginia. I did the race for the first time last year with Bobby, but decided to fly solo this year. The Log Posse came out in full, with Steve joining me in the race and the rest of the Posse providing moral support and volunteering at one of the six aid stations along the course.
Log Posse headquarters. Photos compliments of Mike, Log Posse Magnate.
In the interest of keeping this race report a manageable length, I’ll break it up into a rough synopsis of my status at each of the checkpoints, as well as at the beginning and the end, followed by a summary of the overall race. If it still takes forever to read, I’m sorry. It took forever to ride.
The Start: In 2008, we started in a huge pack in the middle of the field; this year, the start was packed onto the road running directly in front of our campsite. Steve and I lined up right by the Log Posse tent, towards the middle of the start group, and rolled out slowly with the hundreds of other riders. I had hoped to start closer to the front (ideally in sight of Sue Haywood, so I could desperately try to hang onto her wheel for the first 0.02 miles), but a long line for the bathroom and my slowness in getting ready killed that dream and left me starting back with the masses.
Aid Station #1: This was supposed to be a waterbottle exchange checkpoint ten miles into the race, but it was clearly operating in stealth. I kept looking at my clock and wondering why I hadn’t seen the aid station yet when I had been riding hard for over an hour, until a guy next to me explained, “Um, we passed it a while ago.” Sweet. I guess it was a good thing I had conserved fluids by forgetting to hydrate, since it was going to be another twenty or so miles until a refill.
Aid Station #2: I came into this checkpoint with a group of riders and, determined to not be the slow one that hung around too long and got dropped, I hauled over to the food/water table, inhaled five orange wedges, filled up my bottles, and rolled out. My plan worked; I reconnected with my riding friends and stuck with them through the next long climb. Too bad I didn’t actually take the time to properly hydrate, rest, or refuel. At least I only had sixty-nine miles left to go.
Aid Station #3: This checkpoint was packed with racers when I came through. I slathered on more chamois butter, nibbled a PB&J sandwich square, devoured a few pieces of watermelon, and swapped out my swampy gloves for a fresh pair. No part of me wanted to mess with the Clif Blocks or bars, the clean socks or jersey, or any of the other supplies stuffed in the drop bag I’d packed for that aid station. After spending roughly five minutes longer than I should have hanging around, I left the checkpoint alone.
Aid Station #4: The Log Posse was working this checkpoint, but by the time I rolled in, I was too dazed and fatigued to muster up much enthusiasm. All I remember is getting my bottles filled, drinking some Coke and eating a few Fig Newtons, watching a man slather a frighteningly large amount of chamois butter inside his spandex (EW), and then leaving. This was the beginning of my descent into hell; unfortunately, that descent actually involved almost non-stop ascending up to the next checkpoint.
Aid Station #5: Getting to this aid station took everything in me. The first fifty miles of the day were spent riding hard, spinning strong, and feeling only a bit sore and tired. From Checkpoint #4 on, my lower back hurt intensely and I felt like there was nothing but miles of climbing ahead of me (which was true). About five miles outside of Aid Station #5, I had to stop on a steep climb and stretch because I could not possibly keep going. I didn’t start moving until a guy walking his bike came by, at which point I walked with him until we both remounted and pushed on. At the actual checkpoint, I had more watermelon and part of a slice of pizza, which I ate while sitting in a little hunched ball in the grass. Volunteers kept asking me if I was doing okay and while I wanted to scream NO KILL ME NOW and then cry in their arms, I settled for a feeble, “Yes.” It was pretty cold up there on the mountain, so I eventually got up and left the checkpoint to enter the next set of crushing climbs. It was still ninety minutes before the cut-off for leaving the aid station without a light, so I decided to skip the extra baggage and go without. The only thing I took from my second drop bag at this station was another package of Power Bar Gel Blasts. So much for my meticulous preparation and packing.
Aid Station #6: As this was the final checkpoint of the day, I was overwhelmed with excitement when it appeared ahead on the road. I knew there were only twelve miles left to ride and, even though at least half of that was climbing, I still felt optimistic about reaching the end. I talked to a friend who was volunteering at the station, sipped some more Coke, and pedaled out enthusiastically. That lasted for about ten minutes, until my back started complaining again and my knees joined the party and it seemed like the climbing would never end. One guy actually threw a shouting, swearing fit about the horror and unfairness of it all after we turned a corner and saw another climb winding into the distance. I felt his pain, but it wasn’t exactly like the race promoters put the mountain there.
The Finish: I rode the downhills into the finish area like a freaking bat out of hell, which was cool since I am not usually the best descender. Even the other riders on the trail yielded to my requests to pass, since I was clearly not going to go anything other than breakneck speed. When I passed the grassy area where Steve had his aerial peeing display last year (I could explain, but really that says it all), I knew the end was so close. Crossing the finish line felt blurry and awesome and long overdue, yet surprisingly quick in a Can’t-Believe-I’m-Done-Already kind of way. I smashed the finishers’ gong with everything I had left in me (nothing), collected my pint glass, and that was the end.
At the finish. I love the completely dead, empty look in my eyes.
The Good: For the first six hours, I was riding strong and hard with the guys. My legs felt good, I rocked the technical sections and cleaned parts that herds of men were walking, and I rode steadily up the climbs and quickly on the flats. When it came to the downhills, I was so thrilled to not be climbing and so eager to keep up a fast pace that I bombed through everything, even the loose, rocky sections with drops. One guy at a checkpoint even told me that I “descend beautifully” and another guy on the trail commented that I was riding faster and stronger than “seventy other guys back there.” Compliments like that felt pretty awesome, especially when they were about parts of my riding that aren’t often my strongest.
Last year, my biggest problem was a crippling fear of riding on loose, off-camber descents along drop-offs. It was so bad in places that I had to walk just to get through sections without panicking. This time around, I didn’t even look at the drop-offs; I rode carefully, enjoyed the flow of the downhills, and followed the wheel of the guy in front of me. It was a big boost to my confidence, especially when I was able to pull off technical descents despite being really fatigued. By the end of the race, I was in a swamp of discomfort and exhaustion, but I stayed on the bike, crawled steadily up the climbs, and rolled cleanly through the descents.
I was also lucky enough to not have a single crash, mechanical, flat, or cramp during the entire day.
The Bad: From shortly after Aid Station #4 until halfway to Aid Station #6, I hunched on the bike in survival mode and struggled to just keep turning the pedals. When riders would pass and ask how I was doing, it took everything to not cry and instead say cheerfully through gritted teeth, “I’m in a world of hurt. It’s GREAT! And you?” Going so slowly also meant that I rode almost entirely alone along long, empty fireroads. It felt very desolate and while I knew I was not going to quit, the thought was definitely in my head.
Eating and drinking also presented a problem. I was working so hard through the whole ride that food sounded terrible and even drinking was a chore, which meant that I was continually undernourished and slowly trying to force down chewy blobs of energy food. If I had managed to eat more, the suffer-fest would probably have been somewhat reduced.
The Ugly: One guy I was riding with noticed the dirt streaked all over my face and commented that I looked like a guy from Kiss or a freaky circus clown. He was right.
Couldn’t Have Done It Without You: The event volunteers. The Log Posse. The awesome racers I rode with who kept me pedaling all day long. Bobby, who had to share a tent and an air mattress with the most fidgety, restless sleeper on the planet. My mother, who kept Kobe and Scoot entertained all weekend. My father, who used our absence to fix all of the home repair issues with our condo. Sue Haywood, for providing tips on improving my technical skills and for approaching me after the race (and thrilling me and the whole Log Posse in the process). Megan, the waitress at Bob Evans who is forever scarred by having to serve the Log Posse a post-camping breakfast feast in which Arne tried to “shoehorn” (thanks for the word, Steve) an entire other meal into his order as a replacement for a small side of eggs. The maker of Handi-Wipes.
Sue Haywood, fresh and perky after winning the race, and me, drained and filthy.
Final Time: 11 hours, 11 minutes. My goal was to finish in under 12 hours. I am satisfied.
Log Posse headquarters. Photos compliments of Mike, Log Posse Magnate.In the interest of keeping this race report a manageable length, I’ll break it up into a rough synopsis of my status at each of the checkpoints, as well as at the beginning and the end, followed by a summary of the overall race. If it still takes forever to read, I’m sorry. It took forever to ride.
The Start: In 2008, we started in a huge pack in the middle of the field; this year, the start was packed onto the road running directly in front of our campsite. Steve and I lined up right by the Log Posse tent, towards the middle of the start group, and rolled out slowly with the hundreds of other riders. I had hoped to start closer to the front (ideally in sight of Sue Haywood, so I could desperately try to hang onto her wheel for the first 0.02 miles), but a long line for the bathroom and my slowness in getting ready killed that dream and left me starting back with the masses.
Aid Station #1: This was supposed to be a waterbottle exchange checkpoint ten miles into the race, but it was clearly operating in stealth. I kept looking at my clock and wondering why I hadn’t seen the aid station yet when I had been riding hard for over an hour, until a guy next to me explained, “Um, we passed it a while ago.” Sweet. I guess it was a good thing I had conserved fluids by forgetting to hydrate, since it was going to be another twenty or so miles until a refill.
Aid Station #2: I came into this checkpoint with a group of riders and, determined to not be the slow one that hung around too long and got dropped, I hauled over to the food/water table, inhaled five orange wedges, filled up my bottles, and rolled out. My plan worked; I reconnected with my riding friends and stuck with them through the next long climb. Too bad I didn’t actually take the time to properly hydrate, rest, or refuel. At least I only had sixty-nine miles left to go.
Aid Station #3: This checkpoint was packed with racers when I came through. I slathered on more chamois butter, nibbled a PB&J sandwich square, devoured a few pieces of watermelon, and swapped out my swampy gloves for a fresh pair. No part of me wanted to mess with the Clif Blocks or bars, the clean socks or jersey, or any of the other supplies stuffed in the drop bag I’d packed for that aid station. After spending roughly five minutes longer than I should have hanging around, I left the checkpoint alone.
Aid Station #4: The Log Posse was working this checkpoint, but by the time I rolled in, I was too dazed and fatigued to muster up much enthusiasm. All I remember is getting my bottles filled, drinking some Coke and eating a few Fig Newtons, watching a man slather a frighteningly large amount of chamois butter inside his spandex (EW), and then leaving. This was the beginning of my descent into hell; unfortunately, that descent actually involved almost non-stop ascending up to the next checkpoint.
Aid Station #5: Getting to this aid station took everything in me. The first fifty miles of the day were spent riding hard, spinning strong, and feeling only a bit sore and tired. From Checkpoint #4 on, my lower back hurt intensely and I felt like there was nothing but miles of climbing ahead of me (which was true). About five miles outside of Aid Station #5, I had to stop on a steep climb and stretch because I could not possibly keep going. I didn’t start moving until a guy walking his bike came by, at which point I walked with him until we both remounted and pushed on. At the actual checkpoint, I had more watermelon and part of a slice of pizza, which I ate while sitting in a little hunched ball in the grass. Volunteers kept asking me if I was doing okay and while I wanted to scream NO KILL ME NOW and then cry in their arms, I settled for a feeble, “Yes.” It was pretty cold up there on the mountain, so I eventually got up and left the checkpoint to enter the next set of crushing climbs. It was still ninety minutes before the cut-off for leaving the aid station without a light, so I decided to skip the extra baggage and go without. The only thing I took from my second drop bag at this station was another package of Power Bar Gel Blasts. So much for my meticulous preparation and packing.
Aid Station #6: As this was the final checkpoint of the day, I was overwhelmed with excitement when it appeared ahead on the road. I knew there were only twelve miles left to ride and, even though at least half of that was climbing, I still felt optimistic about reaching the end. I talked to a friend who was volunteering at the station, sipped some more Coke, and pedaled out enthusiastically. That lasted for about ten minutes, until my back started complaining again and my knees joined the party and it seemed like the climbing would never end. One guy actually threw a shouting, swearing fit about the horror and unfairness of it all after we turned a corner and saw another climb winding into the distance. I felt his pain, but it wasn’t exactly like the race promoters put the mountain there.
The Finish: I rode the downhills into the finish area like a freaking bat out of hell, which was cool since I am not usually the best descender. Even the other riders on the trail yielded to my requests to pass, since I was clearly not going to go anything other than breakneck speed. When I passed the grassy area where Steve had his aerial peeing display last year (I could explain, but really that says it all), I knew the end was so close. Crossing the finish line felt blurry and awesome and long overdue, yet surprisingly quick in a Can’t-Believe-I’m-Done-Already kind of way. I smashed the finishers’ gong with everything I had left in me (nothing), collected my pint glass, and that was the end.
At the finish. I love the completely dead, empty look in my eyes.The Good: For the first six hours, I was riding strong and hard with the guys. My legs felt good, I rocked the technical sections and cleaned parts that herds of men were walking, and I rode steadily up the climbs and quickly on the flats. When it came to the downhills, I was so thrilled to not be climbing and so eager to keep up a fast pace that I bombed through everything, even the loose, rocky sections with drops. One guy at a checkpoint even told me that I “descend beautifully” and another guy on the trail commented that I was riding faster and stronger than “seventy other guys back there.” Compliments like that felt pretty awesome, especially when they were about parts of my riding that aren’t often my strongest.
Last year, my biggest problem was a crippling fear of riding on loose, off-camber descents along drop-offs. It was so bad in places that I had to walk just to get through sections without panicking. This time around, I didn’t even look at the drop-offs; I rode carefully, enjoyed the flow of the downhills, and followed the wheel of the guy in front of me. It was a big boost to my confidence, especially when I was able to pull off technical descents despite being really fatigued. By the end of the race, I was in a swamp of discomfort and exhaustion, but I stayed on the bike, crawled steadily up the climbs, and rolled cleanly through the descents.
I was also lucky enough to not have a single crash, mechanical, flat, or cramp during the entire day.
The Bad: From shortly after Aid Station #4 until halfway to Aid Station #6, I hunched on the bike in survival mode and struggled to just keep turning the pedals. When riders would pass and ask how I was doing, it took everything to not cry and instead say cheerfully through gritted teeth, “I’m in a world of hurt. It’s GREAT! And you?” Going so slowly also meant that I rode almost entirely alone along long, empty fireroads. It felt very desolate and while I knew I was not going to quit, the thought was definitely in my head.
Eating and drinking also presented a problem. I was working so hard through the whole ride that food sounded terrible and even drinking was a chore, which meant that I was continually undernourished and slowly trying to force down chewy blobs of energy food. If I had managed to eat more, the suffer-fest would probably have been somewhat reduced.
The Ugly: One guy I was riding with noticed the dirt streaked all over my face and commented that I looked like a guy from Kiss or a freaky circus clown. He was right.
Couldn’t Have Done It Without You: The event volunteers. The Log Posse. The awesome racers I rode with who kept me pedaling all day long. Bobby, who had to share a tent and an air mattress with the most fidgety, restless sleeper on the planet. My mother, who kept Kobe and Scoot entertained all weekend. My father, who used our absence to fix all of the home repair issues with our condo. Sue Haywood, for providing tips on improving my technical skills and for approaching me after the race (and thrilling me and the whole Log Posse in the process). Megan, the waitress at Bob Evans who is forever scarred by having to serve the Log Posse a post-camping breakfast feast in which Arne tried to “shoehorn” (thanks for the word, Steve) an entire other meal into his order as a replacement for a small side of eggs. The maker of Handi-Wipes.
Sue Haywood, fresh and perky after winning the race, and me, drained and filthy.Final Time: 11 hours, 11 minutes. My goal was to finish in under 12 hours. I am satisfied.
Someone close to me recently raised some questions about my racing in relation to my life, but I couldn’t find words to respond at the time. Since I’m better in writing than I am on the spot, here are my thoughts on the conversation. Why am I responding to them here? Well, chances are you’re either somebody with similar questions, or you’re a bike racer that will completely understand where I'm coming from, or you’re really bored at work and it’s either this or another thirty minutes browsing Craigslist.
1. You don’t seem happy with racing; in fact, all you seem to do is complain and express doubts.
I rarely seem happy with anything. Frankly, I think it’s just my personality. When I am riding, unless it is a terrible workout or a crap day on the bike, I am very happy. The only witnesses to that, however, are usually trees and squirrels. As far as the complaining goes, I can’t help it; if you ask me how a ride was, it’s a reflex to say it was hard or that I’m tired and sore. Those are good things, though.
2. Are the rewards really worth all the stress/effort/time/money?
Sometimes. When I have great rides or races, when I win or accomplish my goals, then it feels like all of the expenses, monetary and otherwise, are worthwhile. When I fly to Colorado and then suck my way through a race, it feels somewhat less worthwhile. But the same could be said for any activity or pursuit; at any moment, the balance of work versus reward is shifting and often one is more than the other. Bike racing is hard, stressful, and expensive, but it is also exhilarating, physically beneficial (except for all the injuries), challenging, and a lot of fun. I suppose at the very end of my racing career, I could look back and try to say whether or not it was worth it, but at that point I think the answer will definitely be yes. Otherwise I would probably not go ride my bike today.
3. You don’t exactly have the personality for this type of competition.
No shit. But I know that, and it doesn’t make me feel any better or change my mind about my goals to hear it from somebody else. I am still going to try to be a professional racer. That means that in addition to working on my legs and my aerobic system and my technical skills, I also need to work on my head. But my head needed help anyway and few racers don’t have any mental issues to work through on their quest for world domination on a bicycle.
4. I want to hear you say how much you love this sort of thing.
And I want the new SRAM XX component set and also a bag of diamonds. I am not the kind of person that talks earnestly about my hopes and dreams and feelings, so it won’t work to base any assessment of how I feel about something on how much I share my positive thoughts about it. I haven’t been shy in the past about quitting things; law school, lacrosse, marriage, etc. so chances are that if I am still getting on my bike, I like it. If I’m still getting on my bike at 10pm despite being exhausted, stressed, grumpy, and/or injured, I probably stilllove it somewhere deep inside.
5. Will make you happy in the long run?
Let’s hope. I’ll let you know in fifty years.
6. I want to hear you say something positive about biking.
I love riding my bike. I like rock gardens and nice singletrack and going fast and having a valid excuse for eating eleven meals a day. I like the structure biking adds to my life and the way it forces me to make healthy choices. Before I started riding, I smoked various tobacco products regularly, I drank whenever and whatever I wanted, I stayed up far too late, and sat around far too much. Bobby and I would buy a bottle of vodka, mix it with some Diet Mountain Dew, and finish the whole bottle in a single night while smoking, picking loud fights with each other (including one where I knocked him out with a boot), and eating junk food. Now that I train, I stick to a single beer or glass of wine on most occasions, I avoid even being near cigarettes, and Bobby and I use boots only for wearing in poor weather. Sometimes the rigid structure of eating healthy, avoiding excesses, and training constantly is annoying and limiting, but it also keeps me healthy and focused on a goal that adds meaning to life. I would say that is something positive about biking.
7. Perhaps you should explore other interests.
People don’t generally get lucky enough to be really good at multiple things. I enjoy biking and happen to be pretty good at it, which makes dropping that and looking for something else seem pointless. If I want to be riding my bike, why would I take up playing the violin or painting ceramics instead? It’s not like my life is just biking, anyways. I do ride and race, but I also work, have friends, do some writing, and eat my way through each day.
8. I just hate to see you putting yourself through so much.
Please don’t worry so much; fussing drives me nuts and it isn’t going to make me feel better or keep me safer. Part of being a competitive athlete means knowing when something (an injury, fatigue, etc.) is a reason to stop and when it is a reason to toughen up and keep going. I am still learning how to decide which is which, but I am not completely clueless, so please trust that I can handle some bumps and bruises and aches without breaking into a million pieces and expiring. I’m young, I’m rubbery, I’ll bounce. Don’t worry. I like being sore and damaged; it means I had a good ride.
1. You don’t seem happy with racing; in fact, all you seem to do is complain and express doubts.
I rarely seem happy with anything. Frankly, I think it’s just my personality. When I am riding, unless it is a terrible workout or a crap day on the bike, I am very happy. The only witnesses to that, however, are usually trees and squirrels. As far as the complaining goes, I can’t help it; if you ask me how a ride was, it’s a reflex to say it was hard or that I’m tired and sore. Those are good things, though.
2. Are the rewards really worth all the stress/effort/time/money?
Sometimes. When I have great rides or races, when I win or accomplish my goals, then it feels like all of the expenses, monetary and otherwise, are worthwhile. When I fly to Colorado and then suck my way through a race, it feels somewhat less worthwhile. But the same could be said for any activity or pursuit; at any moment, the balance of work versus reward is shifting and often one is more than the other. Bike racing is hard, stressful, and expensive, but it is also exhilarating, physically beneficial (except for all the injuries), challenging, and a lot of fun. I suppose at the very end of my racing career, I could look back and try to say whether or not it was worth it, but at that point I think the answer will definitely be yes. Otherwise I would probably not go ride my bike today.
3. You don’t exactly have the personality for this type of competition.
No shit. But I know that, and it doesn’t make me feel any better or change my mind about my goals to hear it from somebody else. I am still going to try to be a professional racer. That means that in addition to working on my legs and my aerobic system and my technical skills, I also need to work on my head. But my head needed help anyway and few racers don’t have any mental issues to work through on their quest for world domination on a bicycle.
4. I want to hear you say how much you love this sort of thing.
And I want the new SRAM XX component set and also a bag of diamonds. I am not the kind of person that talks earnestly about my hopes and dreams and feelings, so it won’t work to base any assessment of how I feel about something on how much I share my positive thoughts about it. I haven’t been shy in the past about quitting things; law school, lacrosse, marriage, etc. so chances are that if I am still getting on my bike, I like it. If I’m still getting on my bike at 10pm despite being exhausted, stressed, grumpy, and/or injured, I probably stilllove it somewhere deep inside.
5. Will make you happy in the long run?
Let’s hope. I’ll let you know in fifty years.
6. I want to hear you say something positive about biking.
I love riding my bike. I like rock gardens and nice singletrack and going fast and having a valid excuse for eating eleven meals a day. I like the structure biking adds to my life and the way it forces me to make healthy choices. Before I started riding, I smoked various tobacco products regularly, I drank whenever and whatever I wanted, I stayed up far too late, and sat around far too much. Bobby and I would buy a bottle of vodka, mix it with some Diet Mountain Dew, and finish the whole bottle in a single night while smoking, picking loud fights with each other (including one where I knocked him out with a boot), and eating junk food. Now that I train, I stick to a single beer or glass of wine on most occasions, I avoid even being near cigarettes, and Bobby and I use boots only for wearing in poor weather. Sometimes the rigid structure of eating healthy, avoiding excesses, and training constantly is annoying and limiting, but it also keeps me healthy and focused on a goal that adds meaning to life. I would say that is something positive about biking.
7. Perhaps you should explore other interests.
People don’t generally get lucky enough to be really good at multiple things. I enjoy biking and happen to be pretty good at it, which makes dropping that and looking for something else seem pointless. If I want to be riding my bike, why would I take up playing the violin or painting ceramics instead? It’s not like my life is just biking, anyways. I do ride and race, but I also work, have friends, do some writing, and eat my way through each day.
8. I just hate to see you putting yourself through so much.
Please don’t worry so much; fussing drives me nuts and it isn’t going to make me feel better or keep me safer. Part of being a competitive athlete means knowing when something (an injury, fatigue, etc.) is a reason to stop and when it is a reason to toughen up and keep going. I am still learning how to decide which is which, but I am not completely clueless, so please trust that I can handle some bumps and bruises and aches without breaking into a million pieces and expiring. I’m young, I’m rubbery, I’ll bounce. Don’t worry. I like being sore and damaged; it means I had a good ride.
When Bobby and I went the beach a few weeks ago, we tossed a foam football around in the water in hopes that constant motion would keep us warm in the freezing water. The cheap foam soaked up a few gallons of the ocean and made the football weigh several pounds, which was painful to throw and catch. At the time, I didn’t think much of the wrenching sensation heaving that ball around caused in my shoulder; I just figured I had a weak arm and a bad throw (still very true).
Two days after our trip, I started feeling pain in my right shoulder. It was bad enough that I skipped my thrice weekly push-ups/back extensions/stomach crunches routine for that entire week, and when it still hurt a bit the following Monday, I skipped that week as well. (It was SUCH a hardship to avoid a set of exercises I despise.) The shoulder was mostly pain-free last Monday, so I did a shorter set of push-ups and the remainder of the exercises without issue. It seemed like I was on the road to recovery.
Come last Saturday, I set out to do the full exercise routine before we headed out for the night. That’s what all girls do before going to a show downtown, right? I started by asking Bobby what to do if it hurt, and he told me that I should just push through the pain. It did end up hurting, but I pushed through the pain like a champ and did the full set of exercises. IDIOT. Him? Me? You can decide.
My shoulder has been a nightmare ever since. The pain is not lessening; if anything, it’s getting worse as the week progresses. Adding to the cause for concern is my absolute determination to do the Shenandoah Mountain 100 race this Sunday. Unless the shoulder literally falls off, rendering me unable to steer the bike, I am not going to miss an opportunity to chafe for 12+ hours.
With the upcoming weekend's event in mind, I saw an orthopaedic doctor yesterday but didn’t quite get the resolution I wanted. When I have a problem and go to the doctor, I would like the problem identified; I do not wish to defer identification to a later date once I have suffered sufficiently. Yes, I am sure doctors have their reasons and that often issues remedy themselves, but if I have taken the time to make an appointment, come in, and pay a co-pay, I would like a solution beyond Go Home, Wait, and Return. If you really want my co-pay that badly, just ask and I’ll pay it twice on this visit in exchange for an answer.
Okay, I’m done ranting. Sorry. I’m sure insurance/medical practice/etc. all provide good reasons for not being able to make a concrete determination of the problem. Whatever. Back to my appointment. The doctor had x-rays taken to baseline the interior structure of my shoulder, he moved my arm around a bit to see where it hurt (EVERYWHERE), and he gave me the diagnosis of, “It might be [this], it might be [this], it might be [this], they all have different treatment plans, wait for 3-4 weeks to see how it feels and then come back and see me. And rest.” The potentially required treatment plans ranged from "do nothing" to surgery.
So now I wait. My shoulder is throbbing, getting worse in fact, but I am waiting patiently and resting. When I get home, I’m going to go for a nice long rest on the bike, and then this weekend I’m going to go on a restful camping trip that includes a relaxing 100-mile ride. Then maybe, once my shoulder detaches from my body and is dangling in agony, somebody will give me a diagnosis.
Two days after our trip, I started feeling pain in my right shoulder. It was bad enough that I skipped my thrice weekly push-ups/back extensions/stomach crunches routine for that entire week, and when it still hurt a bit the following Monday, I skipped that week as well. (It was SUCH a hardship to avoid a set of exercises I despise.) The shoulder was mostly pain-free last Monday, so I did a shorter set of push-ups and the remainder of the exercises without issue. It seemed like I was on the road to recovery.
Come last Saturday, I set out to do the full exercise routine before we headed out for the night. That’s what all girls do before going to a show downtown, right? I started by asking Bobby what to do if it hurt, and he told me that I should just push through the pain. It did end up hurting, but I pushed through the pain like a champ and did the full set of exercises. IDIOT. Him? Me? You can decide.
My shoulder has been a nightmare ever since. The pain is not lessening; if anything, it’s getting worse as the week progresses. Adding to the cause for concern is my absolute determination to do the Shenandoah Mountain 100 race this Sunday. Unless the shoulder literally falls off, rendering me unable to steer the bike, I am not going to miss an opportunity to chafe for 12+ hours.
With the upcoming weekend's event in mind, I saw an orthopaedic doctor yesterday but didn’t quite get the resolution I wanted. When I have a problem and go to the doctor, I would like the problem identified; I do not wish to defer identification to a later date once I have suffered sufficiently. Yes, I am sure doctors have their reasons and that often issues remedy themselves, but if I have taken the time to make an appointment, come in, and pay a co-pay, I would like a solution beyond Go Home, Wait, and Return. If you really want my co-pay that badly, just ask and I’ll pay it twice on this visit in exchange for an answer.
Okay, I’m done ranting. Sorry. I’m sure insurance/medical practice/etc. all provide good reasons for not being able to make a concrete determination of the problem. Whatever. Back to my appointment. The doctor had x-rays taken to baseline the interior structure of my shoulder, he moved my arm around a bit to see where it hurt (EVERYWHERE), and he gave me the diagnosis of, “It might be [this], it might be [this], it might be [this], they all have different treatment plans, wait for 3-4 weeks to see how it feels and then come back and see me. And rest.” The potentially required treatment plans ranged from "do nothing" to surgery.
So now I wait. My shoulder is throbbing, getting worse in fact, but I am waiting patiently and resting. When I get home, I’m going to go for a nice long rest on the bike, and then this weekend I’m going to go on a restful camping trip that includes a relaxing 100-mile ride. Then maybe, once my shoulder detaches from my body and is dangling in agony, somebody will give me a diagnosis.
