Courage.....Courage for our friends.

 When the night hours so far surpass the daylight hours that light seems but a memory, and the sun struggles to even bring its lower half into view, then you have arrived in the north country. The darkness is still rising, and the light is badly losing the battle- the winter solstice has not yet come, and still the sun graces the sky for fewer than six hours. It is brighter to ski under the stadium lights in the full darkness of afternoon than it is to ski under the sun at high noon. 

But when your goal is only to traverse forward as best you can, as fast as you can, and pause to be as precise as you can, the existence of natural versus artificial light is hardly relevant to the matter at hand. A matter of priorities that does not lend itself to being in warm, sunny places. 

Still, the darkness leaks into your soul. It lets out a silent, wailing cry when the dusk comes, as early as two, and then fades ever so slowly into blackness. By half past three, the sky is already dark as night. Though you may not realize your own personal attachment to the star that grants this planet life, it is there. And when you are limited in your ability to see it, hard are the days. 

But soon, as is the nature of life, the memory of darkness disappeared. We traveled south into warmer weather and longer daylight hours, delightful cuisine and cheaper goods. 

If you missed it, the greatest female American biathlete finished the race week with only one total trip around the penalty loop and an appearance in the flower ceremony. Slovenia is graced with a fast downhill range approach, one that lends itself to great shooting.  Susan is graced with courage, something that lends itself to amazing results. Combine these two forces and the result is obvious. 

Those who think these things don't matter did not witness the the electricity that arcs through US biathlon when we watch Susan triumph. They do not see how much an American smile in a flower ceremony inspires us all to go a little bit harder, dream a little bit bigger. What Kikkan did for the US Ski Team, Susan does for us- instilling the quietest of all attributes within us: belief. As ugly as the orange adidas uniforms are, as eye-shearing as the jackets are to behold, it is true what they say, a smile is all it takes to make a moment, a person, beautiful. 

So I bid you, my friends, go about your day with just a touch more courage. Be a little bolder, a little braver, dig a little bit deeper. Because I have witnessed the fierce courage of our very own American heroine. Without a sponsor, without the resources of the best financed teams, without a rollerski range at the place 4,000 miles away that she calls home, she put her fighter's heart into the race and came out victorious. 

I am late on these words, and we are already less than four hours to the next start, but I hope that they ring true again in this Slavic country that still bears the scars of the Soviet Union. Those that think there is no luck in this endeavor are fools, but there is little we can do to change our luck- but much we can do to be braver. 

Be brave!

-Joanne

Accidents Happen

Accidents Happen

It was one hell of a day in Östersund, and the wind was howling through the range. I was standing in the start area, where a staff member is assigned the mind-numbing task of safeguarding your rifle while you're warming up. They also shove your warmups into a plastic bag for you so it can be taken to the finish line, because this is the World Cup, and we can't be expected to walk twenty meters.  As one of the late starters, I had the privilege of witnessing what can best be described as absolute chaos- the top seed was missing wildly. Kaisa came through and took a minute and a half to hit only one shot, Susan came through and found herself with four minutes of penalties in prone, Doro, Gabi..... it was madness. 

So this is the plan that appeared in my head. I'm fantastic at shooting slow, I've been doing it since the beginning (i.e., last year). In fact, there's nobody on the World Cup who can shoot as dang slow as I can. If everyone on the entire World Cup was shooting just as slow as I normally did, then if I took my time, I might be okay. 

 I journeyed into the starting zone, where I shoved my electric orange jacket backwards onto my front, awkwardly trying to lift it up so rifle check and the transponder installation team could check my bib number. Why they can't just look at the leg numbers, God only knows. You would think a girl who manages to cram two base layers under her race suit, top and bottom, wouldn't need to have her jacket on until a minute before the start, but you clearly thought wrong. My hood was blowing up into my face and making me entirely blind, and suddenly reduced to a bright orange world, I was basically the height of prepared. 

At about 45 seconds to start I disentangled myself from my jacket and hurled it at the US rifle and warmup guardian, in a pathetic attempt at throwing that only an endurance athlete can really manage. At thirty seconds to start I was ushered into the start box, a most ridiculous feature of the World Cup that ensures you stand in front of the sponsor logo while the camera films your start. (Well, they film the starts of people who wear VASTLY more makeup and/or ski much faster than me). The sponsor, and I am not making this up, was called Hörmann.  Awkward. 

I charged out of the start like a slug. Into a massive headwind, and given the knowledge that if I redlined in a 15km where shooting had become even more critical than before, I wasn't exactly flying. You know how sometimes Walter sets the course so you have to go up that enormous hill of doom from the Nordic center and then go STRAIGHT up into the range? Then the only way you can hit a single target is to basically go so slow you're going backwards, since we're above 9,000 feet and our club president is a sadist. That's the race strategy I was channeling. Okay... I didn't go THAT slow. That speed is reserved completely for the SMR range approach. 

The ice was staring to show under the deep sugar of the snow. The day before, the ice was so thick and fast it became dangerous, so the race organizers ground up the top layer, only it had also begun to snow. With an hour to start, they were still frantically trying to remove some of the foot deep layer that had appeared, composed of rugged ice chunks that didn't stick to each other. The turns then, had become extremely skied out, the sugar shoved to one side, and the sheet ice beneath became the footing for the turns. Conservatively, patiently, and without losing my footing, I wound my way through the course. 

I came into the range for the first prone, drifting into the lane I zeroed on, and checked the wind flag. It was up (surprise), and it was up far. I clicked, three right, and slowly started shooting. Five down, and off I went. Again, patiently, it had become a race of shooting and very little of skiing, the leaderboard was showing crazy numbers of misses. Back into the range I came, trying to remember the shooting order, the wind flags, the zeroing lane. Slowly, onto the standing mat I went, only missing one, and off again. The turns getting even icier, and the course getting ruggedly difficult through the deep, sugary snow. Back down the S turns into the range.

 The wind flag was up, but the other way, so six clicks I went left. I took my magazine out. The wind flag dropped. Back three right I went, and dropped my elbow down. I looked down at my rifle- saw right through my rifle to the mat- I had forgotten to load the magazine. Back up I went, loaded, back down on the mat, the wind flag fluttering. And slowly, shot by shot, through some odd miracle, five for five. Off I went again. 

I came in for standing with agonizing slowness.  I knew good and well I had unusually good shooting for the day. The wind was still swirling through the range, tugging on my barrel, my new barrel weight helping to steady it. Two misses, and I leapt right off the mat, charging forward, only seconds later I realized one of my poles was no longer in my hand.  Was I supposed to go back for that? Do they give me a new one if I leave it behind? Am I allowed to leave things in the range? I turned around. Back down into the snow, I lifted the pole up, slid my Leki strap home, and disappeared out of the range. 

Back around the course, the icy turns, the deep snow, back up the hill and down the S turns into the finish. 

And that, my friends, is how I scored my first World Cup points. By channeling my inner slug and dropping my pole. 

Here's some quick World Cup updates:

Our team doctor at the Olympic Training Center is so bad he misdiagnosed a broken toe and didn't send it to X-Ray. I'm saying it on the internet, because that's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard. Leif's toe is, in fact, broken- it's also swollen to twice the regular size- and he flew back to the States. He squished it in a treadmill when it got lowered back down to the starting position from an incline- OUCH. 

That brings our team down to six people and not enough for a full men's OR women's relay (Sean is still recovering from mono). I came up with the most brilliant idea that Susan should start in the men's relay- she'd be awesome and fired up and ferocious racing in the men's field. Our chief of sport wasn't thrilled by the idea, but she was. 

We stayed in this hotel that had a freaking spa in it. Two saunas, ice bath, contrast foot bath, steam room, and outdoor hot tub. Way cool. 

Apparently you can just call the race organizers and get a shuttle to wherever you dang well please. It's a BMW- SURPRISE. I found this out when Laura Dahlmeier called a shuttle to take her to the Snus (Definition) shop from the venue. What a character. 

Susan and I went to see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them in Östersund. We learned exactly no Swedish from reading the subtitles, but the movie remained in English, thankfully. 

Germany, Finland, and Kazakhstan were all staying in our hotel. That means I ate lunch and dinner with some of the most epic names in biathlon. Too bad I haven't learned their names yet ;). 

The final countdown

Hey CBC,

It's really the final countdown here, I'm headed to the venue in two hours.  If you can't figure out the new IBU website (I can't).

Live results, and I assume video will be here:

http://biathlonresults.com/

Clare, Susan, Tim, and Lowell are repping the US in the mixed relay, and Leif and I will hold down the fort for the single mixed.

Now, if you click on the race name, then click "Reports," and then "Extended Start List," you get to this ridiculous list of numbers, which drops these awesome stats on me.  HEY LOOK GUYS ....THE IBU SAYS I'M FAST. Okay, that's all I needed to say.  (Who missed all those standing targets?)

Nah, actually I just dropped into this update to inform you guys that my rifle weighed in at 3.495kg on the official scale (weight limit 3.5kg!).  I'll have you know that my scale in the good old 303 (that was the area code for Boulder back in the good old days) gave me a whopping measurement of 3.522kg, so I don't know what the heck is up with theirs.  In any case, with the addition of .005kg of duct tape (the scale actually only went in increments of .005, so this is possibly only .0025kg of duct tape), my rifle passed!

It's gorgeous, right? 

Off to shoot some sh....stuff.  

-Joanne

P.S.  I attempted to coalesce all the pieces of my online presence for y'all in the succinct form of a website HERE.  Most importantly I hooked in my Instagram so you can enjoy a bunch of really bad selfies taken on a bad front camera.  Appealing, right? 

Firesteel out.

PPS.  HEARD THAT LIVE STREAM IS NOT WORKING IN THE US CURRENTLY. Change your IP address, here's the top five free ones as given by this random website.  http://codegena.com/top-5-free-vpn-software-to-hide-ip-address/

For mobile, try WhaleVPN.

Disclaimer, haven't tried any of these! Heading to venue.

Football, random pictures of Canmore, and links to more interesting things

So many times I have been asked what it was like to with an NCAA title, and so many times I have been asked where I think I'm taking the sport of biathlon, how long I'll stay, what I'm hoping to achieve.  This is my answer to both questions, in a long, drawn-out monologue.  

What I like about football is energy. Energy and fluidity. I know football is a "boring" American sport with a lot of stops and go's and changing of teams, but it is deeply fluid at its base. Four tries to go 10 yards. In essence, an extremely simple game, in practice a complex one. Momentum is a powerful force of nature, and momentum is the strongest force of football. A team driving forward, fighting to the last man to gain that last yard builds momentum.  And the fan base catches the momentum of the team and turns it to energy. Energy, in turn, drives more momentum. 

Consider the home of the Seattle Seahawks. The twelfth man of the Seattle Seahawks is their fan base. Eleven players on the field, and one measurably, scientifically deafening roar. The twelfth man is so loud that the actual decibel level in their home stadium is just barely under that of the deck of an active aircraft carrier.  The Seahawks so honored their beloved twelfth man that the number 12 is borne only on fan jerseys, and never on the field. Their gift in return? Energy. Ferocious, unbridled, passionate energy which aids the momentum of their beloved team. 

This I feel when I enter the active football stadium of my alma mater. I rarely (never) watched a game as an undergrad, but I always drifted by the chaos around and in the stadium just to witness it.  This is the case of any stadium of any sport with fans who love it. The absolute and overpowering passion makes the stadium electric. 

If I enter a stadium full of 10,000 Colorado Buffaloes, I feel who I am. The times I fought for my brothers and sisters in the black and gold echo within the roar. My path has turned away from being totally surrounded and immersed in University culture, living and breathing academia and team competition.  But I am still the person who did those things, who I am now was shaped by what I did then. And 10,000 people dressed in black, on their feet in salute of our real live buffalo who tramples the very grass of the football field, has a way of slamming that reminder into your face like an knockout punch. 

It is odd to look back. If I choose to give, I give my whole self. If you had cut me open, I would have truly bled black and gold.  For the eleven other members competing on the NCAA team, I would have done anything.  For those left behind, I would have done everything. 

What was it like to win an NCAA championship? This is what it was like. Six alpine skiers watching from the sides, exhausted. Their battle was over.  Three Norwegian men, clad in the Colorado black, silently watchful. Their battle was yet to come. Two of my sisters, next to me at the start. Our battle was now. I was the twelfth man.  I had a Buffalo sister at each shoulder.  Their gift to me? Energy.  

I didn't win because I needed to win, I won because they needed me to win. I simply became one name in a long legacy and history that stretches back before I was born and will continue on for decades.  Those were my brothers and sisters, my acquired family and my adopted heritage. All I could give them in this moment was a single victory, and lay it at their feet in offering. So I did. Those three Norwegians, it was their turn to go. My gift to them? Momentum. 

I don't exactly know where I'm going, but I know who I am, and where I was. Surely that is what is most important.  No one is their worst race any more than they are their best race, which is a truth few like to face.  You are simply the average of your races, barring outliers.  That's the mathematician in me.  The athlete in me has no other thought than a promise to give, to give my whole self until the numbers of the race results reflect what I believe I am capable of.  To do something so well that I can say I mastered it, and then, like my mother before me, turn down a new road with new challenges.  But most importantly, do it joyously, passionately, and with integrity.  

If you just can't get enough of my dithering on, you can find me on Fasterskier Here and the BNS magazine Here . 

 And without further ado, here's a whole bunch of pictures from Canmore in no particular order.

If you follow Susan Dunklee this'll be a repeat, but it was the best picture I took all camp.

Clare and I spent our off day in Calgary, and I wandered over to a park

Hanging out with the newest member of the Biathlon family, Ophelia Bailey

Clare and sports psychologist Sean McCann teaching Ophelia how to adjust for wind

Susan LOVES hiking, and here we are scaling the first mountain of the day

This was before I was totally exhausted,
because we got to the bottom and Susan goes: hey, let's climb that mountain too!

And so we did

Because we can

Two days ago at SMR- holy smokes it was hot out.  Trying to get my prone shooting under 30 seconds,
with moderate success- I'm plateauing at about 29.

The Morning of November Ninth

My dearest CBC,

I, like much of Colorado, California, the Northeast, and all those who hoped and believed in kindness over hatred, woke yesterday as if in a dream.  The United States Biathlon team had a tangible cloud of pain hanging over us, reflected in silences and faces carved of stone, and in some cases even tears that ran freely in the morning, evidence of a still absorbing shock-wave.

Susan and I could not bring ourselves to race in the American race suit on that day of all days. A sliver of hope and the shadow of a smile did cross my face as I pulled on the CBC kit instead, its pink, blue, white, and Colorado flag undimmed by the darkness of the day.  I asked myself how I could ever race in the red, white, and blue again, stand with pride with the American flag emblazoned across jackets and hats, pants, and collars.  The path that lies before me now asks that I stand for this country, in partnership with a firearm.  How then, I wondered, could I face my own self in the mirror and do this?

CBC, you are how.  The future generations, you are how.  Yesterday my facebook erupted, not in messages of anger, but in messages of love.  Of promises to stand up for those who have less, who identify as a minority, who are afraid as the darkness rises.  Of pledges to protect others, be kind to others, to remember who we are, and that we are strong enough to face the coming years.  Though the waves of disbelief still echo across our country, our flag still stands for something stronger than a single man, a single day.  Our stars and stripes have flown over many battlefields and sports fields, acts of terror and acts of heroism.  We have passed through years of darkness and years of light, through wars civil and worldwide, and still come out standing.

You all give me hope, each one of you.  From Grand Junction to Evergreen, Denver to Boulder, from the Rockies to the Great Plains, I am inspired by each of you and your dedication to both this sport and to being wonderful human beings.  I know that there are parts of America in which acceptance, love, kindness, and intelligence remain.   For all of you that have children, I hope you teach them the value of these qualities, as each of you have taught me.  I will wear the American flag for this, I will wear it for you.  Because of you, my friends, I will wear the American suit with pride.  

And now we turn our faces toward Sweden, and the countdown to World Cup #1..... are you ready? I'm ready.

Time Trial results from yesterday HERE
Time Trial results from today should be up soon on http://zone4.ca/results/

Canmore

Hi CBC,

It was eighty degrees when I left Colorado.  Packing for on-snow skiing when you've spent the last couple days with your air conditioning on and avoiding working out in the middle of the day is a weird feeling, one I haven't had often since I ventured out of the great state of California.

The Lady Fortune and me chilling on my front balcony.
It was actually too hot to be wearing this long sleeve shirt,
but the orange is too lovely to pass up

United delayed my flight (surprise), so I spent two hours sitting outside in the sunshine, watching the strange new artwork of the Denver airport, which has finished its new transit center and added "artwork."  Look at those klister scrapers billowing in the breeze...

But I get ahead of myself.  Remember my rear sight acting up?  Turns out that isn't super uncommon.  In flew the cavalry.

When your bullets are stuck on the left side and won't move right.

The Oppligers (Team Oppliger Biathlon) are close family friends from Houghton,
 and one of my major biathlon catalysts

My dad decided on Friday that he was showing up on a plane Saturday morning, so suddenly he was there.  Rather than tangle with my rear sight and its newly acquired attitude problem, we decided to swap it out entirely, and analyze the part later.  Apparently sometimes sights don't appreciate you asking them for clicks, and therefore just don't bother to move.  Mine actually had a major wobble where the aperture is inserted into the sight.  Odds are that I, the Human Hammer, as my dad has thus titled me, probably whacked it somehow.  I also whacked my snow cover, speaking of.

Human Hammer at SMR, wooden firing line vs. snow cover

I also became the new owner of this sweet one piece "whale tale," courtesy of my talented mother.  Yeah, my mom is cool enough to mold my rail and butthooks, and then recreate them in carbon fiber wrapped wood.

After some drilling and tapping, more drilling and tapping, reinforcing, stabilizing, and gluing, the required visit to McGuckin Hardware (greatest hardware store ever?) my dad flew out again on Sunday.  No daughter of his was going to go cavorting around the world with a wobbly cheekpiece.  How awesome is he?

What I would like to know, if any of you guys have done this, is if this Anschütz nameplate can be removed.  It's heavy and it's metal, and it's advertising a company that I had to give money to.  So really, why keep it?

this is actually Clare's new action-
 she swapped over to the sprint barrel

So delayed United flight notwithstanding, I arrived in Calgary and caught a ride with the rest of the team to Canmore.  We decided to go to Canmore because they have this early season situation they call "frozen thunder," where they take stored snow from the previous year, and roll it out on top of woodchips.  So yeah, we got on snow on October 25th- how cool is that?

If you haven't been to Canmore, I recommend you go.  Encircled by Canadian Rockies, bisected by the Bow River, and just to the southwest of the border of Banff National Park, Canmore is lovely.  I do recognize that everyone can't just spend their time traipsing about in pursuit of snow, but I imagine in the summer this place is even lovelier.  I would like to declare this one of the loveliest places I've ever been.

I present my argument as follows.

The rarely-captured smile of the elusive Russell Currier

Leif disappearing up the road to Lake Moraine.
This is actually natural snow, up higher in the mountains in Banff

The range on intensity day, otherwise known as:
get your butt mostly kicked by Susan Dunklee day

So, we spent Halloween here.  And between the three of us, Clare drew the most laughs.  Can't see her in the picture?  She actually is wearing a fake mustache and sporting a Ukrainian suit.  To get that, she actually went over to their hotel, used google translate and pantomime to try to explain Halloween, and managed to acquire the goods for that costume.  The Ukrainians were so excited by this they spent the whole day (which was interval day, mind you), cheering for her, and in one case actually pushing her uphill.  When they saw us taking the photos, they came over to join in.

But really, the best way to suffer through intervals is to follow Susan Dunklee's fake grass skirt around the ski trails.  In case you were wondering, our coaches were of course THRILLED that we showed up to intensity decked out in ridiculous attire and taking ourselves overly seriously.

#squad

There was too much snow to classic rollerski (oh darn),
so we suffered through this beautiful run instead

Susan really wanted to climb this rock, so she did

Susan and I just finished some of the slushiest, sloppiest intervals I've ever done (it was over fifty degrees and we were skiing on post-race snow), so I'm off to go faceplant on the couch.


-Joanne

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