Quick update- World Cup trials

Hey CBC,

Sometimes I forget you can't read my mind and I have to write to you. Can't you hear my telepathic broadcasting? 

Round two of World Cup trials is finished. Without further ado, yes, they did give me the World Cup starts for world cups 1-3. I know, you would have been mad at me if I didn't score at least one spot for the CBC across the ocean. What happens after that, I have no idea. I assume I return for a glorious biathlon battle at SMR. Hopefully we won't be clad in the infamous and eye-shearing orange of the 2015-16 season that somehow only looked okay on Brian. Don't let him tell you different, that's definitely a women's one piece suit he's wearing. 

Susan stomped all the women in Jericho like we were doing a completely different sport, but that's okay because Susan is basically a superhero. In the first race, Susan actually PASSED me, and she was bib 10 to my 5.  I mean, it would have probably helped my case if I hit more than 2 standing targets (ouch), but she's really a force of nature. I shaped it up the second race and went 0-2 instead of 1-3, but I admit I did this by slowing my range time down by an additional 50%. (The first eight shots really went fantastic for me, though). I think that made my set of World Cup trials races 2-3-3-3 in placing, so let it never be said I don't have consistency, even if it is completely by accident. My coach was pleased because I shaved 20 seconds off my pure ski time (no range time or penalty laps) from the first day to the second. But then, it helps when you have two fewer spins around the penalty loop before you start skiing. 

To put the icing on my shooting cake I rolled back into Placid for a Tuesday time trial to hit ONE target out of ten.  So, since you guys are the masters of knowing all the funky things that go wrong with rifles, hit me with why tightening the blinder attachment on my rear sight suddenly dropped my group 15 clicks. Then I just played with the attachment and BAM- back up fifteen clicks.  More importantly, how to use this as an attack strategy so I can win colorado state championships.....

I'm on a plane back home to our very rectangular state at this moment, where I will be in residence a whopping four days before heading up to Canmore with USBA. I had a really fun packing explosion while I scrambled to remove everything I needed from Placid, in preparation for not returning until sometime in March(?) when Jericho has nationals.  I disconnected my car battery, poured gas stabilizer into that little white highlander that has carried me so far, and regretfully left it in the parking lot of the olympic training center.  I crammed everything into my ski bag in hopes that this four day window will give me time to assemble my on-snow preparedness kit (hint: include skis), and wash my collection of dirty socks I've been carrying around for the past month. 

Everyone get your snow dance outfits on, because I want grooming like we had last year when I'm back from Canmore 11/12-11/22, please. Can we send out a members digest about that? "CBC's mascot requests all-club snow dance, RSVP needed. Location: Walter's front porch."

Look for me in the BNS magazine and on fasterskier in the near future- I appear to be beginning my rise to infamy and riches.  And by that I mean broke as usual, writing to nobody in the vast empty space of the interwebs. 

See you at SMR!

-J

Results from 10/15 (sprint): Here
Results from 10/16 (sprint): Here


Results from August:
Sprint: Here
Mass start: Here 

June, July, August

June, July, and August

Hey CBC,

I returned to Boulder for some time, longer than my coach would like, and shorter than I would have preferred to stay. 

a brief interlude to display reasons why I live in Colorado ... 

Somewhere outside Telluride

This is what happens when our range is closed during the week... 
Shooting at poor, unsuspecting dead trees in a yard in Ridgway colorado

My beloved car and I decided to make the journey to New York. This may have something to do with the fact that by the time I looked at tickets, three days before I was supposed to get my rear in gear towards the East, they were quite pricey. NO PROBLEM, I'll drive, I figured. 

I drove out one day, and I called my grandma from eastern Colorado. "Hey grandma!" I said enthusiastically into the phone to my incredibly liberal and ferociously political grandma, "you wouldn't believe how many Trump signs there are in eastern colorado!! Hey, can I crash with you tonight?" There was a moment of silence, as there often is at people trying to digest my chaotic life in the span of a few seconds. "...tonight? In Madison?" At my affirmation, her voice perked up, I imagine she was still recovering from picturing the Trump signs. 

And sure enough, I rolled into Madison that night. Well, that morning. I drove through a world-ending thunderstorm in eastern Iowa, the lightning flashing in 360 degrees around me, the sound so loud I wondered if there was a rock concert in the sky  I wasn't invited to.  I lost my right windshield wiper in that storm, it's somewhere in Iowa, and I think it'll stay there for a while. By the time I arrived in Madison, Wisconsin, the storm had blown through, ripping down entire trees, taking out power lines, and making roads impassible. It took delicate navigating (I drove through some yards) and a lot of patience (I yelled at the unyielding, fallen trees blocking my way), but I finally arrived in Madison to the Heiden home.  

I stayed here a day to visit my grandparents, my grandfather being the owner of my starting biathlon rifle named Forget-Me-Not (Partial story here). My grandmother, whose social life must rival that of the Queen of England, tired me out. We ran around town finding inventive ways of charging our phones, since the power was still out in her house. 

The University Memorial Center at University of Wisconsin, Madison, on the shore of Mendota.
Both my parents and my grandparents went here

I journeyed out the next morning with a new wiper blade, a hug to my little dog, who resides there in Madison, and one for each of my grandparents. 

one grandfather, one dog

His name is actually Einstein

I charged East. Or rather, they charged me to go East. Once you get past Wisconsin, the states make you pay for the privilege of passing through. I kid you not, I saw a brochure in a gas station that said, "seventeen fun things to do in northeastern Indiana!!" One of those seventeen things was probably paying tolls. 

I arrived in Lake Placid at 5am and slept until 2pm.  If nothing else, I'm a champion sleeper. Here I stayed for a week or so, but no more, to the never ending frustration of my coach. 

Halfway through this week we were shooting a 30/30 test. That's where you shoot.... You guessed it.... 30 shots prone and 30 shots standing, and then your coach takes it down and looks really displeased if you didn't put all those shots into the 10 ring (scored based on rings). I went for the spray and pray method here, a most beloved tactic of the CBC. It was going rather well until both my top and bottom butthooks broke, my riser block came loose, and then my cheekpiece actually fell off completely (huh, should have glued that). 

Because I'm a graduate student in engineering, and a bonafide adult (I know this because I can purchase both tobacco AND alcohol), I did the reasonable thing. I called my dad.  "DAD, IT'S BROKEN," I helpfully explained. 

So the next place I arrived was the Bay Area of California, where my parents call home. The trick to flying into the Bay is not to come in during rush hour. So you can fly in between 1 and 4am. I picked 1. Guess who got me from the airport- isn't my mom great?  

My dad is basically a wizard. That's a fancy word for an engineer without an official engineering degree, but with a PhD and a really high IQ. I did the important work of pointing to the parts that were either falling off or broken, and I left ten days later with everything fixed. The bandsaw, tablesaw, dremel, drill press, and the other toys kept in the garage probably had to take naps after all that working overtime. 

My mom is a magician. That's a fancy word for someone who picks up a new skill, sport, or knowledge in the span of a day.  While I performed the helpful task of pointing out my broken butthooks and ghetto looking rifle, my mom molded and remade the butthooks out of carbon fiber, redesigning the entire attachment system to be more robust.  Then she took out her woodburning tools, and adorned Tunkasila (duen-kah-shee-lah, that's the name of my rifle, passed down from my dad, it means grandfather, or great spirit) with the aforementioned naked lady (the lovely lady herself), sanding and re-varnishing the entire stock, complete with riser block.

So with a new pistol grip, new cheekpiece, new butthooks, other modifications of things I just thought about and my parents actually did, and much more stylish than before, I returned to Lake Placid and subsequent World Cup trials.

I decided I didn't like my pistol grip the way it was (small hands).

my mom was super thrilled about the enormous mess I made on the kitchen table

Getting all prettied up (and protected, since a lot of the coating had to be taken off to make those nice designs)

I don't know why the drill was exactly right there, but stuff was obviously gittin' done 'round there

Having a roller range is so great, they said! Just not for the toes of your boots....
Grand prize for anyone who fixes this problem
(I have heard that they make plastic pieces for the shoes of baseball pitchers, who have a similar problem)

-J

March, April, and May

Hey CBC,

Dean asked me where I've been wandering all summer. I suppose I can't expect you all to follow along on Instagram.  It'll have to be broken into parts, since the answer isn't very short. 

Like the child of warring, divided families, I've been shuttling across the country between frustrated parties. The exasperated sighs of my new (and lovely) USBA coach have become commonplace, as he's put in the tricky position of trying to teach a new biathlete who is only around half the time and buys plane tickets five days before she flies.  The master's program I'm supposed to be graduating from probably often wonders if I haven't actually just dropped off the face of the earth.  It turns out that this spontaneous, planning-allergic, Colorado transplant just doesn't fit into the straight lines of periodization very well. (Don't even get me started on updating USADA on my whereabouts, which are something I rarely know myself until I've arrived.) Periodization is something where organized people plan out workouts in a precise set, order, and cycle, so as to maximize the benefits of training. Totally astounding. Some days I manage to get my life together enough to eat breakfast. 

March, April, and May

My car and I are great friends.  I have a white car I borrowed (ahem, stole) from my mother (you probably remember her, she's the hero that followed me around last season lugging the scope and watching me miss), named Cloud. After Bill, Kyle, Dave, and I returned somewhat victoriously from nationals-by which I mean we all got there and raced, Bill won both of his races, and a priceless photo of our teammates randomly standing under a "senior citizen" sign was captured (SOMEONE FIND THAT, PLEASE!)- I had the month off. 

Cloud and I journeyed south. This little winter sport athlete has a deep love of the southwestern heat. We passed through the Garden of the Gods in the Springs, to the limited radio soundtrack of either a) country, b) Christian rock, or c) some mixture of the two, and on towards Pueblo, where a closed highway took us onto dirt roads that were fringed by green fields, encircled by mountains in the distance.  Rain spattered the windshield, and the sky darkened to night as Colorado faded into the rear view mirror. 

I woke up somewhere outside Santa Fe (don't worry, I told USADA I was at the third exit past the border, in a white Toyota Highlander, parked next to a field), drove Cloud into the center somewhere, and took my Trek Superfly out of the back. I wandered the streets of Santa Fe on the back of my mountain bike, just because I could.

Middle of somewhere, Sante Fe, NM

Somewhere between Arizona and New Mexico

 I passed onwards through Albuquerque and then out of New Mexico, landing in Scottsdale, Arizona. Arizona is home to the largest outdoor range in the entire United States. Like every biathlete who shows up at a regular gun range, I was immediately mobbed with questions, and every single range worker wanted to try this rifle (and they did!)

There are exactly no cactuses growing behind this range.
Also, just check out how much brass is on the ground there. 

I case you were wondering, it gets kind of hot rollerskiing in southern Arizona. Especially if you are a night owl who does not prefer to rise before 10. 

Luckily, AZ has the best pools in the world. Also, they don't have to heat them because the air temperature of roughly 1,000 degrees does that for you.  

My cousin (of which I am fortunate to have many), happened through the Grand Canyon on his tour of what seemed every national park between the East and the West.  I wandered up to meet him at the north rim of the Grand Canyon where I creeped on these unsuspecting people enjoying the last rays of light shining on this incredible place. 

I fully expect my readership to rise high enough that we can get this photo to these people via the power of social media.

I drove north up through Utah the next morning until I hit I-70 and headed East, one of my all-time favorite drives-and this from someone who has driven the whole length of I-80, coast to coast.  Cloud and I journeyed through beautiful red rock canyons, unbelievable rock formations, past Goblin Valley state park, past the turns for Moab, Arches, and Zion, and crossed into Colorado.  Rising all around me came our mountains, from the snow-capped to the Aspen-adorned, each one more incredible than the next.  Mile by mile, we slid from West to East.  From Grand Junction all the way to Boulder, the lovely rocky mountains that John Denver never stops singing about on the Snow Mountain Ranch speakers escorted me home.  (Seriously, is that the only music they have?)

Somewhere in Utah

If you can't recognize where this is, we're kicking you out of the CBC.  Lew will personally tear up your membership form.(Grand Junction)

So lucky am I, to call this state home.

I spent ten days in Placid after this, in what I've heard is called "sober-up week," but you can draw your own conclusions as to the validity of that statement. We did a lot of shooting at things, attaching cables to things, and determining what to work on for the coming season (ahem, everything?). 

Note to user: this is not a wireless system.

We also had this really fun day where we ran uphill with poles on a treadmill as long as we could, which determined how pathetic we really were after our month off.  I mean, it determined our heart rate zones or something.  You actually have to run one-poled, and lean all the way down to the side every three minutes so that the coach can stab you with something akin to a rapier and measure your lactate level. I know, you're starting to get really jealous of my life at this point. Welcome back, training starts now.  Who wants to go next on the treadmill? Chester, I'm looking at you. 

In case anyone wanted to know, I'm actually so bad at being indoors that this was the first time in my entire life that I actually ran on a treadmill. 

-J