A bit of color on a gray morning

During my trip to Hood River last weekend, I snapped this shot while running along the Columbia River. The Golden Poppy is the state flower of California and it is probably my favorite bloom. It will only open up in the sunshine and turns its face toward the sun. I was amazed at how this photo captured the brilliance of the color. Shot with an iPhone 4S. No, I wasn't paid by Apple to say that.

The first post after the long ride

For the first time in more than 20 years, I am not working. I'll spare you the details (my friends and family have heard it plenty of times), but suffice to say, it's a good thing. So, as I begin my journey from one familiar way of life to whatever lies ahead, I thought I would record my thoughts and experiences. Mostly, I'm doing this for myself, but if anyone else finds any enjoyment or insight, so much the better.

The name of this blog, In Transition, has two meanings. The first, obviously, is about me moving from one career to the next. The second refers to the period of time in a triathlon when you move from one sport to the next -- from swimming to biking and from biking to running. That period is called transition, and as a triathlete, I am very familiar with transition. It is a vital part of the race, one that should be done as quickly as possible, but with deliberation so that you are prepared for the next leg. In triathlon, much as career shifting, planning and preparation is a big part of transition.

Racing is a great indicator of where you are in your fitness, not to mention a tremendous test of your physical and mental toughness. The training is vital to both, and since you spend so much more time training then racing, it is where you really find out who you are, what you are made of, where your weakness lie and what you are willing to do to correct them.

So begins my first "Transition" ... 

This past weekend, I joined a group of my amazing tri team for a weekend of training and good times in Hood River, Oregon. Despite what many of my non-tri friends think, we generally consider most training to be "good times." The main event of the weekend was a long ride on Saturday. For me, it turned out to be a mental toughness ride. 

It was billed as a 51-miler, with one good climb, then pretty much flat with some rollers, then a gentle 7-mile descent back to the car. It turned out to be a bit more.

We started around noon, and by then it was in the mid-80s. We drove from Hood River across the Columbia to a little town along the White Salmon River called BZ Corner, Wash. The climb pretty much started right away, 3 miles of winding s-curves, then a brief piece of flat, then another 3 miles of more steady climbing. I think we got to 2,100 feet at that point. Of course, Ron, Mike, Tracey and Brent (I'll stick to first names only to protect the innocent) are all much faster cyclists then me, so they were pretty much 1/2 to a full mile ahead of me most of the time. That first 6 mile climb was OK. Slow and steady, then we regrouped at the top. I was able to keep with them for a while, but then they were gone, and my legs were feeling flat, flat, flat. Pretty sure I was dehydrated by the time we got to Glenwood, which was a little less than halfway. We stopped, got some chips (sodium!!!) and Powerade and refilled the water bottles. Rested in the shade. It was good to hear that I wasn't the only one feeling the heat and droopy legs. As we prepared to resume the ride, Ron told us, that as he remembered (having done the ride once before), that there was one more little climb (nothing like we'd done) and then it would be flat and downhill the rest of the way. I was worried about that last descent on Highway 141 back to the car, but was encouraged that the rest of the ride would be more or less easy until then, especially since I wasn't feeling a ton of firing in my legs and we still had 30 miles to go!

Needless to say, they dropped me pretty quickly, which was fine, until we reached the "little climb." More like almost 800 feet of pretty steep climbing. I had to get off and walk for a while but kept pushing onward. I noticed writing on the shoulder near the top of one hill and it said "no more hills, water ahead." These were markings for a previous ride or race, and that encouraged me, because I was just shy of mile 30.

As I crested the hill, I saw one of those yellow road signs that said Hill with the picture of the car on the steep little hill, and I thought, "hmmmm, they don't put those up for little hills." I was right. After making the first blind turn around a corner, with a death grip on the brakes, barely going 14 miles an hour, I could see out to the valley below, and the farm houses we pretty far down. Oh, shit. 

(I will take this moment to say that I have a very big fear of going down hill fast on my road bike. It's one of those phobias that creeps up on you as you get older and hear stories about other people's crashes and realize how badly things can go wrong at high speeds. It's getting better with practice and time, but it remains an on-going issue.)

It turned out to be 2 miles of steep, s-curves down. At that point, I pulled over, not only to shake out my hands, which were sore from squeezing the brakes, but to utterly and completely sob. I was alone, tired, and terrified. I swear to you, I sobbed for a good 5 minutes. Fortunately, no cars came by so I didn't look like a total idiot weeping beside my bike on the side of a hill. After the 5-minute meltdown, I slowly made my way down -- still crying, mind you, but I'd go 20-30 feet, stop, shake out my hands, then do it again, until the hill got a bit less steep and I could see the road ahead of me. 

Once I got back on the flat, I saw a left turn and there was everyone waiting. As frustrated as I was that they had left me alone on that hill, in a way I was glad that they didn't see me inch my way down, not to mention the meltdown. I did tell them that I had it, however. They were very encouraging and stayed with me the rest of the way and, despite the heavy wind, and that i was approaching 4 hours on the bike, I got a second wind and we pretty much flew to the highway. Once we made the left turn onto 141, we regrouped again and Brent said that he wanted to stay back with me, and would follow 10 bike lengths behind. He confided in me that he was terrified on that steep ride down as well. That helped a lot. Funny thing, the highway hill, despite dropping about 700 feet, was over 6 miles, with a much smaller grade, and in tiers. And, with the comfort of having Brent behind me, I pretty much flew down that hill -- topping out at 28 mph, which is fast for me. That part felt fun. Then, we got to the car, and I was relieved to be done, but also happy that I didn't quit.

On the drive back to Hood River, it occurred to be that my meltdown on the mountain was the first time in months that I had cried. In my desire to keep a good face on my changing career life, I had put on the stoic mask, telling everyone it's all good. Well, I don't care how you leave a job -- by choice or not (mine was a mix of the two), there are still days when you are terrified. 

The mask finally dropped on that hill. 

With the support of family and good friends, I'm beginning to realize that I don't need to wear the mask.  But rather, I just need to keep feathering the brakes and coast down the hill.