On top of the world

Three amigos overlooking the Wasatch Mountain Golf Course.
Three amigos overlooking the Wasatch Mountain Golf Course.

Another perfect weekend riding both days in Utah’s Wasatch State Park, which is pretty much on top of the world. We started out on Saturday by meeting up with a fellow female rider who showed up to the gas station decked out in pink Fox gear. While we filled up on fuel, I noticed another car pull up to the pump next to us and a guy wearing a FMF hat peeled a gas tank from his front seat. Only in Park City do people drive around in cars with dirt bike gas cans, I thought. Come to find out the guy was planning on riding at the same spot later so the threesome became a foursome – the more the merrier, right? ”

Once we pulled up to the campground, I started gearing up while we talked about what kind of trails we wanted to ride. Once the guy from the gas station showed up, it was time to go so we headed up the main road to the first trail, which is a rocky, rutted out mess but all uphill and lots of fun if super sketchy in spots.

After a few miles, the trail ends at an intersection of roads, so we decided to ride another road to the singletrack. Or at least that was the plan. I was starting to hate riding the roads and feeling bad for winding out my motorcycle – she’s not used to it – but if that’s the only way to get where we wanted to go, I had to deal. Usually, any time I’m on my motorcycle is a good time, but with 10 to 20 miles of road ahead, it was starting to get old fast. So, we got to the singletrack, I took off in the lead and rode a few minutes before I realized no one was behind me. I killed the engine and waited…not a sound. No one was coming, which was strange. Turned out, the other female rider went down and her bike was unable to continue. So, we circled back and when I pulled up next to her, I noticed a piece of her clutch cover as well as the water pump cover was missing. “Woah!” I said, more disappointed that we now had to figure out how to get her back to the truck without ruining our day. The other guy took off on his own, while we followed our friend down another road to the nearest trailhead; she coasted the whole way.

We lucked out and ran into a forestry officer who volunteered to give her a ride back to the truck so we wouldn’t have to ride two up since we were dozens of miles away. Then it was time for Jon and I to hit the singletrack, which we did before going back to the truck to check on our friend. We called it a day after that and made plans to ride again tomorrow.

Sunday morning came and we pulled up to the exact same spot only this time the parking lot was pretty much empty – that’s riding in Utah on a Sunday. I was excited to see the guy from yesterday pulling up as we unloaded since he said he knew where to find the best singletrack.

It only took about an hour to get there, riding road after jeep trail and more roads. We ran into traffic at one point when a group of Jeeps were literally crawling through this sweet section of rocks and I wanted to scream: “Get out of the way!” and make them move myself. Patience is not easy when my adrenaline’s pumping and I’m rarring to go tear up some trails only fit for a dirt bike. We passed them with a few choice words and were on our way again when we came up behind a line of side-by-sides and UTVs – even worse! They stopped in the road just talking, and I almost ran into the back of the last one. More words…

We finally reached the singletrack and it was well worth the wait. There’s just something about the woods here – it’s like the Tim McGraw “On Top of the World,” song says:  “Any way you looking, it’s a hell of a view.” It’s hard not to look down and out across the valleys when you’re riding, but you can’t take your eyes off the trail for fear of falling off a cliff you could never return. The other guy lead most of the way at the beginning and stopped to walk a short uphill section before we or I decided as a group that it was too risky to chance it, and if there’s any doubt, don’t do it. Looking back, I know I could have done it and was mad for turning around. I assumed if we had just come up here without walking it first, it wouldn’t be a problem but the longer you wait to do something, the harder it is and I know seeing it beforehand psyched me out. Oh, well.

There was plenty of more trails to conquer and we ended up around 10,000 feet across from Mount Timpanogos “sitting on top of the world.”

“…Holding on to heaven.”

The rest of the day, I managed to baby my rear brakes, which desperately need pads and keep my ass off the ground except once or twice. I remember before one particularly gnarly downhill, the other guy turning to me and saying something like, “You’re going to want to be careful in the next section. It gets pretty rough,” and I wanted to laugh. “We’ll see,” I said, knowing I had been training for trails like this for more than 20 years. Plus riding my 125 was a breeze, and I knew what he meant to say was that he needed to be careful because he was riding a heavy thumper, and I was right behind him every time he turned around.

We rode until the sun set, swapping the lead, twisting throttles and stopping for pictures and/or to chat with other riders on the trail. A moment came later sitting down at dinner to recap our epic ride. That’s when I heard what I’d been waiting for him to say all day, and I’m paraphrasing here: “Well, I’ve ridden with a lot of girls all over place but none of them ride quite like you.”

I must have blushed. “Thank you,” I told him. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

New rules

I raced an Enduro last Saturday in West Wendover, Nevada across hundreds of thousands of acres of public land owned by the Bureau of Land Management. By sunset Friday, driving through a bleak and desolate western Utah, I captured this image of the Bonneville Salt Flats – about 12 miles long and 5 miles wide – mostly underwater.


After a pit stop in Delle, Utah – with bumper stickers like “I’m on a highway to Delle,” and “Welcome to Delle,” – crossing the state line, I knew instantly that I wasn’t in Utah anymore. The town of West Wendover is home to a handful of different casinos and has that glitz and glam Vegas feel that’s so obviously missing in Utah where there’s not even a state lottery. I digress.

Heading to the white spot of campers off in the distance to start the enduro.

At sign up on Saturday morning, one of the ladies working for the club hosting the enduro flattered me by asking if I was signing up for the Junior Girls class. “No,” I told her smiling. “Do you have a Women A class?” One of the men spoke up: “No, we just have Women B and C.”


Great, I thought and signed up on row 32. Then, with key time being 11:30 a.m., that meant I didn’t start until 12:02 p.m., so I waited almost 3 hours for the race to start and by then I almost needed a nap. Around 10:30 a.m. the club hosted a riders meeting to go over a few rules for the majority who said they had never ridden an enduro before. I lumped myself into the first-timer group having never ridden an enduro out west before and not understanding their scoring system. “Basically, you can take as much time as you want during the transfers,” one rider explained to me. “They only score you during the test sections,” which is unlike the East Coast enduros where everything is counted and you have to be on time at each checkpoint. Out west, you only have to be on time at the start of each loop; at the tests, you just line up and they mark your time when you start and once again at the end of the test. So it weeds out the people on your row and allows you to really ride hard during the test sections and take much-needed breaks at the transfers. The only part I didn’t like was how easy the test sections were compared to the transfer sections with tight and technical rock washes and uphill climbs that didn’t count if you cruised through there unscathed. Naturally, the only time I crashed was during a test section, and both times due to a downed rider who was in the fast line and forced me to a rough outside line where I crashed. I lost at least 5 minutes in the second test when I came around an off-camber corner and saw a rider stuck down in a ditch. Guess where I ended up? Down in the ditch with him…I had no way out except to launch my bike up over the ditch and back onto the trail where I found my groove and managed to keep it on two wheels for the rest of the race. I came into the end of the last test just 18 seconds behind a fellow ponytailed rider who had started 15 seconds ahead of me. She ended up winning our class by more than 2 minutes and I finished second less than a minute ahead of the third place girl, so how’s that for some competition?


“Desert dumb”

I entered my first desert race last Saturday, which was unlike anything I’ve encountered in my 15+ years of racing. First, we were racing on a Saturday, my first in Utah, which is predominately a Mormon state, so just about everything is shut down on Sunday, including the race track, unlike Florida where we just about only race on Sunday, except for Bike Week or special night races like the Pumpkin Run fun runs. In Utah, races are Friday night and Saturday. It was tough waking up early to go racing Saturday after working all week and nice at the same time knowing I would have Sunday off for a change.

I signed up for the Women amateur class without a Women expert class option, and showed up to the starting area confused about everything from the location of my row, rules of the course, length and distance. I knew, from walking the track prior to the start that Endurocross obstacles awaited me right after one lap around the motocross track. Then, it looked like the trail went off into the cattails and whooped out around the freestyle ramps used in Nitro Circus at the Godfrey ranch, before snaking around the dragstrip and asphalt roundy-round to the chicane.

Over the wood pile
Over the wood pile

The landowner said it best, when asked how long was the course or how many laps he thought we would run. “I don’t know. I’m desert dumb.”

Trying to find traction
Trying to find traction
Riding it out!
Riding it out!

So, I waited for the green flag, holding my bike in front of the motocross gates on the last row of the amateur and expert afternoon race. I spotted another girl and assumed she was racing in the women’s class, too, but she said she signed up in the 250 amateur class with all the guys because she likes the competition.

Confidence built, I still just wanted to have fun and not crash. The riders meeting was called to the front of the first row, which made it impossible for me to attend because I had no one to hold my bike or a kickstand. Most everyone there had a kickstand, I noticed. About five others couldn’t attend or hear the riders meeting, either. After the others returned, I asked one of them: “They say anything important?”

He hesitated while getting set on his bike. “Hot engine start. You can go around the obstacles but you might get docked.”

I nodded thanks and focused my thoughts on staying smooth. After all the rows left, the women and all the leftovers started in a pack of about 20. I found midpack and tried to stay to the right as I warmed up around the first lap of the motocross track and into the obstacles where people laid out on the ground left and right, and bikes passed me coming bonzai into the rock section, airborne without a rider. I snuck around the obstacles and managed to stay upright for most of the first lap and only slid out once trying to get around this Honda rider.

Trying to get around this guy...
Trying to get around this guy…

That’s the worst thing about desert racing: the dust. Well, it’s actually more like a silt, and it’s slicker and pushes more than sand, so it took some getting used to. Add in trying to get around slower moving riders and the challenge becomes more like a hassle. So, I lasted about an hour of that before I pulled off with a hard dirt ring around my mouth and no more fun left out there for me. I finished 5 laps on a 6 mile course and was scored a DNF 😦…but my lap times would have put me in first in my class and also ahead of the other girl, but who’s counting? 😍

Consistent if nothing else
Consistent if nothing else

Never surrender

Today marks the official start of the third week of school at Juan Diego Catholic High School in Draper, Utah, even thought it’s only the second calendar week – the four-day block rotation means I only see students four days a week, instead of 5, and allows me at least one daily plan period, instead of teaching 6 classes back-to-back. On A and B days, I teach five classes and on C and D days, I only have four. It’s nice to have a break in the middle of the day like today (an A day.) On B and C days, I have first period prep, which I’m using to make sure my lessons are in order for the day. Then, on D days, I have two prep periods, so there seems to be just enough time to have everything prepared in between classes. I’m excited teaching journalism at the high school level and I’m always happy to see them; I’m doing my best to learn all 143 of their names and personally greet them when they walk in my classroom. I want to earn their respect and remind them constantly how important journalism is to our democracy.

Tell the young high school kids keep dreamin’ because they sure do come true. – Drake

In the middle of class yesterday, as we were discussing the differences between hard and soft news stories, I pulled up a story about the brush fires in Utah and noticed a red breaking news banner across the top of the website about the shooting death of two journalists in Virginia. I was just trying to explain how new stories are written with different tones, and there I was standing in front of ~30 9th graders staring at the TV in stock. I was not prepared for this teachable moment to come so soon, and I thought to myself, “This is getting to be a dangerous profession,” but I couldn’t just tell them that. I reminded them that we have a duty to report the truth and went home to prepare today’s lecture about the freedom of the press. We talked about government interference and how photographing is not a crime; we talked about the BBC reporters who “were reporting from the scene of the crash when they were told by police to delete their video footage.” I was happy telling them their rights as a journalist and how sometimes, police can (unlawfully) interfere with your reporting and threaten to confiscate your materials. And, if you don’t obey their orders, they can have you arrested (which then becomes a story in itself.) But, back to the First Amendment and the freedom of the press: “We have to know and defend our rights as journalists. Would a police officer hand his gun over to you if you demanded it? Your camera is the same as that officer’s gun. You never surrender it. Ever.”

Collecting moments

I almost dropped a few tears at Friday’s faculty retreat when my colleague ended her story on the history of Juan Diego with a personal anecdote about working with foster children whose parents have been detained at the Mexican border – sometimes for up to 5 years without a court date.

It wouldn’t be the first time I fought back tears that day.

It all started the moment we were asked to pick a partner or someone we wanted to get to know better (or knew nothing at all.) There I stood next to my colleague who I’d met months before when I flew out for my interview; I’d wanted to pick her but my gut said that was too easy, and she picked the teacher standing next to her before I could say anything. For a moment, I wanted to cry; it reminded me of being the last person picked for the flag football team in grade school. In a moment, my friend said, “Pick Sister. She’s super cool,” and in a moment, I knew that’s what I needed to do.

Sister, who teaches theology, and I rode the school bus together to our destination and talked about caring for our students and how we can live “bravely” and “boldly” this year. We spent the rest of the morning learning about Juan Diego – “the first Roman Catholic indigenous saint from the Americas.” Then it was our school principal’s time to talk about the history of Sam Skaggs – a well-known Utah businessman and benefactor who donated the 57-acre campus also known as the Skaggs Catholic Center.

What’s interesting is that Mr. Skaggs converted to Catholicism at the age of 72 after serving in World War II where he witnessed the “compassion and generosity of Roman Catholic chaplains during the war.” This ultimately lead to his conversion. “It was always the Catholics,” Dr. Colosimo said. Tears. 

The retreat ended with an interactive lesson on the Juan Diego seal (or logo or crest or symbol) and the meaning behind each of the elements. A few faculty spoke about the importance of the school’s mission of “Spiritus Donorum,” and as I looked around the room, I noticed grown men rubbing their eyes; one lady said to  please excuse her if she cried. I turned around to see my colleague and fellow new teacher’s eyes big, wet and red and I understood this was where I belonged.

God really outdid Himself with this one: this is how it’s supposed to be, I thought, or at least how I’ve always envisioned it. It’s a world where I don’t mind working so long as I can contribute to the greater good of my community. I am grateful to finally feel surrounded by people who live the way I intend to, giving as much of themselves to the students, each other and to life/God/whatever image for you is God. Honestly, the Catholic church is the last place I would have thought to find what I’ve been looking for but, looking back, it should have been the first place I looked.

“Be strong and of good courage.”

Riding Fivemile Pass OHV Area outside of Lehi, Utah yesterday reminded me how much stronger my right (brake) hand is than my left (clutch) hand. The terrain at 5,300-feet was mostly wide open (read: boring), and rocky. Some spots required all the front brake I could grab bulldogging the bike down a steep hill, locking up the rear brake and putting to use all my years of delicately balancing my mountain bike. When it came time for one of the uphills, I stalled my bike – obviously, I can’t clutch as good as I can brake. After 10 miles of dusty desert jeep trails, which is fun for the side-by-sides and ATVs, I decided I would rather hike, it’s so scenic. Plus, I’m not sure riding there makes me a better rider, either. I was more concerned about dropping my bike and denting the pipe again. I did manage to ricochet off a sage bush and scratch my arm so I must be the only person who can ride in the desert and still run into a tree. Score!

Last Friday I attended the new faculty orientation for teachers in the Salt Lake City Catholic Diocese and I learned a lot about the history of the Catholic Church in Utah and what it means to teach at a Catholic school. For one, when a student tells me something terrible happened in their life, I have the right (and privilege) to say, “I’ll pray for you.” Words like “morals,” “peaceful,” “nurturing,” “patient,” floated around reminding me of my greater responsibility with this job: Utah is celebrating 140 years of Catholic education. “This is a small town in a big city,” someone said, and it’s true. Of the 16 schools in the Diocese, I’m teaching at one of 3 high schools and, while it is not a requirement to be Catholic in order to teach at a Catholic school – in fact, more than 25 percent of teachers are not Catholic – it is encouraged to uphold the Catholic values of caring for each other as relationships are at the foundation of what it means to be Catholic. But it’s not just about being Catholic; it’s more about our commitment to the service of educating the “whole person” and helping prepare student leaders to go make peace in the world. I can jive with that.

“Prayer should come with a disclosure: if you pray, you will change.”

Growing pleasures, less pains

I could never give my child up for adoption, which I just did professionally when I resigned from my position as editor, publisher and advertising manager of Florida Trail Riders Magazine, a position I’ve held for about five years. Now my baby’s new parent is using the wrong “your,” forgetting apostrophes and doesn’t even have a Facebook page. The Facebook page I started for the magazine has more then 3,500 likes, the Twitter and Instagram have an active following and I’m walking away…The worst part is I feel like I’m letting a lot of people down who say they’re sad to see me go: “I feel the magazine is a real mag now.”

It’s harder than I thought.

“Back when it used to matter.”

My pleasures are much greater now. I’m learning my way around the Salt Lake valley, as one of my friends put it: “as far from us as she can.”

My Florida license scored me a nonresident offroad permit: $30 for the year.
My Florida license scored me a nonresident offroad permit: $30 for the year and it’s good in other states, too.
Fiesta loves swimming with the ducks.
Fiesta loves swimming with the ducks.
Taking the girl to the top.
Taking my girl to the top.
Getting used to having the apartment gym to myself!
Getting used to having the apartment gym to myself!

So I know it’s real

I had to buy a couch before sitting down to publish this first blog post since moving to Utah. The couch I found on the online classifieds looked clean and comfortable enough for me to pop in a DVD, lean back, kick my feet up and grab the MacBook that’s tethered to my phone while I’m working from home, finishing off some leftover work from Florida while also preparing for the new school year.
Yesterday, I met a fellow high school teacher while cleaning up the classroom from last year’s Yearbook teacher. She teaches health and P.E. along with coaching girls soccer, assisting with boys and more that I can’t remember. She mentioned the big role I was taking on and how she would be there if I needed anything. Then I stopped by to talk with the ladies in the office; one reassured me that she could tell by my “aura” that I would fit in great around there.
I was beginning to worry when I couldn’t find an available apartment that accepted dogs with a garage within my price range. Even though I’m forking over more than I expected, I’d rather be safe than sorry living in a nice neighborhood less then 10 miles from school. (Note: dumpster diving still occurs around 3 a.m.)
The elevation here in South Jordan is around 4,800 feet, which makes running hard at first and took some time getting used to after sitting on my tail for more than a week driving here.
I made the 3,000 mile trip in just over 7 days, stopping to split time in St. Louis, ride dirt bikes at some of Missouri’s stellar offroad state parks and 4th of July at the Lake of the Ozarks. Then, it was off through Kansas City, which I learned is actually in Missouri, and a full day’s driving by great green swaths, beautiful sunsets and giant windmills. I stopped in Colorado near Pikes Peak to ride some of the most epic single track I’ve ever seen or thought existed. Then, the last leg consisted of the gnarliest drive on Interstate 70 through Colorado to Utah in the rain, with a stop for some wild art and picked up some ‘rado swag. I was impressed by the mountains and roads on the way, and the 75 mph speed limit, which was both liberating and scary in some spots.
Colorado captivated me with sights like this one at a rest stop in Vail.
Colorado captivated me with sights like this one at a rest stop in Vail.
The Rocky Mountain Raceways Motocross park sits next to a drag strip by another speedway.
The Rocky Mountain Raceways Motocross park sits next to a drag strip by another speedway.
I put in a few laps for practice at the motocross track in West Valley, Utah.
I put in a few laps for practice at the motocross track in West Valley, Utah.
Crowds covered the stands both nights of the weekend race.
Crowds covered the stands both nights of the weekend race.

DSC_0620More photos:

Thursday practice – Friday and Saturday racing

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I started my journey west yesterday, driving more than 600 miles from Asheville to St. Louis where I feasted my eyes on the 630-foot Gateway Arch just as the clock said midnight and counted my 12th straight hour of driving, save for gas, bathroom and coffee stops.

Gateway to the west
Gateway to the west

I’m glad I was able to get one more ride in the Western North Carolina mountains before setting off; Pops and I rode a few miles around the Wayehutta OHV Park outside of Sylva this weekend, until it started raining and traction was hard to find. In Florida when it rains, it’s usually a welcome sign, at least if it hasn’t been raining everyday. The wet cools you off and loams up the sand, which there’s more than enough of. But in the mountains of WNC, when it rains it’s like riding on ice. There’s no traction and it’s hard to tell where the rocky mountain ends and the dirt begins.
I just tried bouncing from rock to rock but we had to be careful due to these “catch pits” that the forestry has developed, Pops said, “So they can have zero run off into the river.”

This makes the tree huggers happy not to have run off from the riding are. It was sketchy riding by because if you get off trail and hit one, you’ll end up on the opposite bank with your front tire stuck in a 6-foot hole. Day over.

We pulled up to an almost empty parking lot, except for one truck with a side-by-side parked next to it and a couple sharing a sub under the pavilion. The guy was quick to complain that “they had the trails all messed up” and must have blamed it on Obama three times before I stopped listening. “Ever since Obama got in there,” and “Obama came in there and messed everything up.”

After those guys took off, the volunteer ranger showed up to check on things and he told me “they spent $160,000 in the park this year,” making the parking lot bigger and safer removing trees and doing trail maitenance. It reminded me of the quote: “Believe half of what you hear and all of what you see.”

Trails to ourselves
Trails to ourselves

Today’s plan is to ride at St. Joe State Park in Park Hills, MO.