On Saturday, August 29, I joined more than 1,800 other women and a few men dressed in drag to ride Venus de Miles through Longmont and Niwot, Colo. We were launched to pumping music, treated to a scenic route and surrounded by camaraderie. The three-year-old event, which was Colorado’s first, women-only ride, tripled its inaugural turnout. It wasn’t hard to see why.

“Venus has taken a grassroots approach each year – connecting with women through the Full Cycle Venus de Miles bike club [in Boulder], at event expos, and in other social settings. I think women really wanted a venue where they could ride in a supported environment, have a blast, get pampered and allow their partners to support them via volunteering or at the finish line,” said Teresa Robbins, who planted the seed of the ride three years ago and has been involved ever since. “We felt that there was a need to create a cycling event that was centered around the spirit of sisterhood and giving back to the community. Venus is exactly that – it’s a party on wheels, a chance to challenge yourself, giggle up hills and meet the many scholars that you are supporting – one pedal stroke at a time.”

The Venus de Miles ride raises money for Boulder-based Greenhouse Scholars. As it was explained to us before we hit the roads, only about 11 percent of disadvantaged college entrants graduate. Our society places a great deal of emphasis on graduating students from high school and getting them into college, but then most of them are left to their own devices. Greenhouse Scholars nurtures Colorado residents throughout their higher education years, helping them get scholarships, internships and jobs with the hope they will become community leaders rather than college dropouts.

The ride started in 2007, dreamed up by Greenhouse Scholars, when the organization was only two years old.

“There’s nothing quite like riding with your girlfriends – feeling the wind on your back, and celebrating at the finish line together,” said Robbins. “We felt that cycling was the perfect sport to support our cause.”

Coming from Texas, I have participated in many organized rides, large and small. Needless to say, those events didn’t feature organic foods, coconut water, compost bins and bongo-playing bands at rest stops. Don’t get me wrong – I love a good peanut butter sandwich when riding, but the granola with yogurt and chocolate soy milk were unique and tasty twists. The post-ride German sausage slathered in spicy mustard – another central-Texas tradition – was replaced by grilled chicken, mixed-greens salad and honey-wheat roll, leaving me feeling like I didn’t destroy my workout with lunch.

I was also impressed by the turnout due to the steep entrance fee of $79-$115, depending on what date a person registered to ride. Even though the money went toward a great cause (the ride expected to raise $100,000 for Greenhouse Scholars), these are tough economic times. Trying to budget several hundred dollars per season for rides and races can quickly become a challenge. Despite the high entrance fee, there was no shortage of young and old, experienced and beginner, wings and feather boas and colorful striped socks.

The Venus de Miles ride also claims to be one of the greenest in the country, featuring carbon-emissions offsets, locally-sourced food, swag bags made of recycled materials and bamboo bike racks. Admittedly, I’m not thinking of those things when I’m hungry, sweaty and hankering for a generic Oreo cookie (you see a lot of those at Texas rides). But in retrospect, I appreciated the effort, especially considering many of us participants drove great distances to reach the start line.

“Since Venus’ inception, it’s been important to us to make sure that we’re minimizing our impact on the environment, and are mindful of our actions,” said Robbins. “We do this not only for ourselves and our sponsors and riders, but also for future generations. From the get-go, we’ve been a zero waste event. Last year we generated just six bags of trash.”

It was an event nonpareil, at least in my experience, with volunteers cheering you on at every turn, Hula Hoops and water guns at rest stops, exciting music at the finish line and a genuine air of having a good time. With three distances ranging from 33 to 67 miles, a participant can either have a casual cruise through the countryside or test their climbing legs in the foothills of the Rockies. But next year I want to take a friend, or perhaps my husband dressed in drag. Riding alone in a cycling event – especially in a women’s one, which is extraordinarily social by nature – can be a lonely trek, particularly when there’s no one to stand in line with you while you wait for your free massage.

Jason: So much more than a database manager

My secret is out – my coworkers now know that I am a Grade-A-mediocre mountain biker, perhaps the worst to ever work for the International Mountain Bicycling Association. But  four hours after we arrived at Curt Gowdy State Park in Wyoming last Thursday for staff-ride day, many of us were standing knee-deep in a beautiful lake while sipping beers. My staff privileges and IMBA jersey had not been revoked. I realized, with deep gratitude, that they just wanted to enjoy themselves, and my slow, shaky riding had managed not to keep them from having fun.

“Fun” seems to be the prerogative more for mountain bikers than roadies and I’m on the verge of being converted. Road riding led me to cyclocross – the sport was technically born from European road racing – but its true cousin is mountain biking, where the participants are playing around on varied terrain as much as they are testing themselves and enjoying the scenery. Also: You drink beer – not coffee – after a ride.

In fact, I have been a bit taken aback by how different the worlds of (serious) road and off-road riding seem. Road riding reaches a high-point of seriousness that erases smile lines and loose clothing lines. But even the most talented mountain biker is going to grin big when they land a jump, make it over a particularly tough obstacle or crest a ridge and are greeted by astounding scenery. (Good mountain bikers are also not required to upgrade their wardrobe to white Spandex and $400 shoes. The local land manager led the ride and was killing some of us with his speed. He wore a T-shirt and baggies patched with duct tape.)

So if you’re trying to get someone older into cycling, perhaps take them out on a trail. The heavy bike gathering dust in their garage probably has knobby tires. Their outfit won’t look much different than what more experienced riders are wearing, thus reducing the intimidation factor, and the new rider won’t have to worry about traffic while worrying about their balance. Finally, the post-ride beer will help soothe riled nerves should the outing not go very well.

“Wilderness … we scarcely know what we mean by the term, though the sound of it draws all whose nerves and emotions have not yet been irreparably stunned, deadened, numbed by the caterwauling of commerce, the sweating scramble for profit and domination.” – Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

In the morning, I rise around 6:30. My goal is to get to work early so I can leave early and get home in time to play outside and enjoy cooking. Instead, I am finding myself drawn to the brightly lit kitchen table, where the sun and cool air pour in together, warming the stiffness out of my body and providing a more-than-pleasant space to sip coffee and read or write for an hour before rising slowly to dress and drive 45 minutes north.

Sometimes I drive to work without music or NPR (especially these days when talk of primary elections fills the airwaves). There is nothing else to listen to at high speed but other cars and the moaning of the engine if I forget to shift down on a long hill. Still, I can think, and yesterday morning was thinking about the mountains. For most of my 25-mile drive, I can see Boulder’s iconic Flatirons rising in the distance. All around me is open space, land appreciated by ranchers and hikers and cyclists, but few others. A pox upon developers who would touch it, take away its life and serve us up more of the same, more of what we don’t need and can’t afford.

I once made home in a bustling, self-important city center, but it is here in the mountains where I feel at peace. Connected to grand, geographical features and away from amassed collections of glass and steel, I feel more spiritual. I can touch and surround myself with the eternal just by going outside and picking up a rock, smelling the sweet bark of a pine tree or climbing to the top of a mountain. Everything around me is millions of years old. The mountains have been and will be, enduring stoically long after humankind disappears from this earth.

The grandeur of rock reduces me to insignificance in the universal eye, in turn reminding me of what is important. No skyscraper could reach the imposing height of one of Colorado’s famed fourteeners, nor could it match the lure, which grabs at us on a primal level and produces a yearning that gets us on our feet and into places where we are no longer at the top of the food chain, where we no longer command the respect of the social world. Mountains don’t care about your status. There is no key card or dress code to get on a trail. Impossible formations and storms can challenge, destroy and reward all the same.

In the wilderness, survival is base. Wisdom, cunning, foresight and strength will get you in and out alive. You can’t swindle, trick or outsmart nature. You can cheat people all through a city life and come out on top, rich, fat and seemingly happy, but a mountain, a storm, a bear – none of them will be had. Spend enough time outside, and your true intentions will be revealed.

“A weird, lovely, fantastic object out of nature like Delicate Arch [Arches Natl. Park, Utah] has the curious ability to remind us – like rock and sunlight and wind and wilderness – that out there is a different world, older and greater and deeper by far than ours, a world which surrounds and sustains the little world of men as sea and sky surround and sustain a ship.

The shock of the real. For a little while we are again able to see, as the child sees, a world of marvels. For a few moments we discover that nothing can be taken for granted, for if this ring of stone is marvelous, then all which shaped it is marvelous, and our journey here on earth, able to see and touch and hear in the midst of tangible and mysterious things in themselves, is the most strange and daring of all adventures.” – E.A.

Since joining the staff of the International Mountain Bicycling Association, life has been a whirlwind introduction into the bicycle industry. Next month, I’m off to Michigan for the Midwest Mountain Bike Summit, then down to Vegas for Dirt Demo and Interbike, where I’ll represent the Subaru/IMBA Trail Care Crew and National Mountain Bike Patrol. What I didn’t expect was an ongoing discussion of what mountain biking really is.

That is currently the $64,000 question. What is a mountain bike? What is mountain biking? We must ask because the age of motorized bicycles is dawning, from tiny electric assist motors with about 1 horsepower to help you up the steepest part of a climb to lawn-mower engines that can get the downhillers to the top of their ride.

A big part of our mission is sustainable trail building. Are trails sustainable if motorized equipment is rollin’ on singletrack? And, one of our major problems is being lumped in with motorcycles and dirt bikes by federal land managers, which has shut mountain bikers out of a lot of trail opportunities. How far can we go accepting motorized equipment as a “mountain bike” before we destroy our argument that MTBers are not the same as ATV enthusiasts?

As expected, opinions vary. Is a mountain bike only a mountain bike if it’s exclusively human-powered? What makes a bicycle a bicycle if not the pedaling of your legs? Do we risk alienating our base, from moms to weekend warriors to pros if we start allowing “cheater” bikes that only go to those who can afford them? Or do we risk loosing the support of a growing demographic if we say no-motor-only?

So I ask you: What defines mountain biking? What makes a mountain bike? Try to think outside the box of your own personal experience. (For example, I am strictly a cross-country rider with a hard-tail bike. No downhilling or BMX riding for me.)

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Crashing is a fact of mountain-biking life. I beg to differ with those who might consider it an art, but I think there are ways to go about it successfully. One should strive to walk that fine line between a good story and not so bad that you can’t ride out, between saving your kit and bleeding enough to make the event look authentic. I didn’t quite find the sweet spot yesterday.

I have never crashed on a mountain bike simply because I haven’t done that much riding. As much as I lack grace and balance, I am also pretty good at leaping away from a bike that’s going down, saving myself undue wear and tear in the process. But I also tend to be overly-cautious. Working toward overcoming my fear is why I took a smooth section of singletrack on our ride yesterday as an opportunity to pick up speed and swoop around the turns. The area looked a lot like the picture above.

I remember the sensation of flying through the air, a journey that lasted long enough to get myself into a tucked position, which probably saved me from breaking a wrist. I must have bounced once or twice after hitting the dirt, because there are scrapes and cuts on places that don’t line up had I landed and stayed down (front of left knee, entire side of right leg, top and bottom of right arm). I came to in the fetal position, several feet from my bike and pointed in a completely different direction. My brain raced:

“It really hurts. Is it okay if I cry? No, wait, don’t cry; you’ll get salt in your contacts.”
“Did I wreck my elbow?”
“Are my new sunglasses broken?”
“Please don’t let anyone ride up now and see this.”

Looking around, I couldn’t tell what happened. Skidding out on a dirt turn shouldn’t have launched me off the bike. I also don’t remember braking and, without trail obstacles, there was no reason to have grabbed the brakes hard enough to endo.

I didn’t quite have the perfect crash. Thankfully, the Marlin and my new Team TOMS jersey came away unscathed. The bruising done to my body was far greater than the ride or the trail should have produced, but it doesn’t look like much in pictures because the cuts and scrapes were slow bleeders. I also have no story and couldn’t ride the whole way out thanks to the rock my thigh landed on.

Still, the crash actually improved my mood for the rest of the day. I’m sure there will be many more, but perhaps getting the first big one out of my system was a relief.

Bicycles everywhere – everyone on a bicycle. It’s a beautiful thing to see, although watch carefully or you might accidentally hit someone.

Here in the front range, cycling is a way of life and most people partake to some degree. A few weeks ago, the Mr. and I rode the monthly Golden Cruise, a casual, 5-mile roll around town starting and ending at a local watering hole and stopping a couple of times along the way to chill, drink beer and meet the neighbors.

If we had participated in a ride like this in San Antonio (I did one once), the crowd would have been fairly homogenous: mostly hipster-types on single speed bikes. The riders would represent a very small cross-section of the local population – the few who live downtown and could actually get to the event.

But here in Golden, Woody’s was teeming with people before the start of the ride. The variety was stunning (although I am not speaking of ethnic variety): families with kids, PRO-built cyclists, average commuter Joes, people more into the bikes and people more into beer. Lined up along the sidewalk were cruisers, mountain bikes, road bikes, hybrids and everything in between.

What struck me was not necessarily the variety of bicycles and their riders, but the welcoming attitude and the true, casual atmosphere of the evening. In big cities like San Antonio, where cycling is not enmeshed in the fibers of the whole community, those who hold it near and dear tend to form cults and cliques that require certain skills and/or identities in order to feel welcome or a part of. But here, in a place like Golden, everyone rides, so everyone can be part of the club. If you ride, you get the nod, no tight jeans or cycling cap or team kit required.

Communal recreating really seems to bring places and their people together. Or maybe we’re all just so relaxed because we have great opportunities to play outside.

When I was interviewed for the job with IMBA, one of the first questions I was asked was, “Why do you blog?”

Of all the queries I faced during two interviews, including – essentially – “How would you fix X department’s problems?”, I was most surprised and tripped up by the blog question. My off-the-cuff response was to talk about my sincere love of writing, but I kept thinking about it long after being offered the position.

When it comes to cycling, I am having a crisis of confidence. I am one of those people who tends to be good at stuff. I’m no genius, but I have “knacks.” I got my pilot’s license at 18 and was told by all of my instructors that I am one of the few who possess “the touch.” (It’s kind of like the Force, except I can’t strangle a person by pointing my hand at their neck.) It took three years of hard work to become a pilot, but I started with a bit of an advantage based on certain personality traits and “the touch.” I knew without a doubt, even before I learned to take off, that I could accomplish my dream.

Last week, the Mr. and I went for a ride. As we barreled down a steep section of narrow trail, I kept thinking, “I can’t make it up this.” At the bottom, I talked down to myself, telling the Mr. he would have to wait for me while I hiked the bike a mile back up. I even suggested he ride ahead, then drive to the parking lot where the trail ended and pick me up there.

But the Mr. is learning, and politely ignored me so that I ended up getting on the bike for the return trip. Although I had to walk over one brief segment of steep, rocky trail, the long stretch I expected to hike turned out to be not as bad as I thought. I powered my way to the top and to immense self satisfaction.

Post-ride coffee stop in downtown Golden

When it comes to cycling, I do not come into it with any skill advantage. I have no knack and am not fearless enough to dive headfirst into things the first time around. I’m slow on a road bike, clumsy with cyclocross, unskilled on a mountain bike and lack strength for all three.

Even though I love riding bicycles of all kinds, I’ve been thrown against my own problematic walls. I want to be better because, well, that’s what I think I am: better. Not better than anyone, just a better version of my own status quo. Katherine 2.0. Prideful. Impatient. And because I want to make friends through cycling and be an integral part of the local cycling community, it causes me stress that I am not good enough to ride with a group, and it frustrates me that I won’t be able to join my IMBA colleagues for lunch rides because I just won’t be able to keep up. I want to be good now so I can reap the benefits.

This is where the blog comes in. I started writing about cycling to do several things: chart my progress, motivate myself, connect with others and to become more comfortable with the identity of being a slow, unskilled cyclist. I’m trying to project the image of one who is enjoying the process of discovery and spreading the word that those of us who aren’t ripped, racing or sponsored should still be welcome members in the bike riding community. In retrospect, I realize I haven’t yet convinced myself that is who I am.

But Mellow Velo is slowly starting to work. I’m pre-programmed to be stubborn, so it sometimes takes a serious head-banging to turn this battleship around and say, with confidence, “OK, yeah, I’m cool where I am and should just enjoy the ride.” At 24 and a fairly recent convert to the complete cycling lifestyle, I need to come to terms with the long road ahead toward becoming “good” and just enjoy the journey.

Second Colorado MTB ride: Flatirons Vista Trail

Even people from Texas know about Coloradoans.

We know we’re not liked, so we stereotype our cowboy counterparts right back.

It is especially the Boulderites – we hear – who have a special penchant for making their “fitter-than-thou” status an all-encompassing attitude that leads them to look down on the rest of us mere mortals. This was plainly apparent when I recently read a free outdoor magazine published in Boulder wherein a writer bemoaned climbing Iceland’s tallest mountain at a slow pace with 150 other people. He stated that he’s “from Boulder” and should be racing up the thing with a heart-rate monitor and a stopwatch going so he can chart his physical progress and report back dutifully to his climbing buddies. That guy’s sentiment was echoed throughout the entire publication.

So far, to the delightful disappointment of my expectations, I have run into friendly people. Whether on the trail or on the street, many a cyclist has replied in kind that “everyone has to start somewhere” and “we are all there once” when I mention I’m an early-stage, non-able-bodied mountain biker. Amazingly, these statements have been offered with smiles and the sound of support.

An important question presents itself: Do they mean it? Do these skilled, strong cyclists actually remember and acknowledge that they were once kind-of not all that great?

I’d rather assume the best when it comes to people, so I’ll take the recieved responses as tacit acknowledgement of my worthiness and still go on being a proud, if atypical, Texan who sucks on a mountain bike.

The Flatirons

"She'll be comin' down the mountain when she comes..."

The Mr. cranks it up the steepest section

Riding at lunchtime made us desperate for shade

At the top, the beautiful view of my new hometown reminded me that most expectations are best held onto only loosely to allow room for perspective and experience. Had I followed the path I mapped out as a high school sophomore, I’d be wearing a suit, working in a Washington, D.C., newsroom and rubbing greasy elbows to get the inside story. My hours would be terrible, I’d be required to go out for formal cocktails after work to grow the Rolodex and my ethics would likely find themselves in some compromising positions.

There’s a difference between being good at something and and believing in it. Serious expectations can blur the line between the two.

I let go of expectations, stripping down to passions and ideals so I could follow them in my overarching quest to be a public servant. Doing that meant I left Washington and on a warm Wednesday afternoon, found myself standing on top of a mesa, having left work and my house only an hour prior. It meant I’ve had the honor and privilege of working to help others while still maintaing my sanity, my health and my happiness.

Alone atop our adopted city, the Mr. and I watched a storm morph in the distance, then descended in the glow of waning daylight. My head was heavy with lack of sleep, but my heart swelled with the joy of confluence. Endless events moving beyond my expectations had led me to that mesa top, and I was happy.

At the monthly Cruise Golden community bike ride

Since moving to Colorado a mere 11 days ago, things have taken a turn and my bicycle legitimacy has recieved a massive boost. The bar for my output has also been significantly upped as I suddenly find myself in a world I thought would be out of reach for several years.

Two days ago, I earned the distinct honor of being the worst mountain biker ever to be hired by the International Mountain Bicycling Association (IMBA). I start August 9 in Boulder, Colo., as the Field Programs Coordinator working with and facilitating the Trial Care Crew and National Mountain Bike Patrol.

In addition, I am a new contributor to 303 Cycling, an excellent Denver/Boulder/Golden resource for all things cycling, from stories to training tips to a comprehensive events calendar. I will be writing about Golden events and personal stories on adjusting to altitude, participation in a true cycling lifestyle and local ride experiences. Many thanks to editor Kris for inviting me to write!

Fear not, for I, unlike world-famous, award-winning blogger Fat Cyclist, will not let this newly-attained status get to my head.

I want to thank the cycling community out there in the ether for taking me in. Somewhat unfortunately, my whole “team” thus far has been digital and distant, as there was no place I felt I belonged among the small band of cyclists that roamed San Antonio, where I lived for 20 years. I’m already feeling welcome here in Colorado (despite being a Texan) and I look forward to growing stronger and more skilled so I can hang with a wider variety of people on bikes.

Here’s to the Golden years!