Okay, back to writing more accounts of Latin American adventures...
Friday, March 30, 2007
Brief intermission
For all the boys who read my blog...lime-green mermaids are worth a second look, apparently.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Saturday, St. Paddy’s Day “Look mom, I’m in the Tour de France! (But where is Basso?)”
This March 17th, Jake is in Ireland, I am in El Salvador. So not only do we miss out on the American tradition of poaching other national holidays, but my “in case of emergency, contact:” info isn’t that helpful.
Ahem! Back to El Salvador. Again the airplane/locomotive nightmares for us on the top floor. Pete and Jorge’s ceiling tiles continue their migration.
We head out early (hate those late stage/early stage back-to-backers) to start at the MultiPlaza mall in San Salvador (hopefully avoiding those damn silver cantaloupe speed bumps). The Schick girls show up again. Pete is a tad useless as a result, but we still love him. Why? Because we get off our bikes and don’t have to touch them till the next stage. Not even to carry them into the INDES. That’s pimpin service!
Megan attacks from kilometer 4. She has a good time, but it doesn’t stick. Boo. I am hanging on for dear life once again. The QOM sprint drops me, and I fight my way back on using the caravan’s draft. I am pissed.
It’s now flat and windy and I am trying to protect Anna and Kathleen. The Ukrainian is railing it on the front and I’m getting madder by the moment. The peloton winds up for some sprint points and I’m dropped AGAIN! I battle back on, and discover that I have exercise-induced Tourrette's because I yell (how unladylike!) “You f-in bitches!” as they wind it up AGAIN for some sprint points.
A few teammates told me that they always knew when I’d caught back on because there would be a big ruckus from the back as I yelled obscenities. I’m telling you, people…when you’re blasted, your brain does not use the “logic” function. You are raw emotion. Which sometimes goes hand-in-hand with curse words strung together in a most creative manner. The good thing about the foreign peloton is that a lot of people don’t understand you and assume you are shouting “my country has more nukes than yours!” or “our GDP kicks your ass!”
I calm down a bit as we enter a more-civilized section of the course. We know that there is a climb in here SOMEWHERE, if the race bible is to be believed. I recover my composure and lung-function and patrol the front. We begin a bit of climbing and I surprise myself by hanging on. I am on the front for my Tour de France moment: I lead the peloton up a cobbled climb in a small village, and the streets are lined 10-deep with people. I’m not sure if they are fans or merely trying to cross the street to get to the fruit stand on the other side…but I’ll take the fame. It felt like Le Tour. And I was on TV that night, pink bartape and all. Aw yeah. No Basso, but I’ll survive this time.
The real climb begins, and I hold it for a kilometer. Then gravity kicks my arse and I’m going backward. Pete hands me the obligatory bottle, and I trudge on. I know Megan is behind me somewhere, and hope that she is doing okay.
Victor passes me in his Yaris and tells me 15k to the top. I tell him he’s full of crap and he smiles. Okay, just 8 k; and about 25k to the finish. I can manage this, I think.
It’s a solitary climb when you are dropped. No glamour in the vacant stares of the kids wandering the roadside. You have no idea if you made the right turns. You just hope and are glad you speak Spanish (In my case, anyway. Maybe THAT’S why the rest of the team finished higher every day?)
What the race bible forgot to tell me is that once the big climb is over, you still have to make it over about 30 more. SUCKY! I encounter a 70-year old all kitted up in his local colors. I give him my TARGETRAINING water bottle as a souvenir. He sucks my wheel for 5k. I am embarrassed for being so slow.
I finally make it into Santa Ana, many minutes behind the leaders.
Megan has a worse time of it. She arrives at the finish in the back of a truck, screaming in pain. Her core muscles had completely seized up on the climb, and she was suffering from severe heat exhaustion and various other maladies. She receives a few shots in her derriere (and is put on national TV) while the rest of us girls try to keep the gathering crowd away. Anna is pissed and yells at one cameraman to have some respect. He gives her a bullshit line about “freedom of press”. Yes, freedom of press is good if you’re covering politics or the economy of something. Not a scared American girl getting needles stuck in her on a 110-degree day. Poor Megan.
We are shuttled to a secluded courtyard for lunch, and are amused by the “no guns” signs everywhere. I don’t know who they are directed toward, but nobody obeys. Maybe the chickens; they aren’t packin.
Ahem! Back to El Salvador. Again the airplane/locomotive nightmares for us on the top floor. Pete and Jorge’s ceiling tiles continue their migration.
We head out early (hate those late stage/early stage back-to-backers) to start at the MultiPlaza mall in San Salvador (hopefully avoiding those damn silver cantaloupe speed bumps). The Schick girls show up again. Pete is a tad useless as a result, but we still love him. Why? Because we get off our bikes and don’t have to touch them till the next stage. Not even to carry them into the INDES. That’s pimpin service!
Megan attacks from kilometer 4. She has a good time, but it doesn’t stick. Boo. I am hanging on for dear life once again. The QOM sprint drops me, and I fight my way back on using the caravan’s draft. I am pissed.
It’s now flat and windy and I am trying to protect Anna and Kathleen. The Ukrainian is railing it on the front and I’m getting madder by the moment. The peloton winds up for some sprint points and I’m dropped AGAIN! I battle back on, and discover that I have exercise-induced Tourrette's because I yell (how unladylike!) “You f-in bitches!” as they wind it up AGAIN for some sprint points.
A few teammates told me that they always knew when I’d caught back on because there would be a big ruckus from the back as I yelled obscenities. I’m telling you, people…when you’re blasted, your brain does not use the “logic” function. You are raw emotion. Which sometimes goes hand-in-hand with curse words strung together in a most creative manner. The good thing about the foreign peloton is that a lot of people don’t understand you and assume you are shouting “my country has more nukes than yours!” or “our GDP kicks your ass!”
I calm down a bit as we enter a more-civilized section of the course. We know that there is a climb in here SOMEWHERE, if the race bible is to be believed. I recover my composure and lung-function and patrol the front. We begin a bit of climbing and I surprise myself by hanging on. I am on the front for my Tour de France moment: I lead the peloton up a cobbled climb in a small village, and the streets are lined 10-deep with people. I’m not sure if they are fans or merely trying to cross the street to get to the fruit stand on the other side…but I’ll take the fame. It felt like Le Tour. And I was on TV that night, pink bartape and all. Aw yeah. No Basso, but I’ll survive this time.
The real climb begins, and I hold it for a kilometer. Then gravity kicks my arse and I’m going backward. Pete hands me the obligatory bottle, and I trudge on. I know Megan is behind me somewhere, and hope that she is doing okay.
Victor passes me in his Yaris and tells me 15k to the top. I tell him he’s full of crap and he smiles. Okay, just 8 k; and about 25k to the finish. I can manage this, I think.
It’s a solitary climb when you are dropped. No glamour in the vacant stares of the kids wandering the roadside. You have no idea if you made the right turns. You just hope and are glad you speak Spanish (In my case, anyway. Maybe THAT’S why the rest of the team finished higher every day?)
What the race bible forgot to tell me is that once the big climb is over, you still have to make it over about 30 more. SUCKY! I encounter a 70-year old all kitted up in his local colors. I give him my TARGETRAINING water bottle as a souvenir. He sucks my wheel for 5k. I am embarrassed for being so slow.
I finally make it into Santa Ana, many minutes behind the leaders.
Megan has a worse time of it. She arrives at the finish in the back of a truck, screaming in pain. Her core muscles had completely seized up on the climb, and she was suffering from severe heat exhaustion and various other maladies. She receives a few shots in her derriere (and is put on national TV) while the rest of us girls try to keep the gathering crowd away. Anna is pissed and yells at one cameraman to have some respect. He gives her a bullshit line about “freedom of press”. Yes, freedom of press is good if you’re covering politics or the economy of something. Not a scared American girl getting needles stuck in her on a 110-degree day. Poor Megan.
We are shuttled to a secluded courtyard for lunch, and are amused by the “no guns” signs everywhere. I don’t know who they are directed toward, but nobody obeys. Maybe the chickens; they aren’t packin.
Tell the chickens "no guns"
Two hospitals later Megan rejoined us at INDES, and her race is over. She spends the rest of her El Salvadorian tenure in bed, eating salty snacks, and watching TV. We miss her.
Oh yeah, KB got 9th and Anna 10th. Sweet!
The landmark mechanic, 2k from the INDES. Notice pimped-out taxis
Friday, March 16th “I did NOT just get outpaced by some guy in jeans on a 1984 Univega MTB!”
Anna and I woke up swearing that an airplane had landed on the roof repeatedly between the hours of 3 an 5 a.m. Pete and Jorge confirmed it. Oh wait; it was just the wind blowing the roof tiles to Madagascar. Pete and Jorge’s bathroom ceiling has been partially-dislodged, a fact that raises no alarm with the INDES staff.
Sweet.
We take a twisty-turny bus ride to the beach, where we start Stage I of La Vuelta. It’s humid as hell (I LOVE it!), and we sit down for some pasta and chicken (shocking!) and a mariachi band before the stage begins. Chicken in El Salvador tastes good. This explains the frequency of Pollo Campo and Tosty Pollo (KFC). And it is free-range, because I saw most of the country's flock along the roadways.
Sweet.
We take a twisty-turny bus ride to the beach, where we start Stage I of La Vuelta. It’s humid as hell (I LOVE it!), and we sit down for some pasta and chicken (shocking!) and a mariachi band before the stage begins. Chicken in El Salvador tastes good. This explains the frequency of Pollo Campo and Tosty Pollo (KFC). And it is free-range, because I saw most of the country's flock along the roadways.
Everybody loves chicken
At lunch, Kike did some dancing and court-jestering while we played paranoid Americans and repeatedly used our Purell hand-sanitizer. But seriously folks, you can’t be too careful.
I had brought the TNA bikini, but didn’t get to use it. Dang. Sorry, cousin Lisa.
We roll out around 2 p.m., the hottest part of the day. Due to my stellar climbing abilities exhibited on previous days, we agree that Andrea, Megan and I can help keep things together until the final climb (which, we hope is the final climb as the race bible is the exact opposite of gospel). Then Kathleen, Anna and Hiroko can do their thangs.
We encounter roller after roller in the countryside. And 4 tunnels. UCI regulations demand that tunnels be illuminated so that you can see a car’s license plate 20 meters in front of you. The El Salvadorian interpretation of this rule is to station 2 random guys at the entrance, who then proceed to run alongside the peloton with flashlights. I’m not sure they paid more than $2 for said flashlights. Needless to say, those few pitch-black adventures were harrowing. It almost felt like a discothèque. Where was the E?
Many times I thought I was going to die from the exertion of climbing, and many times I was assured I was not by each teammate. I now held two jerseys: Most Books Read and Biggest Whiner.
Things calmed down a bit when we found some flat ground. We did some fun attacks, with Megan poaching some sprint points and me making an attempt, as well. That was fun. It’s not every day (actually, it’s NEVER) that The Mandy sprints in a UCI event.
The climb began on some cobblestones, right about the time I began to lose contact with the group. Oh man it hurts so bad! Suddenly, they are riding away from me, and I am shot out the back. Pete and Jorge do the usual drill, rolling by me and handing me a bottle of water for my long journey ahead. I am treated 5 times to the joy of having cold water dumped on my head, 39 times to calls of “mi amor” and “preciosa”, and once am dropped by a dude on an ancient mountain bike who is probably just running out for pupusas. Curses.
10k or so later I arrive at the mountaintop in Nahuizalco (Sweet Pete is there at 300 meters egging me on) and fight the urge to puke. I am hot, tired, and want to go to bed. It’s getting dark and we’re stuck on the side of a crumbling mountain while the townspeople stare at us like we’re a zoo attraction. Which we may be. Our strange post-race rituals of hydrating, eating, toilette, dressing, complaining (okay, just me), race-rehashing, jabbering, and whatnot must be a sight to behold for people used to plowing the land and sweating 20 hours per day NOT for incremental gains in their strength/weight ratio.
We roll down the hill to a hidden courtyard where we are served (yet again!) chicken and rice as well as some local delicacies (meatballs, crema, delicious tortillas, etc). I try everything and goad Pete into doing the same, claiming that he clearly IS NOT a man if he doesn’t want to eat processed meat in casings once in a while. He is, after all, from Pennsyltuckey. Anna and Hiroko nap in the Mitsubishi while Jorge drives. The rest of us take the bus home (1.5 hours!) with the loud Brazilians and two hilarious pee stops on the side of the highway.
Oh yeah, and Anna got 11th, KB and Hiroko close behind, and Andrea and Megan somewhere in the middle but WAAAAAY ahead of me.
Sweet sleep. If only the damn airplanes would stay off the roof this time!
Any number of nice ditches we may have ridden by
Thursday, March 15th “Point your ass uphill, Mandy!”
The 4k Prologue to the Vuelta Ciclista a El Salvador is an out-and-back offshoot road in what will soon be a suburban development. No word yet on where the Starbucks will be located.
I get a shoddy warm-up (no trainers or rollers), and am 20th off the start line. Kathleen goes off 10 minutes before me and rocks her TT, and I try to do the same. Oops, I didn’t. But it was better than expected. The “out” part is uphill, and a long slog at that. My 1-minute girl is an Italian with a good-sized derriere (almost as big as mine), so I couldn’t pray to catch her on the “back” (downhill) with her full TT setup. I have clip-on bars. But that’s okay…I still beat half the field. That’s me…Ms. Middle Ground.
The ladies do pretty well. Andrea and I are within a few seconds of one another, and Anna scores a rockin 7/8th place (tied with Jeannie Longo for 7/8 but they put the Olympian above Anna. Must have to do with racing age?). Impressive.
We get back to the INDES, I do some more chilling out and reading (haven’t turned on the tv yet), and Anna rides the rollers donated by Victor, the director of the Guatemalan team (who is voted “cutest boy there” by the Costa Ricans and Brazilians). We head to the mall again to load up on fresh food instead of INDES beans/meat/rice offerings (but I’m still chowing down), and then come back for beddybye. Big day tomorrow!
I get a shoddy warm-up (no trainers or rollers), and am 20th off the start line. Kathleen goes off 10 minutes before me and rocks her TT, and I try to do the same. Oops, I didn’t. But it was better than expected. The “out” part is uphill, and a long slog at that. My 1-minute girl is an Italian with a good-sized derriere (almost as big as mine), so I couldn’t pray to catch her on the “back” (downhill) with her full TT setup. I have clip-on bars. But that’s okay…I still beat half the field. That’s me…Ms. Middle Ground.
The ladies do pretty well. Andrea and I are within a few seconds of one another, and Anna scores a rockin 7/8th place (tied with Jeannie Longo for 7/8 but they put the Olympian above Anna. Must have to do with racing age?). Impressive.
We get back to the INDES, I do some more chilling out and reading (haven’t turned on the tv yet), and Anna rides the rollers donated by Victor, the director of the Guatemalan team (who is voted “cutest boy there” by the Costa Ricans and Brazilians). We head to the mall again to load up on fresh food instead of INDES beans/meat/rice offerings (but I’m still chowing down), and then come back for beddybye. Big day tomorrow!
Victor himself
Wednesday, March 14th “Why is everyone shifting?”
We line up for the Grand Prix de Santa Ana. Exciting stuff. We meet our hot Schick models. Their outfits were enough to render our male staff distracted, and fortunately we had no needs greater than finding the bathroom so we were okay.
We rolled out, through a parking garage, and I was amazed that we didn’t all crash on the speed baubles the size of cantaloupes. Miracles happen on Wednesdays, apparently.
We begin our official start after the neutral parking garage escapade, and roll through the El Salvadorian countryside. It’s beautiful, yet sprinkled everywhere with trash. My Grandfather could have made a killing here (he was a garbage man before starting the world-famous Lozano’s Car Wash). We counter a few attacks by assorted girls, but mainly chilled out. The course profile told us there was a small hill at the end. Oops! It was NOW (50k into a 100k race), because suddenly everyone is shifting and I am clueless and toward the back and suddenly gravity reaches up and grabs my fat ass and pulls me toward San Salvador while the peloton rides away. Jorge and Pete come by in the team car and I give them a defeated look. This hill is LONG! Maybe 5-10k. Argh! I tow a few girls from Costa Rica up the climb, get rid of them, and eventually catch a Brazilian. We work together the rest of the race (about 50k!) and roll in 10 minutes behind the peloton. I almost get hit by a farmer toting geese and 2x4s (not sure what they are called in countries who obey the sensible metric system), and develop a distaste for traffic roundabouts.
Kathleen gets 10th, with Anna, Hiroko and Andrea close behind in the field sprint. Megan led it out so she rolls in a bit later. I am of course off the freakin back.
We return to INDES and enjoy a paella dinner (okay, just me) cooked by some kids who apparently moonlight as cops and god knows what else. Nice folks, though.
We rolled out, through a parking garage, and I was amazed that we didn’t all crash on the speed baubles the size of cantaloupes. Miracles happen on Wednesdays, apparently.
We begin our official start after the neutral parking garage escapade, and roll through the El Salvadorian countryside. It’s beautiful, yet sprinkled everywhere with trash. My Grandfather could have made a killing here (he was a garbage man before starting the world-famous Lozano’s Car Wash). We counter a few attacks by assorted girls, but mainly chilled out. The course profile told us there was a small hill at the end. Oops! It was NOW (50k into a 100k race), because suddenly everyone is shifting and I am clueless and toward the back and suddenly gravity reaches up and grabs my fat ass and pulls me toward San Salvador while the peloton rides away. Jorge and Pete come by in the team car and I give them a defeated look. This hill is LONG! Maybe 5-10k. Argh! I tow a few girls from Costa Rica up the climb, get rid of them, and eventually catch a Brazilian. We work together the rest of the race (about 50k!) and roll in 10 minutes behind the peloton. I almost get hit by a farmer toting geese and 2x4s (not sure what they are called in countries who obey the sensible metric system), and develop a distaste for traffic roundabouts.
Kathleen gets 10th, with Anna, Hiroko and Andrea close behind in the field sprint. Megan led it out so she rolls in a bit later. I am of course off the freakin back.
We return to INDES and enjoy a paella dinner (okay, just me) cooked by some kids who apparently moonlight as cops and god knows what else. Nice folks, though.
Pete is totally stoked. These suits would be perfect for time trials.
Tuesday, March 13th, “You’d be that hot if all you did was play beach volleyball all day”
Tuesday was the opening ceremonies and assorted other biznez. We put our bicycles together, sauntered down to breakfast (a variation of beans/rice and meat with salad and fruit that we had to decline. Boo). Some girls from the Italian Forno d’Asolo team (Mandy’s translation, “hiking boots in the oven”. I know because I have a pair of Asolo boots) wanted to ride 60k (to the millimeter). They were moving too fast or Hiroko and I (and Kathleen was lying in bed after retching her gut all night), so Megan, Andrea and Anna joined the girls. Apparently it was a bit harrowing. And the Ukrainian girl kept half-wheeling Andrea then yelling at her if she ever picked up the pace “no, we ride 60 k! Big race tomorrow!” Whatever.
I laid around and read my book (“The memory keeper’s daughter”). Then wrote some letters. Tried on my new shirt I got for $8 at the mall, which flatters the only two good things to come out of my winter weight gain. In general, I was pretty useless. The INDES is a facility guarded by guys with guns, so I didn’t dare venture out in search of the pupusas I so desired (an El Salvadorian delicacy much like a tamale, which, if I ate as often as I wanted to, would have me weighing 400 lbs).
We boarded the bus driven by Kike, who is the President/Court Jester/LogisticsMaestro/Token everything. We ended up at the velodrome, which is in the middle of a slum. Not an uncommon sight in San Salvador.
After much fanfare, a dancing bottle of yogurt (“Yes!” yogurt, strawberry-flavored), and scowling rows of military boys who’d rather be playing cards. There was a curious Swiss guy wandering around who caught our eye. He was nicely dressed in snazzy jeans and a sportcoat, but had made a drastic mistake by selecting moccasins instead of real shoes. Andrea told me to use my “man-attracting powers to see what is the deal with Moccasins”, but I had to remind her that since we were in Latin America, my olive heritage doesn’t have the same effect. Blondes are our key this week. Hence, the reason Anna got a gigantic bottle of water on the plane from our steward, and she, Kathleen, and Megan get oogled everywhere we went. I might as well be wallpaper.
So we never found out Moccasin’s deal.
The opening ceremony was strange, but the President of El Salvador was there! Anna and I chastised ourselves for not being able to pick him out behind the lectern. We are such bad tourists!
I laid around and read my book (“The memory keeper’s daughter”). Then wrote some letters. Tried on my new shirt I got for $8 at the mall, which flatters the only two good things to come out of my winter weight gain. In general, I was pretty useless. The INDES is a facility guarded by guys with guns, so I didn’t dare venture out in search of the pupusas I so desired (an El Salvadorian delicacy much like a tamale, which, if I ate as often as I wanted to, would have me weighing 400 lbs).
We boarded the bus driven by Kike, who is the President/Court Jester/LogisticsMaestro/Token everything. We ended up at the velodrome, which is in the middle of a slum. Not an uncommon sight in San Salvador.
After much fanfare, a dancing bottle of yogurt (“Yes!” yogurt, strawberry-flavored), and scowling rows of military boys who’d rather be playing cards. There was a curious Swiss guy wandering around who caught our eye. He was nicely dressed in snazzy jeans and a sportcoat, but had made a drastic mistake by selecting moccasins instead of real shoes. Andrea told me to use my “man-attracting powers to see what is the deal with Moccasins”, but I had to remind her that since we were in Latin America, my olive heritage doesn’t have the same effect. Blondes are our key this week. Hence, the reason Anna got a gigantic bottle of water on the plane from our steward, and she, Kathleen, and Megan get oogled everywhere we went. I might as well be wallpaper.
So we never found out Moccasin’s deal.
The opening ceremony was strange, but the President of El Salvador was there! Anna and I chastised ourselves for not being able to pick him out behind the lectern. We are such bad tourists!
Locate the El Salvadorian President. We couldn't either.
All the teams were called up, including the Belizeans, who had recruited as a guest rider none other than multi-World Champion and Olympic Gold Medalist Jennie Longo. She was her usual stoic self, looking around for the Whole Foods so she could eat some civilized organic cuisine in this damn country. Poor gal; I guess she has her routine back in France.
The Brazilians were there, too. They have swagger, to say the least. And hotitude. I marveled at it, and Anna reminded me “you’d be that hot too if all you did was play beach volleyball all day”. And talk about BRAZIL! Every damn thing they wore touted the flag. I am willing to bet their underwear were an homage to their blessed homeland. They even wore press-on nails with the green and blue!
Our mechanic, Pete, shows up after the ceremony (while we are trying to figure out the animal origin of the items swimming in the chafing dishes under a sorry-looking tent parked next to the SOBE truck manned by a macho guy with frightfully large arms and a sleeveless shirt). Pete is shell-shocked. He had showed up at the airport that morning (he had to wait in CT another day for the arrival of our Schick-emblazoned kits to come from Champion System in China) and had no idea where he was going. Didn’t speak a word of Spanish. How he got through customs with his fancy toolbox, 12 sets of green lycra uniforms, and various biking accessories; I’ll never know. He is charming, for an American; perhaps this was his golden ticket. He knows “no comprendo”. This is a start.
Pete ended up hooking up with the Brazilians at the airport, who all gave him icy attitude then made him lug their bicycle bags. Hopefully he won’t think that my dirty bike is so bad after the chilly reception of 6 Portuguese-speaking ladies.
The Brazilians were there, too. They have swagger, to say the least. And hotitude. I marveled at it, and Anna reminded me “you’d be that hot too if all you did was play beach volleyball all day”. And talk about BRAZIL! Every damn thing they wore touted the flag. I am willing to bet their underwear were an homage to their blessed homeland. They even wore press-on nails with the green and blue!
Our mechanic, Pete, shows up after the ceremony (while we are trying to figure out the animal origin of the items swimming in the chafing dishes under a sorry-looking tent parked next to the SOBE truck manned by a macho guy with frightfully large arms and a sleeveless shirt). Pete is shell-shocked. He had showed up at the airport that morning (he had to wait in CT another day for the arrival of our Schick-emblazoned kits to come from Champion System in China) and had no idea where he was going. Didn’t speak a word of Spanish. How he got through customs with his fancy toolbox, 12 sets of green lycra uniforms, and various biking accessories; I’ll never know. He is charming, for an American; perhaps this was his golden ticket. He knows “no comprendo”. This is a start.
Pete ended up hooking up with the Brazilians at the airport, who all gave him icy attitude then made him lug their bicycle bags. Hopefully he won’t think that my dirty bike is so bad after the chilly reception of 6 Portuguese-speaking ladies.
Some "Shoe in Oven" girls. Mariele and Caroline. Delightful lasses!
We finally rumbled home after a long delay waiting for the rusty bike rack to be installed on our 1985 Mitsubishi 4-door 2-cylinder truck AKA Schick-TARGETRAINING team vehicle. We were hoping for the Toyota Yaris till we figured out that the Guatemalan team had BYOC (Bring Your Own Car) and it was theirs to begin with.
Off to bed, after a dinner of (shocking!) meat and rice. My teammates are beginning to look askance, listening to their guts…but mine were silent (except saying “Feed me!”), so I plowed through it.
Dreams of gun-toting guards danced through our heads.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Monday, March 12th. Let’s wake up at 4 a.m., okay?
Anna, Hiroko and I woke up early as hell, got picked up by Drew and Andrea, and headed to JFK. Jorge, our esteemed Director-for-the-week; and Kathleen and Megan met all of us and the game was on.We arrived in San Salvador’s airport to the tune of “Dust in the Wind”. El Salvadorians love bad elevator music. Bad OLD elevator music. Damn.
We waited at the curb for a bit for our ride to the INDES (El Salvador’s version of our Olympic Training Center). Megan’s shirt said: “Killing you is the last thing I want to do, but it’s still on my list”. Fitting. Waiting sucks.
We loaded into the van (generous description for lawnmower with a milk crate for cargo and a 50cc engine), enjoyed the scenery on the 50k drive to the INDES, and talked about how excited we were to be here. The heat and humidity were welcomed by me, and bemoaned by others. 3 ½ years of living in the South have done me well.
We were assigned roommates (Anna was mine) and chilled out for a few hours before adventuring to a local mall for some food court chow. Poor Anna and Hiroko don’t usually slum that way, so finding food for them was tough. They found a SuperSelectos (regular ol’ supermarket) and amused themselves with the selection. I hogged down some Chinese takeout beef and broccoli. Possibly two of my favorite things to eat.
I finished book #1 (fluffy novel “In her shoes”), then started book #2 for the week. I am leading the jersey competition in Books Read while in Foreign Climes. Hiroko is trying to gain time on me, but remains a distant second place.
Then, to bed. Anna is a World Champion Recover-er. She will teach me well!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
I'm baaaaaaaaack
from la grand prix de santa ana and la vuelta ciclista femenina a el salvador. which, for all you language buffs, is spanish for "whip mandy's fat ass into shape". betchya didn't know THAT!
instead of inundating my poor readers with one gigantic rendition of the adventures of us 6 girlies (plus a director and mechanic), i'll do it day-by-day. each post will be a snapshot of 24 hours in the life of us everybody's favorite schick-targetraining hotties.
you've officially been warned...
instead of inundating my poor readers with one gigantic rendition of the adventures of us 6 girlies (plus a director and mechanic), i'll do it day-by-day. each post will be a snapshot of 24 hours in the life of us everybody's favorite schick-targetraining hotties.
you've officially been warned...
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Bye for now!
I'm leaving for the UCI C-1.2 Grand Prix de Santa Ana and UCI-C2.2 Vuelta Ciclista Femenina a El Salvador.(say that 5 times fast!)
I've been told not to eat any watermelon down there. Among other things...
I'll return to the World Wide Web on Thursday, March 22nd.
I'll return to the World Wide Web on Thursday, March 22nd.
Oh: not that I'll have much time, but I brought these two rockin TNA bikinis (designed by my awesome cousin Lisa Lozano) just in case...
And that model IS NOT ME. Duh. Though I do kick ass at volleyball.
Commence radio silence.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
to do list for next week
1. 
2. mourn the fact that i'm missing this. 
true story. one of my friends from college invented it. not to be missed. unless, of course, you're bein all 'pro' and stuff down in central america.
2. mourn the fact that i'm missing this. true story. one of my friends from college invented it. not to be missed. unless, of course, you're bein all 'pro' and stuff down in central america. 3. i forget the rest. what else is there after uci stage-racing and corndogs?
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
3 photo captions
the guy in the grey shirt was just trotting down to walgreens on an errand for the wife, cell phone on ear and cold bbq-tending beverage in hand, when he hears cheering. the long-lost frat boy within him responds, as it does every sunday in the fall and during basketball's march madness; with the obligatory yaaaahooooo! and subsequent 'let's go do keg stands' posture. he has no idea what/who just rode by him (olympic gold medalist and world champ paolo bettini in the huge-time amgen tour of california), but he loves the fanfare just the same. and for one small moment we are all united in sport
jens voigt is the ultimate badass.
this is her first race ever. notice:
-triple chainring gt bicycle with shimano 600 gruppo. approx weight = 25 lbs
-hand-me-down toe covers over $99 mountain bike shoes
-race number pinned on (?) left leg
-$5 k-mart shades. it ain't sunny, honey
-squeaky bunny on handlebars
-dropped but smiling
but a year later she returns and wins the pro 1,2 field sprint for 2nd place in the race. everybody's gotta start somewhere.
Ian Ayers is not my boyfriend
Ha! That got your attention.Just to clarify a few things as my readership is sometimes confused:
I am in Connecticut right now. And it’s cold as heck. Trust me people, I’m a professional: don’t even try to keep up with my whereabouts.
Of course I own my place in Charlottesville
I will, without a doubt, attend Darden in the fall. No question.
I still love my Acura
I love Schick Quattro razors
I still ride bikes. A lot. And very fast.
I still have a Gummi Bear and ChexMix addiction.
I still use Burt’s Bees products
I will devote my life and my career to saving the planet.
I still sleep with a stuffed gorilla named Lizzie (“Izzy Bo-wee-la”) that my friend Megan gave me for my 12th birthday.
The only boyfriends I have are boys who are friends. What I DO have is impossible for words to express.
I managed to maintain my tan all winter. God bless Tucson.
I still cannot fit into my Sevens
But my million pairs of fancy shoes still fit. That’s the good thing about shoe size and weight gain.
My vanity knows no bounds and this is the only reason I’ll do situps
By virtue of my Oregon cattle ranch upbringing, I have been innoculated for every known bovine disease. There is no vaccine for Mad Cow, btw, so I still get mad at times.
I will not return your phone call unless you leave me a message. Texting doesn’t count (and it’s expensive).
Any questions?
I will not return your phone call unless you leave me a message. Texting doesn’t count (and it’s expensive).
Any questions?
PS: According to the ladies, Ian is quite fetching in his Rite Aid jersey
Friday, March 2, 2007
Just me and The Cheat...on the Turnpike
so the cheat (pictured at left) and i left charlottesville yesterday at 5. right on time, as scheduled. i am sooooooo good. being on time is a religion for me. which sucks when you're on time for puberty at 14 and it's slow to arrive and by the time you're 16 it does and you forgot you asked for it and suddenly the boys say you went to cleveland over the summer and it's wierd. but then they start calling and you forget about wierd and instead devote your time to sneaking out of the house at night to party. and then you get caught. oops. but i digress.
so i had the acura packed to the water line. you couldn't stuff another pair of donald j. pliner pumps in there. i had the cheat unceremoniously crammed in the back window. i was driving along, minding my own business, and suddenly the cheat chimes in. seems i had him jammed so tight that every bump activated his voicebox and he yelled at me. he also liked certain songs and beats more than others (hated jay-z but loved kelly clarkson. didn't care for skynnard but liked the talking heads). when i was on the phone, he would sometimes object to my conversation and yell about that. true story. scab together $39 and buy one here. they rock. and by the way, his name is "the cheat" and it must be spoken in its entirety. forget for a moment there is a space between the two words. it's like syllables. you have to address him like "oh, the cheat, pipe down!" or "hey, the cheat, what did you do with the remote?"
and if you just had no idea what i wrote in the above vignette, edumicate yoseff heyahh.
so the cheat and i made the 8-hour drive to connecticut through 7 states that was supposed to take 6 hours. en route i experienced the craziest nj turnpike exit ever made. i exited and was rerouted back south for about 2 miles, driving like motocross, and having a grand time. i didn't see any shantytowns or trolls under the 3 bridges i navigated, but i wouldn't have been suprised if one showed up. i swear that there were 18 turns in my exit to the sunoco gas station, and if you threw in some barriers, bell-ringing belgians, and a few yards of hurricane fencing you'd have a cyclocross course. the acura (pictured above) didn't complain, though. it's a good little auto.but i am complaining about the $20 in tolls. they make us southern-dwellers pay out the nose to come north, but they get to come south for cheap. all for the krispy kremes, i guess.
tomorrow is the gimbles road ride in connecticut. i guess if you listen really closely at the beginning, you hear a start gun go off. i hate race/rides. especially when there are no checks or podium girls at the end. boo.
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