knobby meats mountain conglomerate

Pulp Traction

2012-01-25T08:15:00.000-08:00

Last Friday I was hanging out with my friend's German Shepard (trying to keep her from eating my face), and scanning the rows of old video tapes. Easy Rider, Die Hard 1 through 8, Captain Ron. Then, on the top row, I spotted a Specialized logo.

I jumped out of the cracked vinyl office chair and ran to pick up the box:

Pulp Traction. From 1994. (*not my thumb)

Featuring sexy gripshifting, shameless wide-ons and "boss sounds" by Seal. I started giggling with excitement. I popped the tape in the VCR, propped the little flap open with a q-tip and rewound the tape.

Then the movie began. With a public service announcement, and a man shitting rocks.

The public service message ended and Courtney Love started singing some boss sounds. Guys with mullets, fanny packs, and white t-shirts started crashing:

And crashing:

Then this chubby guy appeared. He claimed to be riding around the world from Austrailia. He had just ridden down from "Canadoo," and already pedaled 200,000 miles.

Then an F-16 pilot with a hairy stomach threw a Shark Cruiser:

And a woman with an un-hairy stomach made love to a Shark Cruiser:

After that, the Alien Sprocket Sniffers rode down some bumpy hills:

Canti brakes squealed, back tires were locked, and ruts were carved into the dust.

Then some panties flew:

And a baby was born:

The movie suddenly ended with a phone number. I'm really temped to call it:

It was over too soon. So I watched it two more times. And it was just as awesome the third time.

repairing continues

2012-01-24T11:11:00.000-08:00

Awesome day in Ohiopyle yesterday. I rode for almost two hours, on dry trails, in shorts. I never thought I'd be doing that at the end of January.

With the assistance of the viking cat, I made some more progress on the Cabrio this morning:

I have all the crushed parts torn off, so now I'm just waiting to hear back from a couple junk yards to see if they have what I need. Before I started doing this I didn't realize that there was a nation online junk yard inventory, but it sure is convenient.

I think the fender is going to be the only thing I'll have trouble finding. As the guy at one of the yards just told me in an email.

"Passenger side fender ------- NOTHING ON THAT ONE." Car guys manage to sound gruff even in writing.

Since it'll be hard to match the original paint, I'm probably going to redo the whole car. I'm leaning towards Hot Rod Flatz paint because it ends in a z, and I love words that end in z.

The return of Grumbler Green:

getting it home

2012-01-22T11:50:00.000-08:00

After a month of ignoring it, I finally got the deer damaged tiny gay convertible home:

The plan was to rent a U-Haul car dolly and tow the Cabrio back with my little truck. When I called U-Haul, they told that the computer wouldn't let them rent the dolly because my truck was too small to tow the tiny car. Which I think is shit. But I know better than to try to argue with a computer system.

I should have told them I was towing a Miatta:

So I had to rent an F-150. I wasn't a fan. The thing felt like it was taking up two lanes. I could never deal with a man-sized truck as my daily driver.

Anyway, I enlisted Justin to help me, and we headed to the body shop. When we got there, the tiny convertible wouldn't start. I tried to back the trailer up through the gates, and I discovered that I'm terrible at backing a trailer up. So I parked the truck, and we got out to push the Cabrio.

With the little dollies, you're supposed to just drive the car up the ramps and strap it down. But without the engine running, we had to push it up. We tried a few times, and every time it fell back down. Then we tried choking up the back wheels and backing the trailer into it. That also failed.

Finally we pushed the car back about thirty feet and sprinted at the trailer. It was rolling fast, hit the ramps, and thunked into place. Success.

After we got back into Greensburg, we had to figure out how to get the car into my garage, which is on a busy street in the middle of a steep hill. I tried backing it in, but apparently a car dolly can't turn with a car on it. I held up some increasingly angry traffic for about 10 minutes before I decided to drive around the block and pull it in straight.

We chocked the back wheels, and Justin got in the car. I pulled the truck forward, and the Cabrio slid off the ramps. He stepped on the brakes to keep it from rolling out into traffic. Then we pushed the car up the hill into the garage. Which sucked. But we got it.

I took the U-Haul back, and started tearing apart the car. Everything came apart easily. No rusty bolts, and everything was either a 10 or 12mm. So pleasant.

Now I just need to bend this fender support thingy back and locate some parts:

I should have this little machine back together in plenty of time for some top-down cruising this summer. I can't wait.

2012-01-17T06:07:00.000-08:00

My friend Jim is getting rid of this Niner EMD to pay some medical bills:

That's a bummer, but somebody is going to end up with a deal on a super nice Niner. He only wants $1390. Here's the ad.

In other news, when I ran up stairs to make the second pot of coffee this morning, I found that I made a small mistake when I shuffled out of the kitchen the first time:

Convenient? Yes. Refrigerated? No.

But I like the one door one bowl concept. Maybe I'll start refrigerating my cereal.

Lights

2012-01-14T13:57:00.000-08:00

Today's post is over on the work blog. It's all about illumination.

the singlespeed RIP9 is faster than Don Powers

2012-01-12T08:25:00.000-08:00

After I posted the link to the singlespeed RIP9 on facespace yesterday (where people seem more willing to discuss), some friends were skeptical.

More specifically, Don Powers was skeptical: "I can't wait to beat you while you're on that bike," he said

Don Powers never beats me. I do everything I can to crush him, because if I don't he'll shout his tale of conquest in a loop for a three-hour car ride, then post about it on the internet until the next race he loses.

"I'm Dahn Pahrs and Dahn Pahrs does what Dahn Pahrs does to win becasue Dahn Pahrs is the best. I'm old. Dahn Pahrs!"

Imagine listening to that for hours and hours. It's awful. Fortunately, I don't have to hear it very often, because like I said, I don't lose to Don Powers. I told him he would not be beating me.

Which made him bring up my last two races, where I lost to Don Powers. Both times.

"Fact 1 - That tensioner will fail within 5 races. Fact 2 - I'm on a two race win streak against you," he said.

Feeling backed into a corner, I turned to the debating skills that I've picked up from watching Fox News. If you can't challenge their ideas or prove their facts inaccurate, derail the conversation by calling them a name.

"Fact 3 - You're a Neanderthal," I said.

But he turned my tactic against me by calling me a name, then adding another fact. "Fact 4 - You're a hobbit who is upset about facts 1 and 2," he said.

Shit. He had me. I had to end the conversation quickly and get out of there. "Fact 5 - I shaved my toes last week," I said.

No response to that. I guess that means I win.

The Singlespeed RIP9

2012-01-11T08:03:00.000-08:00

Despite feeling terrible from the resilient 19th-century respiratory illness that I contracted in Hell last month, yesterday Ole Cinder Bloch Lochner and I went riding at Roaring Run in Apollo. It was a beautiful day, and I needed to test the new race machine. I've had it put together for a few days, but I didn't want to say anything on here until I was sure it wasn't going to fall apart.

It didn't fall apart.

120mm of travel front and back, one gear. Rad.

I wasn't riding well yesterday but I was still cruising away from Ole Cinder Bloch, who was on a rigid SIR9. The bike makes everything so easy. I can stuff it into jagged rocks, and it goes forward. Into big logs, and it goes forward. Over the end of a very low park bench, and it goes forward (with it's dizzy and disoriented rider only half attached.)

I'm used to bouncing around on a hardtail, and compared to that the Rip is totally undramatic. It just smooths everything out and goes. Since the loop at Apollo is so twisty, I was expecting the bike to be a little to big for the trail. But I was wrong. It feels quick and handles tight stuff as well as my One9 did with a 120mm fork.

It's geared at 36x19, and I had no problem standing and mashing up the steep hills. Even in such a big gear, the suspension didn't squish too much.

I finished the loop feeling as fresh as when I started it (which wasn't actually very fresh. But I did finish the loop with consumption, cholera or diphtheria. That has to say something.) My back didn't hurt and my hands weren't sore. This bike is going to make a huge difference in the last 20 miles of a 100 miler, when every bump on the trail feels like falling ass first onto a giant hedgehog.

I'm excited about the Rip. It's fast, it's fun, and it runs real good.

I'm using a Paul Melvin to tension the chain, which is basically a short cage derailleur with an extra strong spring. It's quiet, and there's very little chainslap:

I couldn't get an 8 or 9 speed chain to work without skipping (I think my cog was too worn), so I ended up with a KMC single speed chain:

Some mud, no skipping. Bueno.

The I9 guys rebuilt my wheels again, this time with Stan's Flows. So I'm running a full Enduro wheelset. I still have an Ultralite back wheel that I'll throw on for some races.

I can't wait to race this thing. It's gonna be fast.

Here's the full build list:

Frame: Niner RIP9
Wheels: Industry 9 Enduro 29er
Grips: Ergon GX2 Carbon
Fork: Rockshox Reba RLT Ti with 20mm thru axle
Brakes: Formula RX
Rotors: Forumla R1
Crank: Raceface Turbine
Bars: Raceface Atlas
Stem: Thomson 50mm
Seatpost: The one that was on closeout

A hearty thanks to me Mam.

2012-01-09T11:13:00.000-08:00

Today's post is over on the work blog: wildernessvoyageurs.wordpress.com:

doodling

2012-01-05T10:57:00.000-08:00

This morning I had a couple free hours. So I drank a lot of coffee, listened to a lot of Tom Waits (the man's good for cold, horrible weather), and started messing with a sharpie I accidentally stole from work.

I started with a hamster impaling itself on a shrub:

(In my mind, all hamsters look like jelly beans)

Which took a couple minutes to get where I wanted it:

After that, I was feeling sharp.

I whipped out a loose hamster:

And a carniverous unicorn:

Then I did a nice self portrait, which I plan to give to my girlfriend so that she can remember me while she's in the land of the hobbits.

The rest of the parts for the new sickle should be in tomorrow, so I'm hoping to have that build up by next week.

2012-01-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

Winter in the shop

2012-01-03T09:36:00.000-08:00

We're finally getting our first significant snow here in Ohiopyle:

Town is pretty deserted this time of year, and the snow definently ads to the isolated feeling.But that's not a bad thing. Now I have time to do all the things I could only dream of over the summer. Like organizing all our hangers by size, material, and usage:

And making sure the shoes are staggered correctly:

Then finishing the staggering process, and realizing my coffee mug is gone.And searching all the usual spots (on top of the t-shirt shelf, under the sunglasses, and next to the open sign) for almost an hour, then finding mug displayed next to Venice H2s. Right where it belongs:

We don't have enough snow to make the trails un-ridable yet, so last night I went out for a quick night ride on a trail that definitely wasn't in the State Park (because the park is closed at night time.)

The trail that shall-not-be-named was in pretty nice shape. I might have to head out for some more snowy miles today at lunch.I don't mind a little bit of winter riding, but I wouldn't want to be this guy:

He's on his way to New York City from Cleveland. Brave soul.

According to Google maps, that's 666 miles. He bought lots of Clif Bars.

An open letter to Andy

2011-12-28T21:50:00.000-08:00

I had a very enthusiastic comment from an Andy yesterday. Which was odd. I thought my last post was about as bland and noncontroversial as a post can get.

Anyway, from the man himself:

"The industry will be better off when it rids itself of whiny, self entitled little bitches like yourself, who think that because you ride a bicycle fast, people buy bikes and parts because of you. Sorry to burst your bubble. Maybe it would mean better wages for "real" shop rats if there were no more Montana Millers. I think it would."

Andy's comment was silly enough to warrant a response.

"The industry will be better off when it rids itself"

I guess in Andy's mind the bike industry is like a big dog that needs to scooter poop around the living room and leave racers stuck to the carpet. Then the industry will get up and shake itself, finally free of those parasitic, itchy racer dingle-berries.

"whiny little bitches like yourself"

Valid. I wear small t-shirts, and I do some complaining. I whine about running into deers and breaking cars, I whine about race courses with too much gravel, I whine about people who whine too much, and I whine about Ohio. I'm not sorry about it.

"self entitled"

My friends let me sleep on their floors, give me rides to races, and occasionally feed me. Some companies have given me deals on stuff. Niner has helped me with frames, Ergon with grips, and Twin Six with metal shirts. The guys at Industry 9 have been so supportive that they get their own sentence. I'm lucky enough to work for people that are happy to see me race, and always give me time off.

But I've never demanded anything (other than a good scooter-poop on a friend's carpet from time to time.)

Sponsorships are voluntary. I'm really grateful that people feel like I'm worth it.

"who think that because you ride a bicycle fast, people buy bikes and parts because of you"

If bikes and parts 'run real good' (as they say on the craigslists), I write and talk about them. Nobody buys stuff because I ride a bicycle fast (on good days). But they might consider my experience when they're buying something. Riding a bunch and racing every weekend gives my content some credibility.

I found out about I9 wheels from reading Dicky's blog, tried a dropper post because Harlan told me to, and bought my first One9 because Dejay and Fuzzy had a funny beards. Sponsorships in action.

Or, I actually do sell the stuff I race on:

"Maybe it would mean better wages for real shop rats if there were no more Montana Millers. I think it would."

I can't help it. I need to steal from the authentic shop rats to support my lavish lifestyle.

That's right. I have a pine tree. And a platform. I though it might be excessive to level my platform with some rocks, but then I was like, 'Screw it, I'm one of the Montana Millers. I can afford to do whatever I want while the rest of the Montana Millers are out robbing dinner tables and shutting off people's heat. I'm gonna go get some rocks.' And I did.

I rent the dirt under my tent to real shop rats after I take their wages.

Next post I'll be back to ruining the bike industry with my not-so-widely-read blogging.

There's a sweet new gnar shredding machine to talk about:

2011-12-27T06:48:00.000-08:00

Unlike a pig, the Little Ball of Hate will put lipstick and a thong on himself.

It takes a special person to be the fastest XC racer in Ohio.

Anyway, a few important announcements:

-I'll be at Breck Epic, and I'll be writing things about Breck Epic. You should be there too. There might be lipstick and thongs (I'm trying to get the Little Ball of Hate to register.)

-I'm not riding for Speedgoat anymore. Those guys were great, but I really need somebody local as shop support. So Cycle Symphony in Adamsburg, Pa. is going to help me handle the big scary industry types.

If you're in the Pittsburgh area, it's definitely worth stopping in the shop. Rob has some really cool high-end stuff in there, and he's just a few minutes off the turnpike. I saw a Niner RDO for the first time in person when I was in there. It was pretty, but it didn't taste as good as I thought it would.

Grant Mathews, if you're reading, I'm sorry I licked your new bike.

-After licking Grant's bike, I picked up the primary race machine for 2012:

How much more black this could be?

-The guys at Industry 9 fixed my wheels again. And they sent me a t-shirt. They're so nice.

2011-12-15T13:37:00.000-08:00

Hast thou seen the white whale? Hast thou seen the whitewhale?

No? Great. Me either.

I took my final whaling test yesterday, so I’m done withclass for a month. Yay.

On Friday night, after I finished filling my truck tireswith a bike pump (150 pumps per tire,) I decided to drive four hours to myleast favorite place in the world.

Unexpectedly, Ohio didn’t make me want to kill myself thistime. The sun was out all weekend. It was cold, so the dirt was frozen solid.

I rode Vulture’s Knob, then Mohican, then Vultures Knobagain.

The first rides were perfect. The third, not so much. Iwaited until 2:00, and by that time the trail was thawed. Vulture’s Knob isshit if there’s any wetness in the dirt.

The clay is simultaneously slipper than a marble floorcovered in fish, and sticks to a bike better than concrete mixed withmarshmallow fluff.

Still, not a bad last weekend in the Sausage State. I won’tbe back there much since my reason to visit is

going to New Zealand next semester.Wish I could visit that place every couple weeks. I’d love to meet the hobbits.

Punk Bike Enduro 2011

2011-12-12T08:20:00.000-08:00

I need to post about crushing Old Man Shogren's gearing record in the Dirty Dozen, but first I'm talking about Punk Bike.

Otherwise know as The Day Don Powers was too Drunk to Walk Uphill.

Or downhill:

When I got into my truck Sunday morning, I had three voice-mails from 1:30 am.

"Gruhha you douche bag we're gonna make sure you don't win anything tomorrow" said a someone with a West Virginian accent. I could hear Rich Dillen's maniacal elf cackle in the background. Bunch of cool guys.

I got to the rugby field 30 minutes late, but since it was Punk Bike, I was still 30 minutes early. I pulled on my banana suit and started making cruising around the parking lot.

Cinder Bloch Lochner was already pretty loose, and he had a backpack full of fireworks. Good combination. Dicky was making his debut as a Team 7-Up rider, and this guy's impersonation of a teen pop star wasn't scary at all:

Nice bike tinsel.

We started the derby. I ran into Dicky's back wheel and fell over. Chris Beech was crushing everything with his monkey paw. Then he was shoved by some angry hipster on the sideline.

He was depressed by his defeat for the rest of the day:

Poor sad Beer Monkey.

I missed the start of the next few stages, and won nothing. Cinder Bloch, still feeling loose, sprinted around me and crashed into a mud puddle. His denim short shorts filled with smelly dirt.

Jordan told me that he could unhinge his jaw and ride with a beer can in his mouth. Then he told me the story again. And again. Apparently he has no short term memory when he's drunk.

Then he noticed some mud in his dreadlocks. Somebody asked if he washes them, and he sighed.

"Man, it's sooo hard being punk and dirty all the time," he said.

There was a hill climb. I didn't want to go fast, but I did want to beat Dicky, so I kept reaching over and pulling his brake levers. The little elf man kept falling back then trying to sprint around me. We got into the woods, and he found a punk.

Angry that he had a punk and I didn't, I stepped on his bike, and refused to move until about a dozen people had passed us.

Then we found some mud, which smelled like a stew horse manure and everything in the world that has ever died. So Erika and Kelsi wrastled in it:

*the wrastlin wasn't filmed. shame.

After that, Cinder Bloch Lochner had to poop. He crawled over a hillside at the quarry, and settled down. I gave him time to get comfortable, then kept over the edge of the quarry with a firecracker. I lit the fuse, lobbed it, and ran.

It landed next to his foot and started blowing up.

"Ah! Man that's fucked up," he yelled. We were cracking up, then someone came over and scolded us for giving their dog a mental breakdown. So we put the bottle rockets and other explosives away.

Meanwhile, Andy Forron was making rounds with a mason jar of whiskey, which he bought from a guy in WV who was deer hunting on a porch with a cat in his lap.

And the speakers in Andy's backpack continued to play Scraper Bike. That song is at its best played on loop for six hours.

Then we rode through some more mud. Only one person had to get a helicopter ride to the hospital. Good day.

dirty rags and SSSRWC

2011-11-21T06:33:00.001-08:00

Fine news this morning. I got a package from Dirt Rag full of shirts, socks, and stickers. I can't decide what to wear first.

I haven't had a chance to try on the jersey, but the Viking Cat assures me that the club-cut gives him plenty of mobility:

The stickers said "Ride a fucking bike" and "One less car, bitch." I found the first too forceful, and the second too pretentious. So I made some alterations.

The command became a statement of fact:

And the imperious statement became a reason for my girlfriend to slap me in the mouth:

That's what she gets for leaving her bike with me.

All of this stickiness is in preparation for the Single Speed Stage Race World Championships at Breck Epic, which I'm covering for the magazine. Eight people from the Pgh/ WV are already signed up. And there's always room for one more car in the caravan. Sign up is here.

For some stupid reason, MikeMac is considering having a fixed gear class. And on the facebook page, he's offering a jersey to anyone who can think of something more horrible than doing the race fixed. I think I'm in the lead so far:

If you have something worse than a bath in whale semen, by all means, take that free jersey from me. Then go see a psychiatrist.

Deer, meat cabrio

2011-11-16T10:10:00.001-08:00

I creamed one of the bastards on Sunday night.

I rolled over the top of Three-Mile Hill outside of Donegal. It was a clear night. I was squinting to figure out if I could see Pittsburgh.

I was in the left lane. A big buck hopped over the jersey barrier and landed in front of me. He lifted off to jump again, and I hit him at 50 mpg.

My first thought was fuck me, this is going to be expensive.

The poor beast didn't die. When I walked back up to look at him, he was still trying to get up and run away. Both back legs were broken. And judging by the antler puncture in my fender, his neck was probably broken too.

A guy stopped and mentioned that we should call the state police to put the deer out of it's misery. As soon as he finished his sentence, a Ford pickup pulled onto the shoulder.

The driver got out with a handgun, walked over to the deer, and shot it in the head. It twitched around for a few seconds before it went stiff.

"Somebody'll pick at up and eat 'em," he said.

The hit did bad things to the tiny gay convertible.

Totally buckled the hood and passenger fender. Fortunately, it looks like the radiator took most of the hit and the rest of the insides weren't hurt. More fortunately, the deer wasn't high enough in the air to go through my canvas top. And now I'm car-less again.

This leads me to my horrible relationship with motor vehicles.

In 2008, the Dirt Mobilis didn't pass smog inspection. It had 245,000 miles, and I didn't want to fix it. So I sold it for a grand.

I didn't have a car all winter, then I bought a lifted SUV because my little economy car polluted too much. Ironic, yes. The government made me do it.

I lovingly named the monster the Grumbler, and it promptly blew boiling antifreeze all over my hands.

I fixed it, then it blew boiling antifreeze all over my hands again.

I fixed it again, and the clutch blew up. I couldn't get under it until the snow melted.

I drove it out West, and it blew boiling antifreeze all over my hands a third time.

I sold the Grumbler last January. I didn't find the Cabrio until March.

I spent one blissful month driving the Cabrio. Then transmission exploded during the Big Gay WV Adventure. It took almost two months to fix.

I drove it out west, and got a flat tire in the the desert in July.

And now I'm stuck again.

Murrysville 'cross

2011-11-11T19:32:00.001-08:00

Things I'm bad at:

-speling
-keeping track of my mug
-remembering to wash my pants every month
-cyclocross

This is me. Stick boy is behind me. He's about to lap me.

Murrysville was my first 'cross race of the season. I had to sprint to hold Stick off. But after that I settled back into my apathetic pace. I tried a lap on Don Power's geared bike, and I think I was slower on that than I am on my brakeless-fixed gear-29er thing.

I just can't take racing 'cross seriously. Doing the same grassy lap over and over and over starts to makes me lose interest.

Mud makes it a little better. At least then I get to throw down sweet skidz in the corners.

But hell, I'll be honest, I didn't used to go to 'cross races to race. I went to be an ass. I miss the donuts:

The good days of whipped cream bunny tails, puffs of powdered sugar, and donut shaped welts. I miss them.

The only thing as good as donutting a friend in the face while they're on a bike is donutting a friend in the face while they're not on a bike.

But now donuts are banned. And I guess it's better that way. People shouldn't be distracted from the somber business of bicycle racing. It's very important stuff. I mean, I would never throw donuts at a surgeon during open heart surgery, or at a baby that was being baptized, so I don't know why I thought it was ok to throw donuts at racers.

I'm going to do one more 'cross race this season, the Little Washington 'Cross, just so I can put Old Meat Scissors Morrison back in his place.

His place is behind me:

Super D wrap up

2011-11-02T11:19:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty much done with race season, so I took a week off bloggy this thing. But I gotta tie up the loose ends on the Ohiopyle Super D race.

Everybody I talked to on race day had a blast. And Ohiopyle finally has a mountain bike race. Win.

The course was just right for a Month of Mud series race. Not too scary, long enough to avoid pissing off the XC folks, and still a different experience from a regular cross country race. It sounds like it's going to stay in the series.

Unfortunately for me, I flatted on my home course. Even more unfortunately, I lost to Don Powers by two seconds. He'll never let me forget it.

Most of the gnarly boys and girls didn't come out to play. We had about 35 show up for practice the day before. But they thought the course was too much pedaling, so they didn't come back for the race the next day. Understandable I suppose. A 45 minute Super D does have more pedaling than a two minute downhill at Seven Springs.

There were a few people that called it a regular XC race. I don't know about them, but I've never gotten to ride a bus to the top of a mountain in an XC race.

The course ended up being 2,138 feet down and 624 feet up over 9 miles. Here's the gps file. We went from the highest point in the park to the lowest. It was a long and mellow, but it was still a Super D.

That said, there's room for improvement. The long field section sucked. The gravel road section of McCune sucked. The go-arounds on the hard lines weren't long enough, and the hard lines weren't hard enough. And to be honest, Sugarloaf isn't the best downhill in the park. It just happened to flow the best for a race course.

Now that we have the logistics of getting bikes up the mountain, I'm hoping we can do a steeper and more technical race this spring. That would be a course that's 15-20 minutes long, almost entirely downhill, and full of big rocks. But if we want to do that, we (I) need to get cracking on a new trail. The terrain is there, it just needs raked off and mapped out.

And in the far far away future, it looks like Pittsburgh is invading the Breck Epic SS class next year. Oh yes. I pitched the idea of an East Side vs. West Side vs. The Big Belligerent Canadian points competition to MikeMac. It sounds like that's a go. Now I need to figure out a way to get there.

All you ever wanted to know about the Ohiopyle Super-D

2011-10-19T17:32:00.000-07:00

I've felt a like a politician when answering questions about the Super-D. I've been trying to convince two groups of people that the race will be cool: "yes shredder of the gnar, the course will be gnarly enough for you!" and "no xc racer, the course will not be so gnarly that you break your face into a thousand pieces."

So to clear up any uncertainties, here's the straight dope, as it were.

-The course is about 8 miles, with 1700 feet of descending. You will be bussed up to the start.

-Your AM bike will be fine.

-Your XC race bike will be fine (hardtail or full suspension.)

-Your fully rigid single speed will be extremely slow and uncomfortable, but you could pick your way down the course if you were really wanted to.

-You will probably have to walk your unicycle.

-You do not need to wear body armor, nor do you need to wear lycra.

The race can be split into two halves. The trail-loop on top of the mountain, and the downhill section back to town. The finish is in town. Your cheering fans don't have to walk more than two blocks from the ice cream shop. It'll be neat.

The loop up top, McCune trail, is rocky and technical. It's similar to Big Bear, the 7 Springs XC course, Laurel Mountain, or Moraine. It should take 15 to 25 minutes.

The downhill section will be as hard as you make it. Although it's longer, it's no more technical than a hard descent in an XC race in our area. However, unlike an XC race, you can't ride conservatively down the hill and expect to make up time somewhere else.

If you want to win this race, you'll have to ride hard and take lots of chances. There are water bars, big rocks, and all sorts of other things that will make you crash if you're going too fast. I bit it and killed my front wheel while shooting a video of the course, and I know this trail like I know the hair on my big toe.

The leaves are down and the trail will be wet, so even if you're the Supreme God Of Descending, it's going to be hairy going down the mountain at speed. If you go slow, it won't be so bad.

There are three optional sections on the course. The first is a ramp that launches you down a steep grassy hill. It's about 4 feet off the ground at the end, and you can be in the air for a long time if you hit it fast. The second is a drop into some pointy rocks. The third is a rocky chute (which I crashed in. there's a good line, and a line that makes you crash.)

Each obstacle has a go around, and taking the easy lines will add up to a four minute penalty for the whole course.

You can't do a 'cross dismount then jump down an obstacle it. We'll have to figure out a time penalty for anybody who does that. 'Cross racing types should understand a rule like that. After all, you can't win the Dirty Dozen by running up a hill. You gotta ride it.

If you've never ridden off a ramp before, don't pick the day of the race to try it. If you do, you'll probably hurt yourself. If you're a DH racer and used to hucking off garage roofs, you may be disappointed to learn that these obstacles aren't big enough to break both your legs and compress your spine. It ain't Crankworx.

An XC race bike will probably be about the same speed as a 5 or 6" AM bike.

If Cyclocross is a race where roadies and XC guys can compete with each other, then a Super-D is one where XC racers and DH racers can race against each other.

If you race XC, you'll be challenged by going all out on the downhill. If you race DH, you'll be challenged by pinning it and pedaling hard for 40 minutes. Either way, you'll have a good time. Racing mountain bikes is fun.

And if you want to make a weekend out of it, there's a 'cross race Saturday, and a DH race later on Sunday afternoon. Both are about 30 minutes from Ohiopyle. There are a ton of camping spots around town, and good food and beer at the Falls City Pub.

We're running shuttles from the Wilderness Voyageurs store on Saturday. $10 for three rides to the top of the mountain.

Practicing is a good idea. You don't want this to happen to you:
The thwacking sound is my freshly rebuilt wheel hitting my fork. I guess I'm going to have to bother the nice fellas at Industry 9 to fix it again.

Here's the race website: http://monthofmud.org/

Ohiopyle Super-D

2011-10-18T11:44:00.000-07:00

I'm going to get to that last Pisgah post, but first I've gotta put up the Go Pro Bro video of the Ohiopyle Super-D course. The race is this Sunday, and we're doing practice runs on Saturday with shuttle rides to the top of the mountain. Registration is at the Wilderness Voyageurs store.

Here's the second half of the course, with an excellent demonstration of the wrong line through the final rock garden.
More info on the race here.

Pisgah Stage Race 2011: Stage 4

2011-10-05T06:45:00.000-07:00

We're cruising up a double track climb. I'm sitting on Adam Craig's wheel. The rest of the pack is out of sight. This is super cool. I wonder how long I can stay with these dudes.

I roll over a rock. Thunk. The back end of my bike squirms around. Flat. Dammit. I jump off and shake the tire around a few times. Well, I guess that's the end of my glorious chase.

The air is hissing out of a sidewall. I can't get the Stans to seal it, so I pull off the tube I have strapped to my bike. It's a cross tube. Crap. This probably won't end well. I hit it with the CO2. Most of the field has passes me.

The tube blows up, but doesn't seat the tire. I work my hands around the bead, popping it on as I go. More time wasted. I finally get the thing back on my bike and start riding again. I re-pass a bunch of people. Everybody is mighty nice about letting me by.

Then we turn onto the Black Mountain descent that we finish on everyday. But this time we have to go up it. I jump off my bike and alternate between running and hiking.

20 minutes later I'm still pushing. I catch up to Cinder Bloch Lochner. He has two sets of flat repair stuff (good idea in Pig Saw,) and gives me his extra. I express my eternal gratitude as we hike together for a while. He says that Jason, who's currently first in SS, is only a minute up. I trudge away and try to catch him.

Another 20 minutes, and I reach something that looks like the top of a hill. I jump back on, turn right, and start riding down the trail. Laurel bushes scratch my arms and smack my face.

The trail gets steeper and steeper. I'm going faster and faster. Root drop coming up. Going way too fast. I drop over it and lock up the back wheel get slowed down before the next one. Pine needles spray up from my back tire. Hell this is steep. I drop over more roots, then the trail flows into a level section.

It pitches back up. Off my bike and start hiking again. The trail keeps shooting up and down for miles.

I'm 1:40 in, and I haven't even hit the first aid station at mile 9. This is ridiculously slow. It'll be a ten hour day at this pace. I start another long downhill. Then I hit some wooden steps. Photographer to the left, another to the right. I've gotta be close to the aid.

Another big section of steps. There's the food tent. I come to a stop and ask the guys to pump up my back tire. It's already down to 18 psi.

Down more rocky single track, across a wooden cable bridge, then up a steep climb. Man my legs are burning from all that walking. I start the Squirrel Gap section. It seems a little easier to ride up than it was to ride down, but maybe that's because my seatpost isn't broken.

I start catching people. I'm making good time up this thing. I see Melanie McQuaid and the Birdman spinning up the hill. I pass a guy with a banjo.

"Hey, start playing that damn thing. Up?" I say.

He points to the right. "Yep. Up brother, always up," he says, then starts plucking.

I swing up the hill behind the Birdman. Jason is just a few feet in front of us. We speed up a little to catch him. I run around Jason then start moving faster up the hill. "I hate you," he yells.

The Birdman passes me again, then we start a gravely climb. I sit on his wheel. I hit a little stick. Thunk. The back end of my bike squirms around.

"Fuck my nuts. You've gotta be kidding me," I say. Flat again. I jump off and start installing the tube Cinder Bloch gave me. Melanie, Jason, and Morgan Olsson pass me again. Well that's discouraging. I hit it with a CO2, but the tire is still soft.

I ride it gingerly down the hill to Aid 2. I grab my food from my drop and set it on the table. I ask the guys to pump it up again, and we check for a sidewall cut. Can't find anything. I sprint away from the station.

I'm a few minutes down the road. I reach in my back pocket. I forgot my food. Son of a bitch. I can't do the rest of this stage without food. I turn around and sprint back to the Aid.

Food safely stored in my pockets, I set off again. I'm pretty bummed at this point. I ride more single track, a long gravel descent, then start the climb up Black Mountain. The climb is long and slow. Tom Waits' voice work it's way into my head. Miserys the river of the world. Everybody row. Row everybody row.

Everybody row. I'm so tired. Row. Everybody row. Everybody row. Miserys the river of the world. Damn this is a terrible song to have stuck in my head.

I finally see the fire pit at the trail intersection. Right turn, a little more hiking, then the Black Mountain descent. I'm almost too exhausted to enjoy the downhill. My arms shake and start to cramp. Root drop, water bar, root drop, wall ride, smooth fast section. I roll dejectedly across the finish line. That was such a hard day.

Watch more video of Pisgah Mountain Bike Stage Race 2011 on cyclingdirt.org

Watch more video of Pisgah Mountain Bike Stage Race 2011 on cyclingdirt.org

The End of Pigsaw

2011-10-03T05:23:00.000-07:00

Victory!

That was a great week. I'm not into cliche recaps, so until I finish my more detailed bloggerly duties I'll leave it at this: The Pisgah Stage Race was the best riding I've ever done. Better than Colorado in some ways. Fucking super cool. So cool that I might move to that little part of the world some day.

The week ended up costing me about $150. We split Grandmas's House 7 ways, ate shitty Mexican food all week, and packed into a tiny TDI to carpool down there. That's a cheap week. Even if I would have had to pay the entry fee, it wouldn't have been that bad. And a stage race is so much more fun than a season full of 100 milers. If you're into this mountain biking thing, you should try stage racing. It's rad.

Anyway, I'll have the Stage 4 and 5 reports up this week.

Here are the ones I have done so far:

Stage 3

Stage 2

Stage 1

Pisgah Stage Race 2011: Stage 3

2011-10-03T04:45:00.000-07:00

“Dude, Garth do you know that Jeramiah’s bullfrog calls youMan-woman?” I say. I’m delighted with the information I’ve just received.

“Yeah man, I let it go the first couple times, but now it’spissing me off. I mean really? Man-woman? Just because I have long hair? Ican’t stand close minded people man,” says Garth. He flicks a dred out of hisface.

We’re in the field waiting to start Stage 3. It’s only 25miles today, so it’s going to be a fast. Just like an XC race. I walk over tothe Izzy’s coffee truck and get a free cup. This a rad setup. The guy has agenerator and an espresso machine. And it’s free. Very nice.

Almost time to go. I line up next to the Birdman and CinderBloch Lochner. Todd gives us three seconds, then we hit it. Garth takes a flyerdown the gravel road and tries to catch up with the lead car. Everybody elseholds a steadier pace.

Garth jumps off his bike in the middle of the road. Hepushes down on a flat rear tire with his thumb. The whole pack starts laughingas we surround and pass him. The Pflug decides to take advantage of Garth’smisfortune and sprints away.

It only takes us a couple minutes to catch him. It’s hard tomake an attack stick with dudes like Jeramiah, Sam, and Adam leading the pack.

We turn into the singletrack and start a steep climb. I makesome passes and get up with the lead four pro guys and the Elite Elderly LeaderAndy Johnson. I’m feeling pretty excellent. I’ve gotta go for a good overall finish today.

The singletrack opens back up into some flatter smoothstuff. I stick on Andy’s wheel. I almost feel bad that I can’t help pull, butthat’s the way of the parasitic single speeder. I tuck and spin.

I head into the first downhill, and my arms give out. My hands and wrists are completely destroyed from the last two stages. Ifumble down the water bars and loose rocks un-gracefully. Hopefully my upperbody will warm up and start working.

I let Andy set the pace up the next climb. I might not be able to hold onto my bars, my legs feel great. We turn back down a hill, and he tells me to take the lead.

I spin out to get up to speed and start flowing down thetrail. It’s smooth and super fast. Big mounds to pump over, nice burms in thecorners, and tacky dirt.

I hit the bottom andspin. I don’t see anybody behind me. Up a little gravel climb, then down moresweet flowing trails. I’m sitting in 5^th overall right now. I needto hold this pace.

Another downhill. I ride over some big rocks, then stop atthe top of a drop. The trail is a five-foot deep drainage ditch that’s full ofbig rocks. If there’s a line down this thing, I’m not seeing it. I jump off mybike and start running down the hill.

Somebody yells to me. I look left. Husky Thom Parsons. Withthe big Cycling Dirt camera.

“You fucker! Put that camera away while I’m walking,” Iyell. Then I see a grandmotherly looking woman standing next to him. Whoops.Should have watched that language.

I jump back on my bike and pedal across a long section offlat gravel. I’m spun out and afraid that somebody is going to catch me. Ifinally make a turn onto a pavement and start heading back up the mountain.

Through Aid Station 2 and onto a single track climb. My eyes are popping out of my head like a Boston Terrier's. The trail gets too steepto ride, so I start running. Then it turns downhill. I jump back on my bike,but the dirt pitches right back up in a few feet. Dammit. It keeps undulating,100 feet up, 50 feet down, over and over.

I see Andy spinning up the climb a few feet back when I’moff hiking. Crap. I need to move faster. I’m desperate to get to the descent.

After another couple hiking sections, I hit the top andstart bombing back down. I’m not holding anything back. I rip down the looserocks, then the trail levels out again. Another climb. Shit. This is going tokill me.

I pin it up the hill. I’m getting dizzy but I can’t slowdown. I finally see the last turn. I shred the smooth single track down hill,and spin the flat section across the bottom. I can see the finish. One hardturn and a 100 yards on gravel, and I’m there.

I hear a deraliur clanking behind me. That has to be Andy. Imake the turn, hit the gravel and sprint.

I cross the line. Andy is less than a bike length back.

Hot damn. I got it. 5^th overall behind Koerber,Bishop, Craig, and Edsall. That’s a solid day. My legs start to lock up. I might die tomorrow.

Videos by Huskey Thom:

Watch more video of Pisgah Mountain Bike Stage Race 2011 on cyclingdirt.org

Watch more video of Pisgah Mountain Bike Stage Race 2011 on cyclingdirt.org

Pisgah Stage Race 2011: Stage 2

2011-09-28T18:15:00.000-07:00

There's a little kid with a frog backpack crawling around next to the podiums. Bishop picks him up. That must be Jeremiah's kid. Jeremiah's bullfrog.

"Hey Birdman, look, it's Jeremiah's bullfrog," I say. The Birdman starts laughing. Then he stops. A chipmunk freezes next to his foot and looks up pleadingly. He lashes out with his talon, spears the chipmunk, and snaps it's neck with his beak. Then he continues laughing. I stare at him.

The next morning is foggy. We ride over to the start and load our bikes on to a truck. There are two trolleys parked in the gravel. That's our ride to the start line.

We load up on the trolley. The lady on the speaker system is giving us a tour of Brevard. Five minutes into the ride I feel like my bladder is going to explode. The woman is talking about white squirrels and paper mills, and I really want to listen, but I can't think of anything other than peeing on the floor.

30 minutes later we stop in the forest. I sprint off the trolley and hide behind a tree. We wait a while for the second truck load of bikes, then ride up to a field to start the stage.

We pile our bikes in the grass and line up for a LeMan's start. The Pflug starts sneaking forward. I yell at him. Todd raises the starter gun and starts counting down. Somebody moves, then we all start sprinting. Todd points the gun at the guy who started running and fires. We're half way to the bikes by the time he gets the shot off.

I jump on my bike and get behind Garth. We shoot down the gravel road and ford a wide stream. There's a short section of pace-lining, and I get dropped. I start the nine mile climb. I can see the groups splitting up ahead. The pro men are gone and the elite elderly men aren't far behind.

The road keeps winding and winding around the ridge. Up higher and higher. I'm sitting and spinning up the mountain. It's not a bad grade. Steep enough to be interesting, but not too hard to ride. I fill a bottle at the first aid.

Almost an hour into the stage I hit the top of the climb. I start ripping down Farlow Gap. It's fast at first, lots of roots, a couple sharp corners. I think they said we would have to walk this, but it doesn't seem too bad.

Then I see the man in the white squirrel suit. He yells some squirrelly cheer and shakes his nut staff.

The trail drops straight down. This is bad. There are huge sharp rocks everywhere, and they're shifting around under my wheels. There's one chick walking her bike on the left and a dude walking down the right. I've gotta plow right through the middle of this thing or I'm gonna die.

I get my ass as far back as I can and drop over rock after rock. This is terrifying. I'm going too fast to pick out any sort of line. Then the rock garden ends. I made it. My leg starts twitching.

Then there's a huge root drop. A slab with a big drop off the end. More root chutes. Both legs are twitching now. This is the sketchiest thing I've ever ridden. If I think about it, I'm going to drop right over that hill side and break myself. I start singing a Kesha song out loud. I hope nobody can hear me over all the noise my bike is making.

I come to the top of a huge steep staircase thing. That's my limit. I'm walking this part. I scramble down it and hike over a stream. Thom Parsons heckles me from a rock. The single track turns back up hill. That was the coolest and most horrifying descent I've ever ridden. Goddamn that was rad. I love this place.

I ride down a super fast root covered hill that goes forever, then into Aid 2. Grab some bottles and head back out. I start another gravel climb. This is probably going to be long.

There's a white land cruiser at the bottom of a little gap in the trees. There are no skid-marks on the road, and the car doesn't look crushed. That's weird. How'd such a nice Land Cruiser get way down below this road?

I finish the climb. That was excessively long. My legs are feeling a little beat. Down some gravel, up some pavement, up some more gravel, and into Aid 3.

Turn onto some single track. I ride it for a while, then it pitches straight up. Looks like I'm taking my bike for another walk. I push up through the rocks. My freewheel clicks loudly. Left onto Black Mountain trail. I know we finish on Black Mountain, but I'm sure there's going to be a lot of walking between here and there.

The trail drops down and I can ride again. Another sweet downhill. Roots and big ruts all over the place. This is great. I plop down a stair case at the end and rip down some smooth single track. Back onto gravel, more fast descending, then I turn onto a climb. I recognize this from our pre-ride on Monday. Sweet. This is it. Last climb before the descent to the finish.

It takes forever. I really want this thing to end. Finally it does, and stop to lower my non-dropper post. I shred the grar all the way down Black Mountain and cross the finish line. That was a really long stage.

There's only a few guys back so far. So that probably put me in the top ten. Nice. And tomorrow we get to sleep in, then do a short 25 mile stage. Extra nice.

Pisgah Stage Race 2011: Stage 1

2011-09-27T12:46:00.000-07:00

"You nervous Birdman?" I say. We're rolling in a big group on a road behind the pace car.

"No. I'm just going for a ride," says the Birdman.

"Oh fine, gonna play it cool are you? What a cool guy," I say.

We turn onto some gravel and the pace car speeds up. The Pflug shoots out of the pack and goes after the car. "Oh shit, we gotta try to catch Ger-Bear," I say to Garth Prosser.

"No way I'm doing that man," says Garth. Then he drills it and goes after the Pflug. I say with him for a few seconds, then I need to slow down.

Garth and the Pflug stay ahead for a few minutes, but then they're re-absorbed into the main group. The gravel pitches up a little more, and Jeramiah "Tough as Coffee Nails" Bishop, Sam Korber, and Adam Craig's little posse spins away.

I ride with Pflug and the Birdman most of the way up the hill. The climb is super long, but not too steep. We top out after 45 minutes and swing onto a flat smooth trail. Everybody with gears rips past me. I'm alone, spinning, getting a little lackadaisical.

The meandering descent ends and I cross a bridge. I pop over a little log and make a hard right onto the trail. It shoots straight up the hill. Shit. That was abrupt. I went from comfortable spinning to ripping my back and leg muscles off trying to get up this hill.

The dirt is wet and slick. It's slow. A light fog hangs over the trail. I make a few delicate turns through the mud. The trail narrows down and I start the section that was supposed to be half-track. It's sweet, but there's nothing half about it. It's just some off-camber Appalachian singletrack. Wet roots, rocks trying to buck me off the hillside, and hard corners with streams running down the middle.

I sit down and my seatpost compresses. I didn't hit the drop button. That's not good. I grab the saddle and pull it up. It falls right back down. Now I'm fucked. My dropper post is permanently dropped. A couple guys pass. I ask them how far it is to the aid.

45 minutes with a 30 minute gravel climb. I'm going to die without a saddle to sit on. Then I remember the duct tape I have wrapped around a CO2. Thank god I followed Pflug's advice to carry tape. I pull the post up and wrap the tape around the thing. It kind of works. I climb up towards the aid. By the time I hit the station the post has compressed a few inches.

We wrap it in more duct tape and zip ties and I set off with my crippled post.

There's some rolling gravel, a single track climb, then I hit Aid 3. I borrow a 5mm and put my seatpost up a few more inches.

"Seven more miles right?" I ask the long haired prospector looking dude that loaned me a tool.

"About that. But you've got a little hike. Nice view at the top though," he says.

Nice. The hike couldn't be that long. I feel like I'm already at the top of the ridge. I start running.

30 minutes later I'm still pushing my bike up the damn hill. I set it on top of a rock, scramble up, and repeat. But when the trees open up, the view is incredible. Blueish green hills and far off rocks. I keep walking.

I finally come to a spot where I can ride my bike again. Then the trail drops straight down the mountain. I pound over water bar after water bar after water bar. The orange dirt is washed out and there's huge holes in between roots. My hands are cramping but the hill keeps going. I slam over more water bars.

I pass a dude next to a dead campfire and the hill pitches back up. I hike up, lower my broken dropper post, and start descending again. More water bars and off-camber roots. I clip a rhododendron and roll forward into the dirt. I get up real quick and keep descending.

The trail smooths out and turns into a series of fast jumps and wall rides. I ride the rest of the hill and cross the finish line. 1st SS by about a half hour. Nice. Now I have to try to fix my stupid dropper post.

2011-09-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

It's time to slay some Pig Saws:

The race is from Tuesday to Saturday, and I'll have blog updates here after every stage. If I don't somebody might make me pay for my entry.

PIG SAAAWWWW AWAY!

pig saw

2011-09-17T07:47:00.000-07:00

The new issue of XXC Mag is out, complete with the article about the week in Breck with Don Powers and Aaron. Get it here.

In one week from today, we're going to the Pisgah Stage Race. Or Pig Saw, as my dad reads it.

PIG SAAWWW.

Anyway, after riding the Ohiopyle Super-D course with Dahn Pahrs on Saturday, Rob and I are heading down to Brad the Birdman of Charleston's nest.

We'll leave the Birdman's Sunday morning, and try to win some lunch money at the WVMBA Series Championship. After the race, (hopefully with lunch money in hand), we'll return to the Bird's Nest and eat all his food. I assume there will be worm smoothies.

Then Monday morning, we'll fly out of the Bird's Nest again, and begin the long journey to PIG SAAWWW. Garth Prosser, the Crazy Australian Chick, and the Guy I Don't Know, should all be arriving to Grandma's House in Brevard at the same time as us.

I haven't talked to the Blue Ridge adventure guys yet to see where my blog posts are going to be published. But they'll up after every stage. I'll try to figure out where this week.

And it looks like Cory Rimmer isn't on the blogger page anymore. I'm not sure what happened there. But it makes me the only blogger.

If he's not going to the race, I'm not sure why he went through all the trouble of winning the blog contest. Without him in that contest, Dicky and I would have probably been the ones with free entries. And I would have had the chance to beat up on a short, squeaky, older dude all week. But maybe something came up for the Rimmer that I don't know about.

I wanted to get my bike setup posted on the Blue Ridge Adventures facebook page a few weeks ago, but it still isn't set up. My new 15mm Reba has some play between the stanchions and the lowers already.

I called SRAM yesterday, and they're going to send me a new Reba RLT Ti 120 with a 20mm thru-axle. Score.

That's awesome customer service. They didn't even need to see the old fork to confirm it was broken. I'm pretty sure they would have sent me a new fork if I would have told them that the white wasn't an exact match for my grips.

So the fork will be in on Tuesday, I have to switch the tapered uppers on it to a set with a straight steerer, convert my front hub to 20mm, and then I should be ready to go.

XXC has a sweet preview of the race.

*all plans subject to approval by Brad the Birdman of Charleston

a photo of big trav bending over a hot caddy

2011-09-09T05:41:00.000-07:00

Deep sigh. baahhh. Labor Day Weekend is over, and now things start to quiet down in Ohiopyle. Sadly, instead of racing the 24 hours of Seven Springs or Shenandoah 100, I was selling chips and Gatorade all weekend.

And watching Big Trav try to fix an 85 Cadillac for a family of Dutch people.

He was convinced that if he repaired their car, they would give him their daughter to be his eternal sex slave. Sounds reasonable.

Unfortunately, we can't fix busted heater cores on Park View.

But Big Trav sure loved that red leather and coolant smell.

Now that that's out of the way, there are only a couple weeks left until the Great Pisgah Bicycle Extravaganza. There's been a flurry of facespace discussion, and it looks like Rob, Brad the Birdman of Charleston and I are going to be splitting a place called "Grandma's House" with Garth Prosser and his band of misfits. It should make for an epic article for the Dirt Rag.

I still need to get a headset that doesn't wobble, but other than that I think I've finalized my bike setup.

Fast knobby tire:

15mm thru axle and 120mm of travel:

Sweeet. I'll test it all out tomorrow at the 9 Circles of Hill, which at the request of Prof. Shelmire has become the 9 Cirlces of Gnarlyness.

getting caught up: black bear, white oak, and the henry clay 30k

2011-08-30T06:50:00.000-07:00

WV State Championships Black Bear:

We drive down to Brad the Birdman of Charleston's house on Saturday night. His pitbull attacks us with her cat-like affections and happy butt shaking. We watch Mad Max bounce around on bungee cords while fighting Blaster of Master Blaster in the Thunderdome.

The next morning a silver Audi A4 motor paces us down the road. I get right behind the car to draft. Everytime I get close, the damn driver speeds up. I finally say screw it and drop back. The other single speeders catch me, and we're passed by every class except the ladies.

We hit the gravel climb and I start towing Gunnar back up to the lead group. Near the top of the climb, we make contact with them. I run out of gas, and Gunnar drops me, without even a 'thank you' for that long pull up the hill. I fall back to Don Powers speed. The sky gets angry and slams us with rain and lightening. I hope a tree branch doesn't fall on my head.

An hour later, the sky finally clears. I ride down a few big scary descents and sprint into the finish. First in the single speed class, but not really first single speed. Damn that evil old man Gunnar. I'm not really from West Virginia either, but they give me a big State Champion Mug anyway.

An unknown racer is spotted with markings left by an affectionate female leach. He is teased relentlessly.

White Oak Challenge:

It dumps rain right before the race, but the sun comes out when we stand on the start line. We sprint out on a gravel road and into some slippery single track. I take the lead. Alright, I feel good. I'm going to race well today.

I ride into the start of the one hard rock garden on the course. There's a plant hanging across the trail. I ride through it. It's covered in thorns and almost saws my arm off. "Shit that hurt," I yell. The bend of my elbow is sticky with blood.

The rocks are too slippery to ride, so I jump off and start running.

"Woah woah woah!" yells Gunnar. I think he's still riding, so I move over to let him pass. He runs by me carrying his bike and chuckles. "Heh! I can't believe you let me do that!" Tricky old bastard. I don't see him again for the rest of the day.

The course twists up, down and side to side on the ridge. Most of the trails are smooth and slick from the rain. I drop my chain descending a little hill. Joey Riddle rides past me.

I can't get the chain back on. "You stupid son of a fuck," I say to the bike.

"What did you just call me?" Joey yells back, a little surprised and offended.

"Uh, my bike, I was calling my bike a stupid son of a fuck," I say.

"Try calling it a whore," he says.

I get the chain back on and finish the race. Third overall, first in the single speed class, but not really first single speed. Damn that evil old man Gunnar.

Henry Clay 30k:

We start up a road, and I'm dropped again. I make it into the woods something like 10 back. The rest of the start is downhill. The group is moving too fast to attempt a pass, but not fast enough to keep up with Tim de la Garcon. We hit the first little climb, and I swerve around everybody. I see Garcon and the guy in second cresting the top of the hill already. Bummer. They'll be near impossible to catch.

I run up part of the next hill then swoop into some single track. I'm actually riding really well today. I haven't felt this good since the Big Bear Ultra. Since Gunnar is putting on the race, he's not racing today. I finally feel good, and I don't even have a chance to redeem myself by beating the evil old man.

I go back and forth with Steve Rowand all day. He passes me on the wide open big ring sections, and I catch back up when we get back into the woods. Todd Latocha catches me on the last climb up the rail grade, and I pull him up to Steve.

I stay ahead of those two for a while, but eventually they come around me. I spin the last rolling trail into the finish. Fifth overall, first single speed, and really first single speed. Really good race. Everyone else who rolls across the line seems to be in high spirits.

I turn around at the awards so that Gunnar can tuck my prize into the back of my shorts. As I'm walking away, the money falls out of my waist band and scatters all over the ground. People laugh and children cry.

So there. Now I'm blogged up with all those XC races. Sadly, I will not be attending the Shenandoah 100 next weekend. It's just too busy in Ohiopyle land that weekend.

Pisgah Stage Race is coming up really soon (end of September. yikes.). Rob and Brad the Birdman have both signed up, so we'll caravan down and camp together. After the race, I'm writing an article for the Dirt Rag. Hopefully something ridiculous happens so that I have some good material.

And I've been doing some trail work to get things ready for the Ohiopyle Super-D on October 23rd. 1700ish feet of rocky descending in 8 miles. It'll be super sweet. More on that later.

Oh, last order of business. Slag Track tonight!

Frick Park Slag Heaps, 7:00 pm. Bring a gnarly bike. We're doing all the fun stuff tonight.

Big Bear Ultra 50 Race Report ('11)

2011-08-15T06:48:00.000-07:00

My front wheel sinks into a mud hole and I go over the bars. I land on some wet pine needles. Tim de la Garcon fades into the mist with the clanking of his derailluer.

"Oh June-Bugs everywhere! Come on now little boy!" Gunnar shouts in his nasally voice. Damn old bastard. I've gotta loosen up. I can't be crashing on these rocks for the next 45 miles.

I get on Gunnar's wheel and follow him through the endless rock garden. The forest is foggy and quiet.

"Crack rock! Woohoo!" Gunnar yells. He disappears into a handlebar-wide gap between two cliffs. I roll in behind him. There's no light between the rocks. I drop off a little boulder at the end of the cave and land on my front wheel. My suspension compresses with a thud. Dammit fool. That wasn't smooth.

Gunnar is bounding through some wet rocks next to the cave and chattering loudly. I follow him through the rocks, over some huge boulders, and down onto a section of double track. Now I'm feeling good. I attack and pull away from Gunnar on a climb. He catches back up and swerves in front of me before we hit the single track again.

We climb up to the top of the ridge and wind through the pine trees. Back down some rocks, then up again. At the first water stop Gunnar pulls off, I assume to deal with his incontinence. I've gotta hit it while he's wiping his ass. I pedal hard and twist through the pine trees. Across the top of the ridge on a section they use for the 2x12 race, then down onto a trail I've never seen before.

I pop over a log then slide down a wet bank. The mountain laurel closes tightly around the trail. It's scratching at my arms. I grind out of the soft soil and get back onto firmer ground. Out of the woods by the Campground Convenience Store, then into to some winding single track next to the road.

I grab my bottles at the start/finish, then look down the double-track. There are arrows pointing in two directions. "Which way do I go?" I yell up to the tent. No response.

"Which way?" Nothing. Gunnar, Todd, and Mike are crossing the road and coming up to the tent. Damn.

"Hey, which way?" Now the other three are right next to me.

"Oh, go straight," somebody finally says. That's great. Now I have to try to get away from these people again.

"See little boy, I went slow and I knew you would stop. My plan worked perfectly," Gunnar yells.

"Glad I could help. Were you changing your Depends back there?" I say.

"Oh yeah, you know puttin some fresh glue on the dentures," he says.

The four of us ride together for a few miles, then Mike drops off. A minute later, Gunnar vanishes behind me. Todd catches up. "What happened to those two?" I ask.

"Mike flatted, and I think Gunnar dropped his chain," he says. Nice. The old man won't have a chance to catch back up if we hold this pace. Water starts dumping from the sky.

I'm soaked in under 30 seconds. That was abrupt. My gloves squish on the grips and my shoes feel like little sunken boats. We climb over a tree and crash through some more over-grown mountain laurel. Todd pulls ahead of me on a section of flat double-track.

I decide to stop for a pee break. I've been holding it for about 43 miles, and that's long enough. I count the seconds and look behind me, hoping that Gunnar doesn't appear from the woods.

Back on the bike and through some fun single track next to a couple trailers. I know I'm close to the end now. Across the dam, only a mile or so to go. I look back again. No Gunnar. I coast down the last hill and cross the line. No Gunnar. Victory! And third overall. Not a bad day.

Brad the Birdman of Charleston is already changed and standing under the tent. "What happened to you?" I ask.

"Oh my hand hurt, so I quit," he says

"Dude, did you see the guy that got impaled with his brake lever? He had this big hole in his chest and blood everywhere." somebody says.

"Wow, he stuck a brake lever through his chest? That's pretty gnarly. So you quit because your hand hurt a little Brad?" I say.

"Yeah..."

Don Powers rolls across the line with some blood on his legs. "I crashed 8 times, and I saw this one dude go over the bars and land on his head. He didn't even know where he was. Totally knocked out," he says.

"You crashed 8 times and that guy knocked himself out? Crazy. Brad quit because his hands were sore," I say.

The Birdman glares at me.

Pisgah Preparationing

2011-08-03T16:30:00.000-07:00

Now that the Wilderness 101 is done, and the Big Trip West in the Tiny Gay Convertible long completed, the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race is the next big event on my calender.

I've never ridden in Pisgah, so for all I know the place is populated by frogs dancing in cowboy boots.

While this chart doesn't do anything prove or dis-prove the existence of frog people, it does show that Pisgah is the most technical of the three US stage races. If Jeremiah "I'm tough as coffee nails" Bishop's average speed was 11.9 mph, there must be some rocky and rooty shit out there.

Race	Days	Miles	Elevation Gain	Overall WinningTime	Overall Winner Avg Speed (mph)	Tandem Time	Cash Purse	Solo Entry Fee
Transylvania Epic	7	235	29,860'	13:11:56	17.9	16:34:25	$10,000	$999.99
Breck Epic	6	240	37,000'	18:16:12	13.2	N/A	$0	$995
Pisgah Stage Race	5	195	28,000'	16:21:39	11.9	Yeah Right! Not on these trails!	$15,000	$700

So, in order to prepare myself to race five hard days on a single-speed 29er hardtail, I decided to acquire a geared 26er all-mountain bike.

Enter the Prophet. This thing used to be a rental at WV, but I don't think anyone ever rented it. It was probably too nice to lend to the hyper-destructive Boy Scout groups we get.

When I'm sitting in the un-airconditoned garage at work, my brain isn't functioning at it's highest level, so I think my thought process went something like this:

Pisgah is going to be really technical.

I bet a full-suspension gnarly bike would be really good for that place. Why are these people looking at me? But I don't have a full suspension gnarly bike.

Maybe I should buy the Prophet since it's full-suspension gnarly bike, and then I should get fast on it. They're still standing there. I'm hungry.

Once I'm good at riding the full-suspension gnarly bike, those gnarly skills will carry over to my Niner, and I'll be good-er at riding that to. They look impatient. Maybe they want to rent something. I'll speak to them once I'm finished thinking.

After I'm good at riding the gnarly bike and good-er at riding the hardtail, I'll beat Jeremiah "I'm tough as coffee nails" Bishop and everyone will want to rub my feet.

And that was it. I had spare money from the Race the Pflug won, and the Prophet was cheap, so I bought it. I wish that it was one of these, but it was available and affordable. Now I own an archaic single pivot beef machine.

So far, it's taught me is that large heavy bikes are not good for short-track racing at the slag heaps.

I brought it to one of our little Tuesday night races, and was easily dispatched by Tim Mold, Don Powers, and Aaron. It was worse than racing 'cross on a fixed gear.

Unfortunately, to someone with a brain as beautiful as Don Power's, gears and suspension = a bike faster than a single speed race bike. I've ridden a few miles on a single speed race bike, and I happen to know that this is not the case. But Don Powers doesn't care. He'll yell about the day he beat me at slag track on Tuesday night for the rest of forever.

But the Prophet has proven one theory that I've had for a while, but have never been able to test: squishy bikes are really fun on chunky descents. I'm really enjoying the workout I get from muscling this thing up a hill, and even more enjoying shredding back down. Now that I know I like squishing bikes, if there were some way for me to rustle up a RIP9, and put a Paul Tensioner on it, I think that would be my ideal bike for racing fun at Pisgah.

Wilderness 101 Race Report 2011

2011-08-01T06:51:00.000-07:00

"What's your vegetable today?" Colleen asks. We're sitting in the the middle of a crowded Cracker Barrel. There's a sign for 1% - a Modern Milk on the wall.

"Rice," the waitress says. Some old people are buttering biscuits.

"Rice? Rice is your vegetable?" Colleen says laughing. I put my head down on the wood table. Stop badgering the waitress Colleen. The poor woman doesn't care that rice is a grain.

"Yesm. Rice," she says impatiently.

After we eat, we leave Altoona and finish the drive to Coburn. It's 9:30, so we're some of the last ones into the campground. I pick up my number plate and drive the tiny convertible aimlessly around the packed field looking for the campsite where Don, Aaron, Rob, and Rob's Connecticut friends are set up.

I see a dark figure walking towards the car. "You drove right past us. I was like, what is he doing. Go park over there," Don Powers yells and points.

I swing the tiny convertible onto some grass next to Aaron's Mini Cooper. We grab our tent and bags and follow Don Powers. Everybody is sitting in the dark under an easy-up. I can't make out a single face. There isn't much conversation. I fill my bottles, drop off my drop bags (two bottles, one gel flask, and a cliff bar in each one), and lay down in the tent. The stream and bugs are louder than the 300 people camped in Coburn Park.

I have to piss three times during the night. Damn suggestive stream. I make sure to go next to Aaron's tent.

It's light already. Colleen shakes me. I groan. I hate these early starts. I check my tire and fork pressure. Pull on my riding clothes and head over to the port-a-potties. The line is huge on both sides. I count the people. 15. Dammit. I stand there for almost 20 minutes while people slowly file in to the bathrooms.

It's almost 7. I stand next to Garth Prosser and Matt Ferrari in the big pack. The Land Cruiser pulls away, and the neutral roll out begins. Garth waves to me to follow him up to the front. I look down at his seatpost. He has a little wrinkly guy with an erection zip-tied to it. That's odd.

The Land Cruiser pulls off and the pack turns left across the bridge. The Pflug immediately takes the lead on the climb. Holy shit. He's drilling it already. I jump on his wheel and hang on. We pass all the geared guys and start pulling away from the field. The Pflug is setting the pace at around 18 mph on this steep climb. This is ridiculous.

Four miles later we hit the crest. He hasn't slowed down at all. The gravel road flattens out, and the fast geared guys finally start to come around. The pace ramps up to almost 30. I hang on for a few miles, but then I have to let them go. I can't spin on a flat road like this. It's going to kill me. I drop back to my comfortable 15 mph pace.

The remaining 20 miles to aid station 1 are terrible. I'm by myself almost the entire time, spinning along the gravel roads dejectedly. I can't wait for the climbs to start.

I finally make it to the aid station, grab a couple bottles, and start the second big climb of the day. I'm hoping that I can start catching up to some of the guys that were able to hang in the fast group longer than I could. I hit three bridges, screw up the rock garden, then roll back out onto more gravel.

Through Aid 2. I've only seen a couple other single speeders. I'm not sure what place I'm in now. More gravel and gravel and gravel and gravel. Man I forgot how gravely this race was. They should call this the NUGGET series. National Ultra Gravel Grinding Endurance... but what's the T?

I ride the big climb out of Aid 2. That was long. I start the descent. I pass at least 12 guys that are off to the side of the trail fixing flats. The downhill is sweet. I'm cruising down the bumpy rocks, making a little turn at the bottom, then it's over.

Gravel gravel gravel gravel. The stupid little rocks crunch under my tires. I climb the big hill up to Aid Station 3. That was also long. I grab some gels and bottles from my drop bag. Colleen is under an easy-up tent pouring little cups of Coke and swatting away swarms of wasps. I ask how far ahead the Pflug and Ferrari are. 25 minutes and ten minutes. I have 40 miles to go. Man, it's going to be really hard for me to make up any of that time on all these roads.

I hit a cool section of rocky single track on top of the ridge. It winds around through the trees and over some rocks. I pass people through the rock gardens, then I come up behind a guy that's riding pretty slow. I better get around him before this long downhill starts. There's no place to pass safely unless he lets me.

"Hey man, can I scoot around you?" No response.

"Can I get by?" No response. He's still going really slow.

"Hey, can you let me pass you? We're not even racing. I'm on a single speed and I need to make some time down this hill." No response.

"Dude, can I please get around?"

"What? You want me to stop for you?" he says angrily.

"I want you to move over for a second so that I can pass," you stupid inconsiderate shit (I add the last part in my head.) He doesn't move, and we start the downhill. Now there's no place for him to go. He picks his way down the rocks carefully, I ride his back tire, extremely frustrated, burning my brakes. What a meat head. Why couldn't he have let me go by? I could have ripped down the hill, he could have gone easy, and we both would have been happy.

He finally moves over at the bottom of the hill. I ride 200 feet of trail unimpeded, then I'm back on the gravel. Under the overpass of Aid 4, and up the last big climb of the day. I catch up to another single speeder, and we ride together for a while. National Ultra Gravel Grinder Endurance Tuff Series. Time Trial Series. Trombone Series. I give up.

Down some gravel then on to a bumpy road thing. The road is just steep enough that I'm spun out, but just flat enough that I need to keep pedaling. It's not such a hot piece of trail. Into Aid 5. 12 miles to go.

I ride the a rail trail, climb the last hill, walk most of the silly rock garden on the Fisherman's Trail, then cruise along the other rail trail. Since this is my third 101, I'm entirely prepared for the dark tunnel. I take off my sunglasses. I can almost see through the thing.

I spin the road into Coburn Park and bang the gong. 8:10, 6th single speed. Same place as last year, slightly slower time on the changed course. I feel way too fresh. I walk over to Ferrari and ask him how he did.

"Oh, alright," he says.

"Did you finally beat the Pflug?" I say.

"No, Gerry took it again, how'd you do out there?" he says.

"I didn't blow up, but I went too easy this time. I just can't find that balance," I say.

"You'll have it down in like seven years," he says.

I walk over and lay down in the creek. People start trickling in. First Aaron, then Don Powers, and the Rob. All of the Connecticut guys DNF except for one. It gets dark and Chris Scott is still calling out names as people finish the race. We're sitting under the easy up with some citronella candles.

"At Mohican, this dude hit a chipmunk. It was just laying there on the trial twitching around." Don Powers says, "So I was like, alright, I'm Dahn Pahrs, I'm gonna take em aught. So I do a quick little turn and run it over. Just put it out of it's misery. If I see somebody suffering on the trail, I'm gonna take em aught. Cause I'm Dahn Pahrs. I threw up eight times today."

back in the pyle

2011-07-25T07:43:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm back in Ohiopyle, I've resumed my normal patterns of working, eating free meals at Colleen's house, and being pissed off at the screeching train that rumbles by every 45 minutes:

Colorado's mountains were 75 degrees the whole time I was there, so the "heat bubble," or what ever they're calling it now has not been a nice thing to come back to. It's been so hot that I was forced to remove the rain cover from my home and string up an elevated roof for better cooling:

Ahh. Un-conditioned air.

Lazy picture transition:

The Breck 100 went great. Prompted by Don Powers and Aaron, I switched from my usual 38x20 to a 38x25 before the race. Since I was switching gears, I figured I should get smart about the rest of the race.

Racing smart is a new thing for me. My typical strategy in a hundred miler is to race the first 30 miles like I'm going for the overall win in an XC race, then blow up and spend the next 7 hours crying, walking, and wishing that a bear would rip open my stomach and eat my intestines so that I have an excuse to quit.

But this time things were different. I ate protein bars, oranges, and roast beef. I ran an easy gear. I slept a lot in the days leading up to the race. I drank coffee before the third lap. And it all worked.

I could ride every climb, spin at around 10 mph, never blew up, and I finally beat the Pflug. I finished in 6th and had a lot of juice left. Next time I do that race I'll run a 38x24 and go a little harder.

Despite crying about oxygen deprivation all week, Aaron beat Don Powers. And despite winning every pre-ride, Don Powers exploded and almost didn't finish the race.

Or maybe it's because he won ever pre-ride. As we found out one night at dinner, "Dahn Pahrs ain't never read a book! Dahn Pahrs do what Dahn Pahrs does!" (his words, not mine), so he couldn't be expected to understand how his muscle recovery works.

That's the short story. I'm saving the good stuff for Old Melancholy Mahokey of XXC Mag fame. That article should be out in the next issue.

Tomorrow will be the first hopefully weekly edition of the Pittsburgh ShortTrack-ish. It'll be a weekly thing as long as Aaron and I don't screw something up. I'll put up some more details once we get through the first night.

I also need to do a post this week about my preparations for the Pisgah Stage Race. Be sure to look for that write-up about how I've included more fiber in my diet.

And I know I'm thinking really far ahead now, but the Wilderness 101 is this Saturday.

Chicago

2011-07-20T15:55:00.000-07:00

I left Breckenridge at 9:30 am mountain time on Sunday, and got back to Greensburg at 4:30 eastern time on Monday. That was a 26 hour drive with about two hours of stopping. One hour to eat, one hour to sleep. Sweet.

Rolling through a construction zone in Chicago at 2:00 on Monday morning, I see an unmarked car pull out of its hiding spot. It puts its flashers on. Shit.

I pull off to the side of the road and roll down the back window. The cop taps on the front passenger window.

"Roll it down," he says.

"I can't. It's broken," I yell to the open back window.

"Fine. Then open the door," he says. I open it. "I pulled you over because all those bikes are blocking your licence plate. Where are you coming from?" he says.

"Colorado. Breckenridge."

"Breckenridge huh? Step out of the car and come back here." he says. He shines the light on me. He notices my long, and at this point in the drive, fairly dirty hair. "Medicinal Marijuana is pretty big out there isn't it?" he says. "Do you have a licence for that?" Another unmarked car pulls up on the shoulder.

"No, I don't have a licence for it," I say.

"So are you transporting any back? Did anybody ask you to bring them some back?"

"No, I don't have any."

"Can you certify that you packed everything in that car?"

"Yes."

"Well, this being Chicagoland, we'd like to search it to make sure you aren't transporting any illegal substances."

Fantastic. Unpacking my stuffed car is just what I want to do right now. But if I don't let him search, he's going to give me a ticket for my blocked licence plate.

"Alright, if you really think you need to," I open the trunk. He sifts through some dirt chamois, empty jars of peanut butter, and coffee grounds. He moves around to the front of the car and looks inside the car tire I have on the back seat.

"Why do you have three bikes with you?" the other cop asks, "Are those all your bikes?" he says. First I'm a drug dealer, now I'm a bike thief.

"Yes, they're all mine." I say.

"So you were speeding? That's why he pulled you over?" Cop 2 says. And now I was speeding. Jesus. These guys are really fishing for an offence.

"No, I wasn't speeding." I say.

"So why do you need three bikes? Are those all yours?" Cop 1 asks. Dammit. This is exasperating. They finally let me go, and I pull off the shoulder, carefully obeying the speed limit. I can't wait to get away from Chicago.

Later on I stop in an Indiana gas station. A portly trucker wearing a cowboy hat mistakes me for a fellow trucker.

"Damn company won't pay for my arr conditioning. It's a hundard an eight degrees in the cab," he says.

"It's hot out there. I just came from Nebrasky today. It was a hundard and two degrees outside." I say. I've always wanted to play a trucker.

"I jus came up from Waco, Texas. I'm hauling a load of potatoes. For Taco Bell and Wendy's. Alls freeze dried." he snorts and blows his nose.

2011-07-14T08:06:00.000-07:00

I've gotten way behind on blogging about this Colorado trip. But I'm still out here, sleeping on Dahn Pahr's and Shelmire's hotel room floor:

I dropped Colleen at Denver International on Tuesday, but from Boulder two weeks ago until then we drove to Kremling, Breckenridge, Avon, Eagle, Rabbit Valley, Fruita, the Grand Junction Sears Auto Center, Meeker, Steamboat Springs, and back to Breck to hike a 14er. We stayed with a few friends, and camped the rest of the time.

Don, Aaron and I have been doing rides in Breck to get ready for the Breck 100 on Saturday. I've got a ton of stories from this trip, but I'm probably not going to get to writing them down until the beginning of next week when I get back to Pennsylvania.

We're about to go hike through the snow on the Wheeler Pass stage of the race, so until I can sit down to write something decent, I'll post some pictures:

Boulder

2011-07-01T08:25:00.000-07:00

"Hey, do you have any scissors?"

"I always just use the meat scissors."

"There it is. That's your new nickname. Samuel the Meat Scissors Morrison."

"But I don't like that. Waaa."

"Too late Meat Scissors."

Colleen and I have spent the last three days in the home of Old Meat Scissors Morrison, where only one thing is holy:

Most conversations around here go something like this:
"Dude, I gained a half a pound last from eating at Smashburger night. Now I weigh 134.5."

"Oh man. Fred got the stomach flu and lost eight pounds. He's got his best beach body."

"Yeah. We should congratulate him. Let's look at girls on Facebook and decide if they're skinny or not."

"Sweet. Let me go weigh myself before I drink this cup of water." And so on.

But in between all the weighing, everybody around here does ride a lot. Sam and Deidre took us on a sweet loop outside of Boulder on the second day we were here.

It took me a little bit to get used to all the loose sandy corners again. The trails are all so fun and flowing. We rode for about two hours, then headed back to Boulder.

As I write this, Meat Scissors Morrison is asking his roommate Nate what he weighs this morning.

On Wednesday, Meat Scissors convinced me to do the A race in short track instead of the single speed race. That was a horrible, horrible idea. Almost every guy on the start line was 6'3",150 pounds and hairless, which made me feel like a fat hobbit.

Half of the course was a big flat slab of dirt, so I got dropped immediately. Every lap it got worse and worse. I could keep up in the twisty sections, then we would hit the flat part and everybody would shift up and crush it at about 30mph. Needless to say, I did not win that race. Sam lapped me going about three times the speed I was.

After the race, we went to the bike house where everyone was drinking gin and tonics and discussing the merits of steel cut vs. rolled oats.

On Thursday Colleen and I ran up the mountain outside of town to the top of the Flatirons. Those massive rocks jut out from the hillside, completely separate from the rest of the land. It's one of the coolest things I've ever seen. At the top, it's clear enough to see all of the snow covered mountains to the west. There might be 3 days a year that are that clear in Western PA.

I was so impressed with the place, then on the way down, we were subjected to this conversation that brought me back to reality:

"She wouldn't want me to tell you this, but she's baking at Whole Foods now. She trained in France, and she doesn't feel like what shes doing there is real baking. Now she's just putting icing on frozen cakes. You know they out-source all their pastires?"

"That's terrible," said a guy in a straw fedora. "Yesterday they were grilling corn outside of Whole Foods, you know, just traditional Monsanto corn, and people were like 'Wow this is the greatest thing ever!' and this macho dude was like, 'Hey how long did you grill this?' And it was just regular Monsanto corn! Isn't that ridiculous?"

After the Flatirons hike, I started thinking about how much hiking I'm going to be doing at the Breck 100 later this month. Then I started thinking about how ill-fitting and falling apart my riding shoes. After much thought about all those things, I decided it was finally time to retire the old denim reinforced cruisers and buy some classy new brown riding shoes:

At the store, the sales person asked me if I was looking at men's shoes.

"Well I don't usually wear ladies shoes." I said.

"What? Ladies?" he said.

"Ladies shoes? I don't wear ladies shoes. Oh forget it." I said dismissively. I couldn't understand why he was too dumb to understand my simple joke.

But as Colleen informed me after we left the shop, the conversation actually went like this:

"Are you looking for mountain shoes?"

"Well, I don't usually wear ladies shoes."

I think it's time to leave Boulder.

Colleen and I are heading out to Breck today. I'm pretty pumped to start doing some rides in the big mountains.

Lake Hope to Boulder

2011-06-30T09:14:00.000-07:00

We're rolling. Through the Hocking Hills, which is the prettiest part of Ohio I've been in.

But after a few miles, it starts to flatten out and the 1300 miles of lame mid-west begins.

Then we hit 70 and start really moving west. I make it through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and most of the way into Missouri. It's 2am by the time we hit St. Louis, and we've been up since 6. With the 30 miles of racing earlier on, it's been a big day. Just outside of St. Louis we can see lightning. It doesn't look theres anyway we're going to miss that.

Then it hits. Wind blows the tiny convertible all over the road. The lightning cracks and spreads out like a big electric spider. I'm terrified. We're so exposed to the storm out here on the plains. Colleen comforts me by falling asleep.

After another hour, I need to stop for gas. I run into the station through the rain to see if they've heard a forecast. But their satellite has been knocked out. I run back out to the tiny convertible and drive away.

There's a clunk and a scraping noise. I jump out and look behind the car. I drove away with the pump still attached to my gas tank. It's dragging along behind the convertible like a little rubber tail. Whoops. First time thats happened. I run the pump and hose back to the gas station and speed away.

I've been driving for ten hours, and the storm isn't making progress easy. I finally decide to pull off at an abandoned Conoco station. I curl up in a ball in my seat and fall asleep.

Three hours later it's still storming. I crank over the engine and head back out onto 70. 150 miles till Kansas city.

We hit the city and the sky clears. I'm so glad. We stop to eat breakfast in the parking lot of a Holiday in just over the Kansas line. Colleen decides to drive for a while, even though shes never driven a stick shift. I give her a little coaching, and we're off. 420 miles until the Colorado line.

Unlike last year, Kansas is actually pleasant this time. It's only about 85, there's no engine burning my leg, and the tiny convertible gets great air flow. I fall asleep for a little while Colleen drives.

We hit a toll booth and she stalls the engine. Then stalls it again. And again. And again. "Clutch, clutch! Put the clutch in!" I yell. The man in the booth is shaking his fist at us and people behind are honking. She gets it started and pulls through. All good.

We stop at Hays, "Oasis on the Plains," and I drop a Quiznos sandwich on the ground. Dammit. But Kansas is almost behind us.

We cross the big open part of Colorado, then we can see mountains in the distance.

Another few hours, and we're in Boulder. We meet Sam, Deidre, and Anne at the new Valmont Bike Park, and Deidre crushes me by 5 seconds on the 30 second Duel Slalom course. It's sweet to finally be here.

Lake Hope '11

2011-06-29T07:57:00.000-07:00

I clock out of work early on Saturday to spend a few hours working on my bike. I clean everything, repack some bearings, and eliminate all the creaks.

"If I can just get through Ohio without it being muddy, I won't have to clean my bike for the rest of the month." I say to my co-worker Wild Willie Davis.

Colleen and I finish cramming everything into the tiny convertible, then start the drive down to Lake Hope State Park south-eastern Ohio. When we get to the park at 10pm, we park by the lake, set up our hammocks, and go to sleep.

I wake up at 3:00am. There's something rustling around next to my hammock. I put my glasses on and look into the dark woods. Can't see anything. I smack my hatchet against the ground to make some noise. There's some gobbling and stupid sounding shuffling through the leaves. Turkeys. I go back to sleep.

When the sun comes up we check out our surroundings. There are a bunch of targets. We were sleeping in the archery range. We pack up our stuff and scoot out of there before somebody sticks us with an arrow.

We make coffee and check out the little lake. It looks like it would be a nice place for a lame family vacation.

After a few minutes there's some stomping down the stairs of the pavilion behind us. A guy in a hat grumbles good morning and opens up the boat rental shop. He spends his days selling Lady Buck's Special Sauce, but flies the Jolly Roger on his counter to show that he will give no quarter to children who want a Hot Diggity Dog without the Special Sauce:

We drive over to the registration area for the race, and it starts to rain. Shit. Then it rains harder. By 12, it's dumping. The trails are going to be a mess.

We stand on the start line. I don't want to do this.

"Go!" We sprint up a gravel hill then down a road. Dirty spray is shooting up into my eyes. I can't see. We turn into the trail. It's really sloppy. I pass Brad and a few other guys and start churning through the mud. This is going to be a long race.

I finish the first 15 mile lap. Derek Bissett is right behind me. He passes me on the drier sections of trial, and I pass him when it gets really muddy and disgusting. I'm not feeling great. I squeeze my back brake. Nothing. Great. Now I'm going to have to find pads when I get to Colorado. I should have just kept driving. We would be through Indiana by now.

Two miles from the finish I crack. I can't even pedal up the hills now. I start walking through the mud. This sucks. I cross the finish line. My bike is destroyed and I feel like crap.

I go stand in the shower. The water is just a hot little trickle. I almost have to stand against the wall to get under it. I hate Ohio. It's evil land. Every bit of it.

The rain stops. It would stop now. Brad drives away with his windows up. Some screaming and thrashy guitars leak out of his Subaru.

"Long drive back to Pittsburgh?" somebody asks.

"No, long drive to Boulder." I say. We pack up the tiny convertible again.

the big trip west in the tiny gay convertible

2011-06-24T19:18:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't really mentioned this on here, nor have I planned it very well, but Colleen and I are driving to Colorado tomorrow.

Our route is gonna look something like this:

We'll leave tomorrow night and head down to Zaleski, Ohio. I'll be hitting the dual West Virgina/ Ohio Series race Sunday morning, and hopefully I'll race fast enough to win enough money for gas. After the race, we're burning across the Mid-West as fast as the little gay convertible can carry us. I predict that I'll make it to Kansas City before I have to take a nap, and then it'll be so hot and sweaty that my legs will fuse to the leather seats.

Once we leave the Plains of Corn and Firey Misery, we'll stop in the land of pretentious-medicinal-weed-smoking-super-rich-hippies: "We're independent thinkers. It's true that we're sometimes called the "People's Republic of Boulder." The University of Colorado was founded early in Boulder's history, in 1877, and along with it came the free-thinking ways of a college town that was once touted as the "Athens of the West." The Naropa Institute, founded by Tibetan Buddhist Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, added an even more progressive element to the educational makeup of Boulder when it opened its doors in 1974. As one of the most highly educated cities in the nation, we value a diversity of perspectives — something you'll probably notice right off the bat."

Since they value a diversity of perspectives, I think I'll find some motor oil and tires to burn. The most educated city in the nation will surely understand that I need billowing black smoke in the same way they need fake meat and organic burritos.

Ah, delicious Appalachian hell-fire. It warms my soul. (picture taken half an hour south of Ohiopyle.)

Anyway, Sam claims to have a comfy futon, so we'll spend a few days in Boulder (I actually do really like it there.) But I do plan to sharpie snarky things on every "Native" bumper sticker I see.

After defacing property, my long hair and sandals will allow me to blend in with the not-actually-native population.

Once we leave Boulder, the trip details are a little fuzzy. I know we're going to Breck for the 4th of July, I know I'm dropping Colleen off at the airport on the 12th, and I know that I'm doing the Breck 100 on the 16th. In between, I'm not so sure.

Fruita, Crested Butte, and Moab are all possibilities. I might head down to Fort Collins to hang out with the Niner folks. Once Don Powers and Professor Shelmire arrive in Breck, I'll probably walk up a mountain with them. Then Don Powers will vomit everywhere.

Since I'm not going to pay to stay anywhere, and bread and peanut butter is cheap, I'm pretty free to go wherever.

And that's it. I'm going to race my bike a bunch, hang out with some cool people (not counting Sam or Don Powers. Aaron is only cool because he wears capris), and see some super beautiful country. I'm pumped. I'll be putting up words and pictures on here whenever I can find the internet.

(Since I need to be blogging more about it, I'm considering this trip part of my very loosely organized preparations for the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race.)

Big Bear 2X12 Race Report '11

2011-06-16T05:06:00.000-07:00

The Pflug meets me in Ohiopyle at 8:00 on Saturday morning.

"Alright man. I'll follow you down there. It's fine if you need to open it up a little," he says.

I'm not going to waste an invitation like that from an officer of the law. We rip out of the parking lot in front of a line of cars that are stopped at the railroad crossing gate. Up 381 and out Dinner Bell Road. I stop for gas at the top of the mountain on Rt. 40.

I forget for the 57th time that the gas tank of the tiny gay convertible is on the passenger side. I've already put my card in, so I have to swing around. As soon as I pull away from the pump a guy in a Chevy Lumina shoots into the space. I have to walk over and tell him to move. There's a Charlie Daniels looking guy in a big golf cart thing waiting in front of my pump.

"That idiot thought he was cutting me off. Do I have 'cut me off written on my face?' A guy in a big Dodge tried to do that to me once. I told him 'you back that truck up before we have a problem buddy.' What an asshole. Where you guys goin with them bikes?" he says.

Maybe the 'cut me off' is written on the golf cart you're driving on the road.

"We're going Big Bear. There's a duo team race today. Three 12 mile laps a piece," I say

"Oh yeah? Big Bear. That's a nice place," he says.

We pull into the airfield at the far end of the Big Bear campground. Tim de la Garcon and Rob Spreng have a little pop-up tent set up next to the showers. We park next to them.

Sam and Deidre ride over. They're back from the western lands of boca burgers, medicinal marijuana, pretension, and big mountains for a few days.

Sam and I ride down the gravel hill to the start. "So I got this super comfy futon. I haven't slept on it, but I've sat on it. It's all soft and stuff. I hate bike racing. I'm doing Breck Epic this year. Bikes suck," he says.

We line up. I look around. The teams we're going to have to watch for are probably Morgan Miller and Benji, and Marc Glass and the Dread Pirate Roberts.

"Alright, I'm gonna give you a ten count. 10. 5." The promoter revs the throttle of his quad. "3,2,1." He guns it and motors up the hill. We clip in and go. Everybody is going hard for the hole shot. After this road, it's single track for the next 12 miles. Not good to get caught in the back.

This is killing me. I'm in the top five, but this gravel climb is way too long for a flat out sprint. But we're still sprinting. I see the top of the hill. Almost there. Keep drilling it. We crest the hill and turn left into the woods.

Everybody slows down for a few seconds to get tuned into the rocks. Then we're moving at full speed again. I'm getting dropped on the flat sections by geared guys. I can usually keep up in the woods. I guess a $1200 prize check is a powerful motivator.

I get behind Sam and follow him up the first little rocky climb. He loses traction and hops off his bike.

"Look at you Colorado boy. Can't ride rocks anymore?" I yell to him.

"Stupid bikes. Bikes are stupid. Stupid bike racing," he says. He gets back on his bike and rides away from me.

We cruise through the flowing section in the pine trees, then start the long downhill. I get of the saddle, bend my arms, and let go of the brakes. I'm bouncing and skipping over the loose rocks. I couldn't be going any faster.

I shake my hands out at the bottom of the hill and climb up the other side. I pass Sam as he's fiddling with his derailleur. A few more rock gardens to go. My back wheel locks up and skids in the dirt. I look back. There's a log jammed into the rear triangle of my bike. Really? I try to yank the thing out, but it's the same length as my rear wheel. This is ridiculous. I finally yank it free and get moving again.

One more twisty trail to the transition area. There's a tall bridge over the road. I hammer up it, carefully make the turn at the top, and ride down the other side. I hand the baton off to the Pflug, and head back to the tent.

That lap was a 1:04. That made me the 6th rider in, and the first single speeder by two minutes. That'll do. Colleen should be here to rub my feet and feed me grapes soon. I call her. "Where you at ho?" I say

"I don't know. On 26," she says. Crap. She's lost again. I give her directions, then go sit down on Rob's tool box. I lend Sam a wrench so he can to fix his unbreakable titanium derailleur hanger. We talk about how hard the lap was for a few minutes, then it's time to go again.

"This is always the shortest hour, then out there it's the longest hour." Rob says. I head over to the transition area. Pflug rolls in and hands me the baton.

"Ride smart." he instructs. Sure thing Pflugger. I roll back out into the rocks at a good pace. I'm gonna try to make this a smart lap. We have a nice lead at this point. I'm alone for most of the lap. Back through the rock gardens, around the pines, and to the start of the downhill. I'm feeling good. I boost off a little rock as I'm ripping down the hill. Thunk. Shit. That's a bad noise.

I know I hit my rim on that landing. I hear a little hiss. Oh crap. It's going flat. I stop before the steep part of the hill and hit it with a CO2. It just makes the air come out faster. I squirt my water bottle on the tire to find the leak and shake it to try to get the Stan's to seal. A little puff of water squirts out the side. Sidewall tear. That's never going to seal.

I ride down the hill anyway, hoping that it will. It doesn't. I pull off into the woods to put a tube in. Our lead is shrinking fast. Marc Glass rides by. Now we're in second. I use my last CO2 to fill the tube. I stand up and sprint down the trail. Crack! My wheel skids to a stop. The tube blew out. Now I'm in trouble. No C02 left, no tubes left. I start begging for stuff from passing riders.

A girl stops and gives me a tube and CO2. I'm extremely grateful. Morgan Miller passes me. Now we're in third. Dammit. I fumble with the tube and CO2. Finally I get it in and start rolling again. I pedal as hard as I can. I've gotta make that time up. The Pflug is waiting for me at the finish line with his gun. I'm too young to be shot.

I catch Morgan before the end of the lap, but I can't get Marc. I give the Pflug the baton and head back to the tent. Colleen is finally here, but there's no time for foot rubs and fruits now.

I've gotta fix this stupid bike. I grab my spare set of I9s from the car and start to air them up. The back tire hisses. Shit. My spare wheels have a ripped sidewall.

I enlist Sam's help and we swap my spare rear Mountain King to the front, and my primary rear Race King to the rear. Beads pop on, tires air up, and I put the wheels on my bike. Now I can try to eat something real quick. Colleen grabs me a peanut butter sandwich and I sit down on the toolbox. I look at my watch. I need to be back over to the tent in 10 minutes.

The Pflug rolls across the bridge before the Dread Pirate Roberts. Nice. He made up a bunch of time. I take the baton and head out.

The whistling starts immediately. A loud, high pitched whine that gets louder as I go faster. I didn't adjust my brakes. Both of my rotors are rubbing bad. Dammit. My bike feels like it's barely moving.

I look back in the pine section and see Marc Glass. I'm going as hard as I can, and he's still catching up. He passes me. How the hell is this guy going so fast?

I hang with Marc as long as I'm able, but he drops me a mile or two before the transition area. I roll into the finish and hand the baton off to a very un-happy looking Pflug. I feel like I'm going to die. I've never pushed that hard on a lap and gone so slow. I check the time sheet. 1:08. Four minutes slower than my first lap.

I walk over to the tent and sit down with Colleen. I'm registered for the Stoopid 50 tomorrow. There's no way in hell I feel like doing that. I close my eyes.

"Was the Pflug super pissed with my flatting?" I ask Colleen.

"No, but he told me about this time a dog tried to bite him. He cracked it in the head with a nightstick. Now dogs don't bite him anymore," she says. Oh boy. That's how he treats things that make him angry. I really hope we don't lose. I better keep my helmet on just in case.

We walk back over to the big tent. Man I hope the Pflugger was able to catch up again. We see a silver kit in the distance. The Pflug rolls up the ramp. Victory! I get to live to race another day.

In celebration, I pull on my Canadian tuxedo. The Pflug hikes up his shorts, tucks in his t-shirt, tightens his belt, and puts on a plaid hat that looks like a cross between a radar cap and a beret. He looks like a white Urkle. We're given enormous mugs and checks for $600.00. That was a solid day's work. I'm not going to Stoopid 50. I go fill up my victory mug.

Mohican 100 Race Report 2011: Part 2

2011-06-09T06:13:00.000-07:00

I tuck in behind Ernesto and let him pull me across the rolling farm roads. We hit a steep gravel climb. The wind is blowing and the sun is roasting us. My vision goes blurry. Ernesto tries to give me a little push up the hill, but only succeeds in pushing me off to the right. I dizzily reach the crest and keep pedaling. Ernesto and the other guy ride away and leave me by myself on the road.

I pass a little barn, which triggers a memory of last year's race, which triggers a memory of the song that was stuck in my head last year. Crap. Now I have to ride 50 miles with Lady Gaga.

I turn into the single track at Mohican Wilderness and start slowly up a climb. JPok mashes past me. Snap! I use my mind power to break his chain again. Take that caveman. I re-pass him.

At Aid 3 I grab some oranges and start the steep single track climb back to the top of the ridge. It's a long walk to the top. Back down some gravel on the other side.

A train of geared guys chug past me. I speed up to try to catch the back of the pack. Riders zoom past. I put my head down, when I lift it I see the caboose. Ferrari. Damn. Spin a little faster. Come on, catch that line.

My legs shut down. I'm done. I watch him ride away with the line of geared guys. And I've blown up. These next 40 miles are not going to be happy.

I cross a hi-way by myself and start the rail trail of despair. 12 miles to go on this thing. My tires crunch on the crushed limestone. Lady Gaga invades my brain. Rah rah ah ah ah, roma roma ma, gaga oh la la. 11 miles to go. Fuck me.

A horse and buggy comes trotting towards me. The Amish guy and I nod to show respect for each other's chin beards. 10 miles.

A line of guys roll past me. "Pick it up! Jpok is right behind you!" they say. I grunt. 8 miles. I lose one more single speed place.

5 miles. This is awful. 2 miles. My ass hurts.

I pass a guy with a camera. "How far?" I say.

"1 mile." he says. 200 yards later I roll onto pavement. That guy was a terrible judge of distance. I hit aid station 4 and eat melons. 28 miles to go in this race. I've got it. I start to climb away from the aid station. Nope. Don't have it. I jump off my bike and walk.

More road. I forgot how much road was in this race. I start walking up another steep fire road. Brad the Birdman of Charleston and Jpok are right behind me. Brad catches up to me spinning his little gear and dismounts.

"I'm not in a good place right now." he says. We walk together and Jpok rides past. Snap! I break his chain a third time. We hike away from him. Brad remembers that he's riding a geared bike and remounts. He spins away and I'm lonely again.

I zone out and pedal slowly. I'm not racing at this point. Rob passes me with 10 miles to go.

"Took me 15 more miles to get you this year!" he says cheerfully. I give him an evil squint and stare at his drivetrain. Break chain. Break. Break. Nope. Apparently that only works on Jpok. That's all I've got. I let him ride away.

I ride the last few miles of road, then back onto the single track. I roll back into the campground and under the big inflatable Kenda arch. I'm so glad that's over. Somebody hands me a pint glass.

I stumble off my bike. My lungs start to lock up and I can't take more than a short breath without coughing. I walk back down to the cabin.

Don Powers is sitting at the picnic table, and Brad the Birdman is laying on a towel under a scraggly tree. I ask Powers how he got back so fast.

"I was throwing up the entire time. I rode back after aid station three. It was just a constant stream of vomit. That's Dahn Pahrs doing what Dahn..." he says.

"Shit mother fucker!" Bird the Birdman interrupts him. He rolls over and sits upright. He's covered in spots of white bird poop. A cute little blue jay chirps happily in the tree above him. I can only get a few laughs out before I start coughing.

After laying in the grass for a while I walk up the hill to take a shower. I can only stand under the water for a couple minutes before I have to sit down and rest. My ass is on fire from the chaffing. It feels like I sat in a tub of salty brake cleaner.

I lay down under the tree again and hope I don't get pooped on. Bird dropings fall in the grass around me. Aaron and Rob make their way down to cabin. We all agree that it would be a good idea to get ice cream and race go-carts.

At the go-cart track, a stern warning is playing on loop. "There will be no bumping no racing and no hitting the sidewalls. A go-cart is not a bumper car. No fun is allowed. There will be no bumping no racing..." We get into our little black cars and buzz out onto the oval track. By the second time around the course, everybody has already lapped Aaron.

I get behind Brad and wait until we hit the corner. I keep my foot to the floor and nail the back left side of his car to try to spin him out. It doesn't work. Don Powers slams into the back my car and my head snaps forward. I take the inside of the corner to get away from him. We rip past Aaron again when he slows down to apply his lipstick.

Back at Cozy Cabin #9 Four Lokos are retrieved from the cooler. I attempt to seduce the older ladies with my flowing hair and exposed nipples:

Photos courtesy of the Birdman of Charleston.

Don Powers dances with his tribal-belly-button-fringe and crotch shirt over Brad's face:

By the end of the night, despite the signs, I can't resist the urge to take my pet park bench to the bathroom with me:

Mohican 100 Race Report 2011: Part 1

2011-06-07T07:25:00.000-07:00

Rob, Don, Aaron and I check into Cozy Cabin #9 at Mohican Adventures on Friday afternoon. Brad the Birdman of Charleston is scheduled to arrive later. The cabin is a little A-frame with three beds on the lower level, and two mattresses smashed together on a loft in the peak of the roof. I walk into the cabin last. All the real beds are taken, so I'm forced to share the upper love nest with the Birdman.

After placing my sleeping bag in the Nest, I walk out onto our porch with a pizza sub that I bought from the Duchess Convenience Mart. I gaze across the algae-puddle in front of the cabin. A rusty pipe that's supposed to be a fountain spurts sadly in the middle of the pond. There's a port-potty behind the cabin. This is a good spot. I take a bite of pepperoni and bread. We change into riding clothes and head out to do a quick 12 mile warm up.

We follow Rob on the way up the first switchbacks. The trails are perfect. They're dry, fast, and smooth. Last year at this time we were riding through the rain, wondering how muddy it would be on race day (the answer was very.) At the six mile mark we turn around and ride back. I get out front.

I hear yelling from behind me. "Dahn Pahers! Pahrs Pahrs Pahrs!" (like a pikachu, Don Powers can only communicate by shouting his own name.) Aaron rolls up next to Don to translate. "You took the wrong turn. We didn't go this way," he says.

"What are you talking about?" I say.

"This is wrong," Aaron says.

"Dahn Pahrs!" Don Powers says.

I'm confused by all the yelling, but I keep heading down the trail. It turns out to be the right way. As I'm feeling smug and directionally gifted, I rip around a tight corner. Without warning, both my tires let go. My bike slides into the woods and I skid down the trail on my right hip. I roll over and groan. I ripped a hole in my shorts. I pick my stuff up and start riding again.

Down the last hill. I'm going way too fast again. I duck around a low hanging branch, make a quick right, and bam. I'm detached from my bike, flying forward over the bars. "Fuck me!" I yell from the sky. I hit the dirt in a heap and tumble into the woods. I look back up the trail at the little stump that's hanging out. I slammed into it with a pedal. Rob looks down at me rolling around in the leaves, "Well, I don't think we'll have to worry about Montana tomorrow," he says.

My elbow skin is scraped. I pick up my bike and spin the front wheel. It's way bent. Dammit. The other three go check out the new trail to the finish line. I ride back to the cabin and start turning spokes to get my wheel back in line. That was so stupid. I have to ride a hundred miles on this wheel tomorrow morning, and I just crashed the shit out of it.

Brad the Birdman pulls his wife's Subaru into the gravel. A few minutes later Tim De La Garcon dismounts his carbon super bike and swaggers up to the cabin. Now everybody is here.

"Lets go find some good meats," I say. Hungry for a t-bone, De La Garcon agrees.

"There's a good tavern in town, but I can't remember its name," he says.

We drive to Loudenville and walk the two-block-long main drag.

"Is that the one Tim? The Mohican Tavern? You couldn't remember Mohican? You know, that Native American sounding word, the one that might have something to do with that race we're doing tomorrow?" the Birdman says. Tim pushes him and scampers out into the road in front of a pick-up truck.

The tavern is dimly lit and taverney. I order a blue cheese burger twice, from two separate waitresses, but am only brought one burger. I am glad. We discuss long bike races. Tim leaves the table to talk to some girl. We leave him at the bar with her and walk down to the gas station. Four Lokos are purchased.

Phones start buzzing and ringing and singing at 5:30 in the morning. I roll over on the plastic mattress.

"I didn't sleep at all," Don Powers groans. I'm stunned that he can speak without shouting his name. The others agree to general discomfort over the night. I slept better than I had in weeks. While the crappy mattresses were crappy to all those house folk, they were a few steps up from my thermarest in Ohiopyle. That's a win for tent dwellers.

The start is at 8:00 am in Loudenville. Everybody heads out at 7:35, but I'm not even close to ready to go. By the time I re-set my front brake, make a peanut butter sandwich, check my tire pressure, grab my food, and use the port-a-potty (not the one behind our cabin, some asshole pooped on the seat of that one,) it's 7:50. I sprint into town and sneak into the front line on the sidewalk. There's a $200 prize for reaching the city limits again this year. I stupidly think I have a chance at it.

The siren blasts. We start spinning. I take the lead, but slow down a little. I don't want to blow up. The preme is at the top of a huge hill. Still going to fast. We hit the hill, and the geared riders start whizzing by. No chance at it. I slow down, but it's too late. I already dug a little hole for myself by sprinting. JPok, Matt Ferrari, The Pflug, and Little Dylan Johnson pass me as we turn onto a gravel road. The air is thick with the fragrance of cow dung.

We dive into the first single track. I make some quick passes. The Pflug is only a few places ahead. That's perfect. My plan is to stay with him until I detonate. Hopefully there won't be too many miles left when I blow and I'll be able to score a decent finish.

We ride into the Mohican State Forest loop and I jump right onto the Pflug's wheel. He's holding a nice steady pace. Nothing too serious, but we're still passing a groups of geared guys. There's almost no traffic up here. It's great.

20 miles of beautiful flowing trails and little dust plumes. We roll through the first aid without stopping. I haven't seen the Pflug drink water yet. I look behind me. Little Dylan is sticking on my wheel like a leech on flypaper.

We leave the state forest and hike up a loose rocky climb. "So are just JPok and Ferrari ahead of us?" I ask the Pflug.

"Just JPok. Ferrari flatted," he says.

I see JPok in his yellow argyle jersey at the top of the hill. We ride through some pine trees and onto a gravel road. I look behind. Little Dylan is falling off as we pull down the road. In a few minutes we catch up to the group with JPok, Ernesto, and some other dudes. Guys start making little attacks to get into the Aid Station 2 first.

The Pflug rides in first, grabs a bottle, and sneaks away from JPok and I. I'm the last of the three to leave. As soon as I have JPok in sight I hear a snap. He jumps off his bike and starts working on his chain. I pass him and duck behind Ernesto as we pull across a long windy section of road.

Meanwhile, somewhere behind me, Don Powers is heaving like a wounded rhinoceros and spraying the vegetation with a lethal stream of Dr. Peppery vomit.

To be continued tomorrow. (Bumper cars included)

a blogging win

2011-06-02T06:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I loaded my rig up with some boxes for Ohiopyle Prints:

I put the hammer to the floor and made the long haul all the way over to the other end of town.

I could get into this big truck driving thing.

In other news, the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race Blog Competition has been won! Thanks to all the fine folks that voted, asked other people to vote, and put up with my incessant begging, I'll be racing in Pisgah this September.

It came right down to the last few hours of the competition, but my network of friends were more votey than Dicky's. I was really surprised how many votes it took to get a spot. In the end it was 759 for Cory, and 705 for me. I think we only had about 300 votes a piece in the Breck Epic Blogger's grant competition last year.

In any case, 2,800 people voted, and a few thousand more probably heard about it. So we did our job about getting the word out about the race. I'll be posting pre-race preparations and all that fun stuff in the coming months.

So again, thanks. You people done me real happy.

We're leaving for the Mohican 100 tomorrow. It looks like the weather is going to be good this year, so I'll probably be able to avoid getting horrible stomach cramps and fevers from farm run off. I'll have a race report up on Monday. Now I've gotta go finish prepping my sweet sickle.

a final announcement concerning the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race Blog Competition

2011-05-31T06:08:00.000-07:00

The blog contest for a free entry to the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race ends tomorrow. I'm currently in third place. This is not good. Only the top two bloggers get to race.

Until a few days ago, I was sitting comfortably in 2nd. Then Team Dickface pulled the old man card. He claimed that since he was old, he was at a severe disadvantage in a facebook-based-contest.

He failed to mention that while he has 786 face friends, I only have 580. I am at a 206 person face disadvantage. Pitty me and not him dammit.

Even now, while I sit inside a house for the first time in a week, making my sad grouper face at my small computer,

Dicky is doing his first stage race of the year and being pleasured by dirty hippies from Ohio:

A vote for Dicky is a vote for devious looking bald men and crusty dread lock nuzzling.

A vote for Cory Rimmer is a vote for Cory Rimmer's blog.

A vote for me is a vote for pitbulls driving boxes:

You decide.

I take that back. Don't decide. Just vote for me. Right here.

I'm only 45 votes down. A comeback can be made, but the contest is over tomorrow. Vote now! And if you have means of broadcasting pleas for votes through facebook or a blog, broadcast away! It's crunch time.

the big mountain fail

2011-05-31T05:14:00.000-07:00

It's been hot, humid, and crowded in Ohiopyle for the last three days. People have been yelling for directions to the bathroom, asking how much this is and how much that is, and the little boys on Harley's have been ripping the throttles on their clattery engines. Colleen and I needed to escape other people's vacations for a night.

Since the top of Laurel Mountain is always cool and wonderful, I figured we could just drive up there and camp. It was such a nice night that we wouldn't even need a tent. I planned on riding for a few hours in the morning.

We got to the mountain top and set our thermarests outside the tiny convertible. The temperature was perfect. Then the first buzz. Slap. I smacked a mosquito against the side of my head. Then more came.

I got tired of hitting myself in the head, so I wrapped my jean jacket around my face. The bugs found a way under the jacket. Now I couldn't breathe because my mouth was clogged with denim, and I was still getting bit. After a couple hours we couldn't take anymore buzzing and bitting, so we retreated to the car.

There were mosquitoes in the car.

In the morning the bugs were just as bad. There was no way Colleen could sit around while I rode, so we headed back down the mountain and washed all the just-slept-in-a-car grime off in a stream:

Then we walked down and checked out the water slides:

The DCNR recently smoothed and expanded the trail back to the slides to make it easier for people to deposit their ice tea jugs and dirty ankle socks:

After some extreme gibbon impersonations, we pointed the tiny convertible south again.

We drove up another mountain and ate breakfast at Roaring Run. The bugs were not as ferocious as on Laurel, but they were still too bad for Colleen to sit around while I rode. But I did take advantage of the rare opportunity to use a well-lit-bathroom at Hidden Valley:

I followed some extremely slow driving tourists back into Ohiopyle. Then a wild Grizz appeared:

And disappeared:

Exhausted from the Grizz sighting and the 95 degree heat, I set up my hammock and took a three hour nap.

Once it cooled off, I finally got to ride for a couple hours. I rode in State Game Lands 51, which boarders the state park. It looks like I could link up a single track ride from Ohiopyle, into the game lands, and down White Tail Trail all the way to Quebec Run. That would be very cool.

And I have a final public service announcement about the Pisgah Blog Contest (which ends on Wednesday, and which I am currently losing), but I'll put that in a separate post.

Greenbriar Challenge Marathon 2011 Race Report

2011-05-24T07:55:00.000-07:00

I met Jake and Tim on Saturday to head East to Greenbriar State Park in Maryland. It was a ride filled with loud techno, nasty conversations, and bad attempts at drifting a Honda Fit. I don't think I can ever go back to the Denny's in Breezewood. I feel dumber as a result of that car ride. We'll leave it at that.

Jake's friend let us stay in his house, so we had nice couches to sleep on. He wasn't home, and the house was empty except for a fat cat. I scratched cat's tummy. It was swell.

I wake up in the middle of the night and pull some jeans up to my knees. The bottoms of my legs are cold.

A few hours later we make breakfast and drive to the race. The parking lot is already starting to fill up at 8:30. I register, say "what's crackin home dizzle?" to some people, and hit the lavatories a bunch. Then it's time to line up.

I stand on the front line across from Jeff Schalk and Chris Beck. The marathon race is 3.5 hours plus a lap. Laps are a hair over five miles long. There's no way I can try to take an early lead in this race. Schalk and Beck will crush me as soon as I get a little tired. I'll just try to follow them.

Ryan Post gives us a ten-second warning. He's wearing a very official USAC polo shirt and is doing a very good job of acting like a grumpy official person. "Go." he says without much enthusiasm.

We ride up through the field and I settle in behind Beck. This is way slower than I'm used to starting. Up the first little climb it feels like we're just cruising. Down a fast descent with some water bars to jump, then into the technical rock garden.

Schalk and Beck are chatting to each other about spouses, the Translvania Epic, mowing the lawn, and the best way to scrub a sauce pan. I'm really surprised they aren't going faster. I look behind me. Nobody is in sight. I guess this is as fast as they need to go. I'll just stay back here so that I don't look like a threat.

We hit the big climb. I have to work pretty hard to keep turning over my gear. The fast guys are just sitting in the saddle and spinning up the hill. We rip down another fast descent then start a shorter technical climb. Schalk and Beck pull away from me as I'm trying to pick my way through the rocks. Perfect. Now I look less threatening than a pekingese in a rain coat.

There's one more descent with tight turns, mud, and slippery rocks. I ride back out into the field and down around the start finish area. Schalk and Beck are just a few seconds ahead, but I really have no business trying to chase them this early in the race. I'm going to wear down and crack at some point, they aren't.

I try to conserve some energy. At least I know the course now. Short climb, water-bar descent, rock garden, long climb, ripping descent, rock garden climb, mud. I start running into lap traffic from the Cat 3 races.

Back through to start lap three. I rip the first descent and the rock garden then start the long climb. There's a Team CF kit up there. Surely that isn't Beck. I stand and grind up the hill and pass the guy. CF kit, riding a Specialized, lanky dude wearing a helmet. Was that Beck? Maybe he got a flat.

Two more laps. I roll around to start lap five. Tim is yelling, "Beck flatted! He's in the pit right now!" So that wasn't him on the third lap. But now he actually does have a flat. Wild. I roll past the pit, and there he is. I start the first climb. Wonder how long it'll take him to catch me.

It takes half a lap. He rolls up behind me on the long climb. I feel pretty good, but I don't think I can stay ahead for two or three more laps. I introduce myself and try to look like I know what I'm doing on a bike.

We ride together for two laps, then I bobble on the rock garden on lap seven. Beck goes around and rides away. It's getting close to the 1:00 cut off time, and I'm really starting to hurt on the big climb. Pushing a single speed up that thing seven times is definitely taking it's toll. I so hope that I miss the cut off. I don't want to do an eighth lap.

I keep checking my watch. 12:56. 1 km till the finish. Hell. I'm going to make the cut off. 12:58. 100 feet to the finish. I have to go back out. Shit.

I'm really cracked at this point. I grind up the first climb, and have to hike the big hill. With 2km left in the lap, a guy in a yellow jersey comes ripping around me. I don't have the gas left to chase him. Damn. There goes third.

I finally roll across the line. 4th place out of 43 guys on geared bikes. I'm happy with that.

I looked at the lap times after the race, and I got slower by one minute every lap. 26, 27, 28, and so on all the way to 33 minutes for my 8th lap. The Mighty Schalk on the other hand was like a windup clock with a lubrication problem, his laps were never more than 30 seconds apart. He was all 26's. I assume Beck would have been the same without the flat. It was really cool to be able to ride with those guys, but I think I'm going to have to try to find a geared squishy bike so that I can actually race them.

9 Hours of Cranky Monkey 2011 Race Report - Attack of the Crusty Seamen

2011-05-17T09:03:00.000-07:00

After disappointingly small spinach bowl at Bob Evan's in Lavale, Maryland Don Powers and I drove the Hatchback Miatta into the Rocky Gap State Park. We registered our duo-team, "XXC Mag Presents the Crusty Seamen" (it's only funny because we're not sailors,) and set up camp.

I was too lazy to pack my tent, but since we were going to a mountain bike race I assumed there would be trees by the camping area. I brought my hammock and a tarp and left my tent in Ohiopyle.

Then we walked over to the camping area. There were no trees. I watched in dismay as the rest of the Pittsburgh/Morgantown crew set up their sponsor emblazoned homes for the weekend.

The TOP tent:

The double wide Dynamic PT tent:

The Pro bikes tent:

And finally, the Wilderness Voyageurs tent:

I accessed all my other options, but in the end it looked like my only choice was to sleep under a bench all weekend. That homeless guy that used to ride around my hometown with shopping bags would be proud.

We went out for a warm up lap. The course was rad, it flowed well with some tight turns and tricky roots. The whole 8.5 mile loop only took 39 minutes. After the lap Don, Brad and I drove the fer piece to Cumberland to find some food. Don was willing to settle on some Taco Bell ground beef spleen tacos. But Brad and I insisted we push through a crowd of shirtless-teenage-carnival-goers to get real food. Eventually we found a little bar with some decent food where Heffner and Aaron already had a table.

The next morning I wake up with some moisture on my sleeping bag. I crawl out from under my bench. At least I stayed mostly dry. I head over to JR's tent and beg for some food. He gives me a bagel and some peanut butter. I am pleased.

I make some coffee in my French press and groan. It's foggy and cold, with light rain. It's so hard to get excited for a race when it's raining.

It's close to the 11:00 start so I take my bike over to the transition area. I carefully back it into the rack so I can yank it out quickly. We're going to run for about half a mile to split everybody up before the trails. I'm going first, and I'll do two laps before trading off with Don.

We line up, and Aaron and I do some short sprints to warm up. It feels like I'm back in High School Cross Country.

The promoter raises his hand, "5 seconds... Go!" We run. Some little fire plug dude next to me trips on a blade of grass and falls on his face. I don't look back, but I'm certain he's being trampled by 175 pairs of carbon soled shoes. I pull away from the rest of the pack and make it to the bikes ahead of everybody else. I grab my bike.

It dons't move. Shit. Somebody hooked the nose of my saddle onto the rack. I frantically throw five other bike onto the ground. Other guys make it to the transition area and start riding away. When I finally get my bike untangled, I'm back in 15th.

I sprint and pass as many people as I can before we hit the trails. The first few miles of the course are really tight and twisty, and it gets congested. I pass when I can, but the leaders are way gone. Dammit. I wanted to be out front on this first lap. I could kill who ever hooked my bike in the rack like that.

We turn away from the lake and get some room to pass. I rip by everyone I can and start the only longish climb on the course. I see JPok and one of the DCMtb guys ahead in the distance. I crush it up the hill, pass them and keep going. I made up a lot of time and took the lead, and now I'm going to hold it. I go all out on the rocky descent and start the swoopy lake trails again.

I cross the start/finish area and head out for my second lap. JPok trades off with Nate Anon. I stay ahead of him and keep pinning it. I finish the lap in 35:41 with a little bit of a gap on Nate. That lap stands the rest of the day as the fastest lap of the race.

I give the punch card to Don Powers, and he promptly drops his chain. There goes our lead. Doh. I walk over to the tents, put my feet up, and eat some ho hos. A little over an hour later, Don finishes his second lap and I head back out.

I feel good the first lap, but slow down to 39 minutes on the second. I'm feeling a little beat. We're holding onto third, but can't catch up to JPok and Nate or the DC guys. Their lap times are too consistent.

When Don finishes his 6th lap, I go out to finish the race with my 6th and 7th. We're a few minutes behind the other teams, so I just cruise the laps. I roll into the finish a little after 7:00 pm.

We ended up third in Open Duo, which is pretty damn good for a couple of guys on single speeds. Don did 6 laps, and I did 7 which ended up being about 60 miles. Very solid and fun day.

I wore my finest Canadian Tuxedo on the podium:

After the awards, there was much merrymaking around the campfire. Sadly, Brad was forced to delete all the pictures. I finally crawled back under my bench at 4:00 am. We woke up at 7:00 and went back to Bob Evan's where Darnell, Sandy, or Beatrice served us breakfast, then drove back to Ohiopyle. I made it to work 15 minutes early. Perfect weekend.

a reba re-build

2011-05-12T06:18:00.000-07:00

I tore apart my fork yesterday, and I fully planned on documenting the whole thing and doing a how-to. Which would have consisted of things like this:

Turn shiny clicking device to the left.

Hit un-clicking part of shiny clicking device with large hammer.

After taking the first few pictures, I realized that this would make for a blog post that was not only boring, but also very super extremely redundant. Because all the pictures of hammers hitting things on expensive forks are already in the tech manual.

But one thing the manual didn't make clear was the amount of oil that was supposed to go into the damper side of the fork. One chart said 133ml, and another said 110ml. Since I couldn't remember what I used last time I rebuilt the thing, I just went with the higher number. If anybody knows the real number, let me know.

After improperly disposing of my milky white fork oil in the trash can, my co-worker Big Trav sauntered into the shop.

I asked him if he had seen my sunglasses. He replied that he had seen a pair of female frames on the shelf yesterday, and promptly thrown them in the trash. Mother fucker.

So I dug.

And sure enough, under the pile of plastic, tubes, zip ties, and old suspension oil, were my way too expensive to be thrown in the garbage sunglasses.

This isn't the first time Big Trav has tried to kill these things. A few weeks ago he put them on a rack with some cheap Pepper's sunglasses in the store, apparently hoping that somebody would score a pair of Smiths for $19.99.

I'll never understand the way his mind works.

who's drivin the bus?

2011-05-10T05:42:00.000-07:00

When I saw a big black school bus pull in front of the store carrying a black Jeep in the back, my first thought was, "Holy shit, Barrett bought a big black school bus that can carry a Jeep."

And that was exactly the case. He swung open the door and started yelling and whooping about how red neck his new bus was.

Apparently the guy who had it before was into rock crawling Jeeps, so he converted the bus to carry his stuff. The inside is set up like a camper with AC, a bed, fridge, and sink. It's damn cool.

Ramps down, and a car can drive right up into the back:

Barrett said he's was sick of paying rent, and doesn't know where he wants to live full time, so he's just going to park the bus for a while. Which is probably good, because he doesn't seem too sure if he can legally drive it.

And he only paid $4,000 for the thing. That's less than I have in the tiny convertible. I could have been a vehicle owner, home owner, and school bus owner. Blast.

Wisp XC Challenge Race Report ('10)

2011-05-09T08:06:00.000-07:00

Cleats clack as we clip in and sprint off the start line. We're already at the top of Wisp Resort, so after a quick left turn on a dirt road, we start bombing down the mountain.

Travis Saler gets out in front and starts cranking down a loose and rock section of double track. We hit the first single track and I'm in second. I stay a few feet behind him on the rocky single track. I check behind me. We have a pretty decent lead. I can't see anybody back there.

This is perfect. If I can just hold this pace, I might finally be able to beat the Pflug. Travis is starting to pull away, but that's fine. I hit the first gravel and spin fast. This is where the Pflug is going to be faster than me. He's a monster on the gravel. I gotta go.

More single track, then I start the long gravel climb back to the top of the mountain. I'm feeling pretty good as I cross the start finish. One eight mile lap down, two to go.

I rip back down the mountain and hit the single track. I roll around a tight switch back and look down the trail. Balls. There he is.

The Pflug is coming. Shit on my face. I expected this to happen.

Almost every time I race the Plug, I go out hard and put a little time into him off the start. I'm beginning to think that this does nothing but anger him. It's kind of like slapping a bear with a bag of hot dogs, then climbing up a little tree. You might get away for a few minutes, but eventually the bear is going to get pissed and rip down the tree, break your legs, crush you, eat your hot dogs, and poop out the plastic bag they were wrapped in.

And so on the next gravel climb, the Pflug catches me. I stay with him for a while, then my legs don't want to pedal that hard anymore. I cross the line and start the last lap. I'm pretty well crushed. The Pflug spins really fast across the slight downslope, then he's gone.

I ride the rest of the lap in a state of disappointment and digestive discomfort. On the last climb, I hear a nasally voice yell uncle.

Gunnar rides around me. I might let the Pflug beat me, but there is no way in hell I'm going to lose to a man that started racing when bikes had wooden rims and showing a little bit of ankle was considered risqué. I pass him on the next gravel climb, but he sticks right on my wheel.

He goes by me on a grassy section. I draft him on the last section of pavement and wait for a chance to attack. We hit the last little dirt climb and I hit it. I pedal hard and out sprint a man over twice my age. VICTORY!!!

But the Pflug still beat me. Damn that man. I was 2nd in single speed, 4th overall.

However, there is a very simple reason he beat me. After he crossed the line, he went out and did another lap. After I crossed the line, I went and got a shower then ate some cold pizza. But I don't feel bad about it. I was tired and I like pizza.

(photo creds: GWADZILLA's face page. (yes, it is supposed to be in all caps. maybe it's an acronym for something... great wooden armadillo's dandy zebra ickies love lubricious alfalfa.))

post michuxly

2011-05-04T06:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was still feeling pretty cracked from the race on Sunday. Granted, I didn't do a hundred miler on Saturday in addition to Michaux, but I was still sore.

When I got back on Sunday night, I was sitting down and my arm kept loosing blood flow. I was shaking and hitting it but my hand still wanted to shut down. So I gave up and went to sleep. The next day I was all tingly. Very strange.

Tomi got some pretty nice shots of the race.

There were tiny logs to shred:

Big rocks for people to nose dive off of:

I'm proud to say that I only went over the bars once, and it was slow and controlled. A very graceful crash.

And some bumpy trails:

After the race, there were some trinkets tossed in the air. I fought bitterly for a small red multi-tool. The man with the towel on his head did not.

As hard as that race was for me, I have a ton of respect for the people that were out there for four hours doing the 20 mile, or six hours doing the 40 mile.

I passed a few 20 mile guys before the last climb, and after I had bitched my way up the hill, ridden into the finish, eaten a burger, spilled orange soda on my pants, bitched about my sticky pants, and listened to Harlan talk about becoming a carpenter in his retirement, they were still out on the course. That would be such a tough day. Kudos to those folks for finishing.

And here's the weekly reminder to go vote for me in the Pisgah contest (The thing doesn't end until June, so I'm only going to bother you once a week. Vote so this blog doesn't become super whinny and bitter.)

This Saturday is the Wisp XC Race. It's only 45 minutes from Ohiopyle and JR usually puts on a pretty fun race, so I'm going to head down there.

Michaux Maximus 2011 race report

2011-05-02T06:07:00.000-07:00

Best thing about a tent house. It travels well:

Tim de la Garcon picked me up in Ohiopyle after work on Saturday night. We ate some big plates of steak and eggs at Curt's Restaurant, then headed for Michaux.

We got there at midnight after spending a while looking around for the gravel parking lot in the dark. I set up my tent and immediately fell asleep.

The parking lot starts filling up pretty early. I steal some of Tim's hot water and make coffee in my french press. Scott Root is making blueberry pancakes and JPok is complaining about breaking bike parts.

I'm a little nervous. I expect this race to be really hard and full of crazy rocks. Even the parking lot is full of big stones. I haven't ridden any serious rock gardens for a few months.

"Hey, somebody just said Harlans racing single speed today. Have fun with that." Tim says. Not only is Harlan Price a real-deal retired pro, he rides Michaux a lot. I'll have to ride my face off to keep up with him.

I line up on the dirt road next to Harlan and all the other single speeders. There's a lot of fast dudes here, and a lot of guys who know these trails. I complement Topher's magnificent Rasputin beard.

The Open geared men sprint away down the road. We move forward a few feet. "Single Speeders, do not go yet. Two minutes." the organizing man yells. "10..." My legs twitch and I clip one foot in. "5..." I stare down the road. "3,2,1" I clip my left foot in and hit it.

I grab the center section of my bars, tuck down, and sprint out at about 24mph. I look back after the first turn, and the pack is already out of sight. Sweet. Now I have to see how long I can stay away.

I start passing open racers on the first climb. The trail is wide and covered in rocks, but there's nothing especially difficult yet. The first descent is super steep and loose. I get my weight back and go down the hill with some cation. There's no point in crashing this early.

On to some flowing trails. (Flowing by Michaux standards. They're still covered in glacial deposits.) I hop over a log and pedal fast. I'm feeling frisky.

I climb to the top of the ridge. We hit a huge boulder field. I try to follow one of the local guys over the van sized rocks, but I'm having some trouble lunging up them with my big gear. I run some parts and ride others. Maintain forward motion.

"Garcon! What are you doing?" I yell. Tim is walking down the trail towards me.

"I crushed my ankle. I'm done. I can't ride my bike," he says.

I wish him luck and ride away. I ride through the first aid station without stopping and keep hammering down the rocky trails. We're about two hours in, and I'm starting to feel good. My legs are working well, and I'm starting to feel like I'm riding smoothly.

I pass one of the geared guys I'm riding with on a downhill. We rip around some turns and roll all the way to the bottom of the mountain. Cross a stream, then start back up the other side. The hill is a little too steep to ride, so I hop off and hike up it.

Two hours and 45 minutes in to the race. I look behind me. Harlan is crushing up the hill. I wondered when he was going to catch me.

"I wondered when you were going to catch me man," I say.

We ride together at a comfortable pace and take turns leading. Harlan is riding a rigid bike, but he's still so smooth going downhill. He he just floats and dips over all the rocks and roots. The guy is really really good at riding a bike.

At the second aid station, we stop and I grab some gels and fill my bottles. About 20 minutes after the aid station I start having serious stomach issues. Harlan pulls away from me. I'm having trouble turning the pedals over. I was feeling so good a few minutes ago. This sucks. I feel like throwing up.

"Coming around Montana," somebody says. I move over. Garcon passes me. It doesn't register for a second.

"How the hell did you get up here? I thought you destroyed your ankle," I say.

"I waited for it to swell up, then I got back on my bike. It hurts really bad," he says. That's great. He's passing me with a swollen ankle, and I'm whining about a tummy ache. I'm such a little princess.

Unfortunately, being annoyed with myself doesn't fix the digestive issues. I need to eat something, but the thought of gel is making me sick. I need solid food. The last aid station should be coming up, but it's all the way at the top of the ridge.

It's the longest climb of my life. I'm barely moving, and I'm starting to get a painful twinge in my legs. I finally top out and roll over to the aid. I stuff some banana's, snickers, and honey stinger bars into my mouth. Ten miles to go.

I leave the aid right in front of another single speeder. He passes me in a few minutes on the bumpy road. I can't stay with him.

Down into the woods and on to some damp trails. The trail twists along the whole way to the bottom of the mountain. It's not damp anymore. There are huge mud bogs, deep puddles, and streams. I stand up and pedal hard to get up a hill.

My legs lock up. I yell into the woods. It feels like someone has driven a steel rod through both of my legs. I hobble off my bike and try to walk up the hill. They won't bend. This is terrible. Keep moving keep moving. I punch my quads and try to get something moving.

JPok spins up the hill and orders me to move. I hobble off the trail. He bitches about breaking his pedal.

I get back on my bike and my legs start to loosen up a little. There's a stream flowing down the climb. I walk slowly through the mud. I expect a single speeder to pass me.

The hill goes on forever. I keep trudging along next to my bike. It starts to rain. The water running over my feet is light brown. I want this race to be over so bad. I don't know why I do this to myself.

I finally hit the top of the ridge. I get on my bike and ride out onto a gravel road. The road goes down hill and into the finish chute. I roll into the white tent and people are yelling. I'm so glad that's over.

Other than the last river climb/hike, the course was awesome. Lots of turns, logs, and rocks. I really enjoyed it until my legs stopped bending. 3rd was a respectable finish in that SS field, but I want to do better. I'll be back in Michaux for the Dark Hollow.

the poorly composed parting shot 7: ohiopyle when it's too dark to take any good pictures

2011-04-29T17:58:00.000-07:00

We're heading out to the Michaux Maximus tomorrow night. Full report will be up on Monday.

back down by the river

2011-04-28T12:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took my last final, turned in my last papers, and moved back into my tent down by the river.

I'm pretty pumped to have a platform this year. No more sleeping in the mud for this guy.

Now I don't have to worry about anything other than riding my bike and being buried at work under piles,

and piles

and piles of new stuff to receive.

I just registered for the Michaux Maximus this weekend. Hopefully I'll have better luck out there this time than I've had in the past. The single speed category has more riders than any other category right now. Should be a pretty slammin race.

And a final note about the Pisgah contest, you need to be signed in to facebook to vote, and this link should get you to the contest. Lemme know if that works. If you haven't voted, go click it. I'm trailing 2nd by around 35 votes, and only the top two get to go race.

The Pisgah Mountain Stage Race blog competition has re-started and moved to facebook

2011-04-27T10:10:00.000-07:00

Massively important news. The Pisgah Mountain Stage Race Bloggers Grant is now on Facebook. All previous votes are void.

So if you voted for before, do me a huge favor and go recast your vote. Right here: http://www.facebook.com/BlueRidgeAdventures

Thanks a ton.

cute hamsters

2011-04-26T12:36:00.000-07:00

One final tomorrow morning, then I'm a free man. I'd express how excited I am, but it's only coming out as a high pitch squeak. And nobody likes reading squeaks.

The trees around here are finally getting their green on:

And the trees that aren't are getting their dead on:

As the skid mark shows, this one almost killed me. Sam Morrison tried to make a snide facebook remark about how hard that corner was to see around, but fortunately he's a failure of a college student and is unable to use social networks. And he doesn't understand the mind bending speed at which I was traveling down that singletrack.

31.8. My mind is bent.

I hate to keep beating on this, but if you haven't voted for me in the PMBSR, go hit a couple buttons and vote. If I win, I'll have plenty of fun things to write about. If I lose, I'll pout for a couple minutes. But seriously, go vote. You can vote once from every computer you have access to. Tanks.

At the last count I had something like 150 votes. Many more people than that read this thing everyday, so that leads my to a few conclusions.

1. I am a meat bag and people don't care if I get to go stage race
2. People don't feel like clicking the links because they are distracted by incredibly cute pictures of hamsters
3. A combination of the first two

I'm leaning towards option three, but I'm baffled by the speediness at which the new entrants to the contest gathered votes. And many of them just started blogs. Such mysteries.

Here's a picture of a cute hamster in case I tricked you with that other link:

the new race machine

2011-04-20T18:58:00.000-07:00

Before the unveiling of the new racing bicycle, I must again ask you to go vote for me in the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race Blogger's Competition. Two clicks to make me a very happy stage racing man. Thanks for being swell.

And without any further groveling for votes, I give you the Yet To Be Victorious Victory Melon:

The bike handles exactly like I want it to, is pretty light, and I know all the parts will hold up to being ridden hard everyday. Most importantly, construction worker's safety vests shield themselves from it's brightness.

I couldn't imagine a nicer single speed, and I have to express extreme gratitude to those fine sponsor type folks for that.

I've read a lot of internet complaining about the Biocentric ebb slipping and creaking. But I've gotta say, the thing works perfectly if it's set up right.

Up and forward is the key. Looking at the bike from the non-drive side (the opposite of this picture) (i went out my way to make this confusing) if the bottom bracket is positioned from 12 to 9 o'clock, there's no way it's going to slip. Every pedal stroke is bringing the force forward, and trying to tighten the chain.

Here's a bad post-it-note scribble to illustrate my point:

Until Rob and Don turned me on to the high-forward thing last year, even my old set screw ebb was slipping. After, no slips.

The bigger I9 Enduro front and DT RWS Thru bolt definitely help with front end stiffness. It's not a real thru-axle, but it's a big improvement over a regular quick release. And the bigger bearings are super smooth.

Here are all the fun little details:
frame: Niner One9
wheels: Industry 9 Ultralight Single Speed Enduro
grips: Ergon GX1 Carbon
tires: Continental Race/Mountain King
fork: Rock Shox Reba
bottom bracket: Chris King
headset: Chris King
brakes: Formula RX
rotors: Formula R1
cranks: Shimano SLX
chainring: E13 Guide 38t
cog: Endless Bikes 20t
pedals: Crank Bro's Candy 3
post: Thompson 410mm (extended to the minimum insertion line)
saddle: WTB Rocket V SLT
skewers: DT Swiss 9mm RWS Thru Bolt
bars and stem: Raceface Atlas 50mm

the poorly composed parting shot 6: Delaware, Ohio

2011-04-19T08:39:00.000-07:00

Well, I did say I was going to introduce the new bike today, but it's quite nasty outside. Too nasty to take any decent pictures. So I'll save that for later in the week.

But I did forget to do a photo Friday last week, so now I'll do it now. Behold the glory of Delaware, Ohio:

I'd be pissed if some fool towed my burro:

The outside of a brothel:

And a gluten intolerant person's idea of a Subway breakfast sandwich:

mohican wilderness race report 2011

2011-04-18T06:34:00.000-07:00

mohican wilderness - ombc #2 - 6th expert/open - sunny, windy, 50 degrees

This picture pretty much sums up how my race went:

A closer view:

Not so good.

Tim and I drove to Ohio on Friday night. Despite his best efforts to kill us by power sliding around the on and off ramps, we didn't crash or blow up the engine in his little Hyundai Elantra (although it was shaking like an electrocuted chipmunk above 65mph.) We were supposed to race the Mohican Wilderness on Saturday, then head to Big Bear that night, camp, and race Big Bear on Sunday.

It was a great plan. Until it thunder stormed and Mohican was bumped to Sunday.

So I went and watched Colleen's track meet, which was not canceled by the strong winds and threatening clouds.

It looked like this for 25 laps:

No thank you. I'm so glad I started riding bikes.

Tim called while I was at the meet, and after a long council we decided to go camp at Mohican that night.

We did. It rained and the wood was wet.

Once we got the fire blazing everything was swell. Then it rained harder and we had to run for the tents. It was like a repeat of the thunderstorms the night before the Mohican 100 last year. I was terrified that I would drown in mud again.

Sunday morning was cool and breezy. The rain stopped, and it looked like it might turn out to be a nice day. We packed up the tents and headed over to the starting line.

There was only one other single speeder there, so I registered for the Open class. I thought it would be alright. Tim made it sound like the course was nice and flowy.

I went to the port-a-poty one last time, smeared A&D ointment on my crotch, then lined up. "3,2,1 go!"

(I don't know why the guy on the white bike was wearing aero shoe covers in a mountain bike race. But they must have done something because he beat me.)

Everybody went hard through the first field and into the little piece of single track. I was right behind Tim when we popped back onto a field on the other side. The wind was cutting across the empty field like the blast from a jet. I tucked behind line of guys in front of me and everybody slowed way down. Tim jumped out of the pace line and took the lead.

As soon as we hit the first climb I knew I had no chance of placing well. It was so damn steep. I was giving it everything to keep turning the pedals over, and there was a big root in the middle of every switch back. I would lose traction then have to run until it flattened out a little.

The climb was two miles long. By the top the leaders were way out of sight and I couldn't see straight. I tried to make up some time on the down hills, but I wasn't very smooth there either. Didn't ride enough last week.

On the bright side, it was a beautiful day and the trails were in perfect shape. I was having a great time, but I just didn't have the legs to go fast.

Every downhill was the same. Rocks, nice carving bends, then a sharp 180 degree turn at the bottom that pointed right back up the hill. I had to scrub all my speed going into the corner, then start the climb with no momentum. It was about as hard as a course could be on a single speed.

And it went on for three laps. I felt better on lap two, but on the third lap I was totally spent. I had to hike and run most of the steep stuff.

I rolled into the finish, saw Colleen holding a camera, and made the most disgruntled face I could muster:

Tim knew all weekend that he would win, and he did. By a fair amount. He had a great ride. It was a cool race, but I wish we would have gotten to hit Big Bear as well.

The new bike held up well, with no creaks or slips from the Biocentric ebb, so now I feel like I can properly introduce it. Tomorrow.

the pisgah mountain stage race 2011 blog competition

2011-04-14T05:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I mentioned that I entered another bloggers grant competition. And yesterday they put my un-peeled self up on the contest page:

Montana Miller:

knobbymeats.blogspot.com

Another singlespeeder promising to crush Dicky. That banana looks angry.

Worst experience on a bike? 2010 Mohican 100 in Ohio. It thunder stormed before and during the race, and we had to deal with 100 miles of horrible mud and farm run off. There was a 50% drop out rate during the race. I finished, but ended up with some sort of digestive disease from ingesting so much crushed up cow feces.

Scroll down to the bottom of Pisgah page and vote now: right here

The competition is for the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race in North Carolina. The race is five days, 185 miles, and has 40,000 feet of climbing. I've never been down to Pisgah, but it sounds like a super cool place.

The two bloggers with the most votes win a free entry to the race.

I really want to go. I posted on the facebook that I would grant my "undying affection" to anyone that voted for me. While that attracted supportive comments from five girls and JR Petsko, there didn't seem to be any male takers.

So now I would like to offer "hearty fist bumps and appreciative handshakes" in addition to "undying affection" to anyone who votes for me. You may choose one or both.

Vote here. Thank ya kindly.

Apparently the tiny convertible is going to need a new transmission, timing belt, water pump, and possibly clutch. So it looks like I'm gonna have to rely on friends to get places for a while.

I'm hooking up with Tim Carson to race on Saturday at Mohican, Ohio and Sunday at Big Bear Lake, WV. Something weird and fun to write about will happen. I have no doubt. I just hope that nobody poops in a field:

My new Niner arrived yesterday. I've decided to name it the Victory Mellon. More on that after I finish building it:

another blog contest

2011-04-13T06:50:00.000-07:00

Late edit: the contest for the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race is up. I'd appriciate it mightily if you'd go vote. The link to vote is right under the picture of me in the banana. VOTE HAR. Thanks folks.

I've officially thrown my mediocre blog into another stage race contest. It's a good thing Dicky mentioned it. Since I just sent in my entry, I'm not up on the contest page yet, so I'm not gonna provide a link. I wouldn't want anybody to vote for the wrong person.

Although I probably have no chance of beating Dicky with my Knobby Meat in the blog competition, I don't need to. The top two get free entries. So all I have to do is sneak in in second place, then I can focus on crushing him during the race.

Three days of class left, and I'm frying my brain writing about birth control and aids in Botswana, detective fiction, and a cleaned up newspaper version of Don and Montana's Big Gay WV Adventure.

So, here's a picture of a cat. He's always good for blog filler:

And before anybody notices the tiny dumbbells and makes fun of me, I want to make it clear that they aren't mine. Colleen left them here. I swear it.

2011-04-12T17:34:00.000-07:00

Bummer day. It's back down to 45 degrees (from 85 on Sunday) and pouring.

Occasionally riding a bike isn't super fun.

But at least Mountwood was really cool. The trails out there are awesome when they're dry. There's a ton of pictures up now.

The next race is Big Bear on Sunday, and I might do the OMBC Mohican Wilderness race on Saturday if I can hook up with Tim de la Garcon to get out there.

I still haven't heard anything from the mechanic heading up the tiny convertible revival process, so my petroleum powered future is still in limbo.

mountwood challenge race report 2011

2011-04-11T07:43:00.000-07:00

1st SS - 2nd Overall - Dry, sunny, 85 degrees - 25 miles - 2:06 hours

I picked Don Powers up in the tiny convertible at 7 to start our Big Gay WV Adventure. We were cruising down 79, and Don Powers kept begging me to put the top down so he could feel the wind in his hair. I told him to wait. We would put it down in a few minutes when the fog burned off.

Then the transmission popped out of gear. I put it back in. It popped out again. Everything started rattling and grinding in a horrible way. I put it in forth and crawled to the last exit in Pennsylvania. We were six miles from Morgantown.

I pulled into a gas station and called Rob. They were a few miles behind us, but he didn't think his small VW would be able to take two more people. Probably right. So he had Aaron start calling people. He got a hold of Joanna and MJ, who were also a few minutes behind us on 79.

Rescued by the women in the big pickup truck, we abandoned the tiny convertible and our Big Gay WV Adventure. But we were still going bike racing. The whole ordeal cost us about 15 minutes. It's good to know nice people.

When we pulled into Mountwood Park the place was packed. The turn out was huge since it was a combined WV and OH series race. The sun was out and it was legitimately hot for the first time since September.

We lined up on the road and I punched Nate Annon in the ribs a few times as we compared the size of our emaciated biceps.

"20 seconds. No, hold on. 3 2 1 go!" the starter yelled.

I clipped in and sprinted hard. I took the lead on the road climb kept it until the top of the hill. I thought the single track started when the pavement ended, so it seemed like all the work to get the hole shot would be worth it.

It wasn't. Turned on to a long section of rolling gravel double track. Hell. I was breathing hard and loosing ground. Went way to hard off that start.

A bunch of geared guys passed me, then a single speeder I didn't know, then Nate. When we finally hit the single track I was in about 10th. Tim Carson two other guys had formed a lead group and were breaking away.

I was still trying to recover from that start. Nate started making quick passes. I tried to go with him, but I was still recovering from that fast start. He pulled away.

After a few miles, I let Joey the Riddler go around me. I sat on his wheel and we started picking up the pace. Not feeling great, but not terrible either.

It was so hot. My vision was going blurry on the hills. I was putting out so much effort, generating so much heat, and moving so slow. The sun was beating down through the leafless trees, and there was no breeze. My hands were on fire and my head felt like it was going to pop.

We ripped down a switch backed descent and rolled on to the paved road around the lake. I went around the Riddler and started chasing Nate down. I reached out and grabbed a cup of water from the water stop and dumped it on my head.

Back into the woods. I caught some guy on gears first, and kept getting glimpses of Nate through the trees. He was getting closer. I pedaled hard and cruised along the flowing dirt.

Caught him in a field. We complained about how hot it was, then I went around him and put in an effort to get away. He looked pretty cracked.

Then I saw Tim Carson. He looked back at me, and his face was the color of a stop sign. He was barely moving. Even from a hundred yards back, I could tell what was wrong. His fancy new $8,000 Specilized Epic only had room to carry one bottle.

I caught him right as he was grabbing his second bottle from a post on the side of the trail. There were only six miles left to go. It was way to late for him. I'd drank 48 ounces of water in the same time he'd had 24. I went around and wished him luck.

That put me in 2nd overall. I passed some volunteers and they told me I was four minutes behind the leader. There wasn't enough course left to catch him. I rode conservatively into the finish. Nate came in a few minutes later.

I was pumped to finish 2nd and win single speed in such a big field. When I saw how dry and fast the trails were, I wasn't expecting anything better than a top ten overall. And with how bad I felt at the start, I wasn't sure I'd even be able to catch Nate. But as bad as I felt, the heat made everybody else feel even worse.

When it's dry, Mountwood is one of the best race courses I've ever been on. The trails are awesome and fast, there's room to pass, and there are plenty of tight turns and fun downhills. It's perfect.

After the race, we sat in a stream and Don Powers puked everywhere.

It was a solid first race, but not a good day for the tiny convertible. Poor guy:

the poorly composed parting shot 5: travel edition viking cat

2011-04-08T11:09:00.000-07:00

Should have a Mountwood race story on Monday. Hopefully it'll be good

skinned palms and explosives

2011-04-06T04:42:00.000-07:00

I hit some railroad tracks on my way to class today. Usually when I misjudge a distance and hop into a big metal rail, I un-clip and put a foot down. No drama, and I continue making engine noises and yelling "IMA DUMP TRUCK!" to scare people on the bike path.

But today I was wearing my extra special shoes that occasionally and unexpectedly refuse to disengage from the pedal.

Now I have medical tape for palm skin:

After refusing to grant a frazzled-shopping-cart-pushing-bag-woman passage on the trail until she kissed my boo boo, I went home to watch a Cash Cab marathon and cry.

But my bald guy driving a mini van and asking stupid questions session kept getting interrupted by two bald guys performing a movie length advertisement for the Dodge Challenger:

And I've decided that I must go see it. The Rock grew facial hair just so I, the lowly movie consumer, could distinguish him from Vin Diesel. That's an effort that I won't take for granted.

FAST5 (the title isn't really all caps, but it should be) is the ideal movie. Lots of people taking themselves too seriously, going nowhere as fast as possible, and ultimately accomplishing nothing. It's just like bike racing with more explosions. Pure heaven.

Speaking of bike racing and explosions, the first West Virginia race of the year is this Sunday. But I think I mentioned that yesterday in my wildly exciting post about hexagonal tools. In any case, it's all I feel like thinking about. At least it's mostly harmless.

the lightest multi-tool

2011-04-05T05:41:00.000-07:00

I saw Tim Carson for the first time since we parted ways in Boulder last August. He stayed on the road until Christmas and went all the way from Montana to San Diego to Florida before heading back to Pittsburgh. Lucky.

We rode at Apollo, and he was ripping his single speed. On the other hand, I was still a little sick and dizzy, and kept falling into trees.

He's going to be at Mountwood this Sunday also. Since it's a combination Ohio Series and West Virginia Series race, I'm betting there are going to be a ton of fast dudes there. I better get over this cold thing real quick.

I was thinking about something Team Wiener Wagon said somewhere. It might have been on his blog, or it might have been in the land of over-punctuation and irrational rants (waa! my bike part wore out!!!! I wnted it to last frver!!!!!!...?).

Anyway, the Team Chipmunk Testes said he doesn't carry a multi-tool in races.

This is the stuff I was carrying (excluding my tooth brush on the right)

Pretty small package, but I check all the bolts on my bike, and sure enough, it was too much. I only have 4mm, 5mm, and T25 torx bolts on my bike.

So I gathered up those three tools. Then I pulled apart an old crank brothers multi tool and stole the chain tool.

I can stick the 5mm in the hole and use it as a handle:

And there's the whole thing bundled up next to the old multi-tool:

The only thing I don't have is an 8mm for my pedals. I'm sure that means they're going to fall off next time I ride.

the new industry nines are arrived

2011-04-04T04:45:00.000-07:00

Now that Ohio Hate Week is over, I can start talking about bikes again.

And I just got something real purdy to talk about:

The new Industry Nine racing wheels are here.

Since we only communicate via email, I was able to convince the I9 guys that I was I leggy blond who was willing to trade sexual favors for new wheels. They were eager to comply.

Although I never tried to convince them I was a woman.

Anyway, long story short, I can't go anywhere near Asheville. But I do have a really nice set of wheels.

My other set of I9's has Stan's 355 rims. These ones have lighter Crests.

And an Enduro front hub. It's bigger:

Big front hub, light rims. They should be faster and stiffer than my old set.

I popped a Race King onto the new back wheel. I was surprised with how much easier the Crests were to set up tubeless than the 355s.

My plan is to set up the old 355 I9's with my heavier rotors and Conti Mountain Kings. They'll be the choice for inclement weather and slippy soil. I'll have Conti Race Kings on the Crest I9's drier days.

But then I'll need to figure out a way to transport a second wheelset to races without bending rotors, which may be the best problem I've ever had.

I won't be able to ride the front wheel until my 9mm DT Swiss RWS Thru-bolt (longest name for a $30 part ever) comes in, but I'm gonna start breaking in the rear hub tomorrow.

(This attempt at an artistic picture was fairly hard to compose under constant siege by a berserk quadrupedal raider:)

the poorly composed parting shot 4: a parade of graduating drunks (because there's nothing better to do in ohio)

2011-04-01T08:13:00.000-07:00

I went to Ohio and all I got was this stupid disease

2011-03-31T13:20:00.000-07:00

My throat is closed up, I'm freezing wrapped in a blanket, and I have a splitting head ache. Waa.

Spending a weekend in a house with 15 college girls isn't all it's cracked up to be.

On the bright side, my new I9 wheels should be shipping today. They'll be like my old I9s only better.

And tomorrow is April, which means there's only three-ish weeks left until I move back into my tent down by the river.

Can't wait.

damn you ohio

2011-03-30T05:36:00.000-07:00

The sun was sunning and the enormous pickup trucks were out to warm their duel 39"s:

Colleen and I thought it would be a great day to go mountain biking.

We were wrong;

We went to Reagan Park in Medina. The mud was like cement mixed with clumping cat litter.

After about 3/4 of a mile we realized we needed to turn back. Couldn't even push the bikes without the wheels clogging up and locking.

I tried rinsing stuff off in a little cesspool, but I only succeeded in making my bike smell like rotten deer meat and feces.

If I stood up and sprinted I could shake most of the mud off of my Conti tires, but the Geax's on Colleen's Karate Monkey refused to shed anything.

So we rode around in a parking lot until Colleen's friend, Suz, finished running. Then we went to lunch in a cafe that was complete with a girl sitting in a corner wearing a purple beret:

Feeling very uncultured and beret-less, I was inspired to read an issue of Wine Spectator. I gave up after the first 30 pages of old guys looking at grapes.

I was talking to Suz about where she was going in the Peace Corps next year, and she mentioned that she would really miss Ohio. I was incredulous.

"I just love the land. How flat and the same everything is. I've been running over this pot hole for four years. My first year it was just a big hole. Then Sophmore year they filled it in, and Junior year it was black and tarry. Now this year it's starting to get a dent in it, and I step on it every day. I'll miss that pot hole."

I stared at her with my mouth open. She loved Ohio for all the reasons I hated it. I told her she should try Kansas.

michaux mash 2012 race report

2011-03-28T06:30:00.000-07:00

I got a text from Ernesto while Rob, Don and I were heading to Carlisle on Friday night. They had pre-ridden the new course at the YMCA day camp. It didn't sound good.

Rob checked in with a man named Gandhi at the travel lodge. We went to sleep in blood stained sheets (or Don Powers went to sleep in blood stained sheets. I was smart enough to bring a sleeping bag.)

The next morning was 25 degrees while the sun came up. The Pflug and Ernie pulled up beside us while we were loading bikes.

"We pre-rode the course yesterday. It was really bad. There's a stream crossing within the first few feet, and the rest of the trails look like some dude cut them yesterday. We might not even attempt it," said the Pflug.

I was stunned. The Pflug quitting a race was crazy. The first time I saw him racing he snapped his seat post in the first few miles. He rode two more hours of mud with no saddle and a sharp piece of carbon pointed at his ass, and still won the single speed class. The course must be really messed up for him and Ernesto to bail.

We headed to breakfast with them and they told us more about the course.

"There's no place to pass. Trails are all off camber and fresh cut. There's jaggers hanging down everywhere. Like five stream crossings. Muddy. Figure-8 intersection. Frozen club-feet. Through an archery range. Totally ghetto. It would make an OK cross course, but not a four hour enduro," they said.

Once we got to the YMCA camp, we saw what they were talking about. We went and talked to Zach, and he was mighty swell about the whole thing. So we didn't race.

Instead, we watched people catapult themselves into the stream:

Too bad for that guy. It was 30 degrees. Not good swimming weather.

They had to scramble up the muddy bank on the other side:

I felt like I was watching a figure-8 race at the county fair:

After a few minutes of heckling, we headed out to Michaux and rode. We met some guys from Jersey that showed us around the trails, and ended up having a cool day.

The Mash was awesome last year when it was in Michaux, and I'll for sure race it next year if it's back in the forest. It's a shame that Zach lost his permit to have the race, but no biggie. Hopefully it'll work out in 2012.

the poorly composed parting shot 3: greensburg

2011-03-25T06:22:00.000-07:00

Michaux/ YMCA Daycamp Mash report on Monday. Wish me not destruction by the Pflug.

tornadoes in greensburg

2011-03-24T06:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday a tornado touched down just outside of Greensburg. Fortunately it broke up before it was able to destroy my house, but it still dumped little icy cauliflowers:

That's big hail.

I was at work in Ohiopyle all day, so I missed out on the fun. But my drive home was made considerably shorter by dead traffic signals:

There were no circuits and flashing lights telling people what to do, and the world didn't explode. Amazing. I wish they would just leave the damn things off.

Zach sent out an email with the course description for the Michaux Mash, or more accurately, the YMCA Daycamp Mash. I'm pumped. I can't wait to get out there and go fast.

It's going to be about 4.3 miles of twisty single track. With such short laps and four hours of racing, it's going to get wild once people start lapping each other. But if we use a chip timing system like last year it shouldn't be too stressful for the people counting laps.

the first race approaches

2011-03-23T06:05:00.000-07:00

Michaux Mash, first race of the year, Saturday.

Last year I won the best homemade number plate competition with my inflatable pack-flamingo:

(Apparently I didn't need to see out of my right eye.)

But this year I won't have that chance. The race is all official with real number plates and stuff. There's even a single speed class.

And it looks like it's going to be really competitive:

There's plenty of fast dudes in there, including my arch-evil-twenemy that I'm not related to, the Tressler Brothers, and the two loafs I'm sharing a hotel room/camping spot with.

But the fastiest of them all was the last to register. He registers at the last minute because nobody else would bother if he signed up first. He never loses a race. He leaves me sobbing and rolling in the mud like a wounded wildabeest every time I race him.

He's Gerry "The Strangler" Pflug.

Oh that stocking cap gives me the chills. Terrifying.

So, with a great challenge ahead of me, I think it's time to reveal the official 2011 season theme song:

May it's brassy funkiness carry me to victory.

more promiscuous jukes and mentally impaired sea-life

2011-03-22T06:24:00.000-07:00

To follow up on the Promiscuous Nissan Juke, I asked a girl in my class who is very into cars if she would ever be promiscuous with a turbo Juke owner.

Her answer:

"No."

I expected that.

Then she added. "I would never date someone who drove a foreign car."

Ouch:

art work by dick face

Then I thought about it, and I think I only have one close friend that drives an American car. And that's a now defunct Pontiac. I guess I better stay away from car-type drag strips (I would probably be welcome at the other type of drag strip.)

Unfortunately, the rest of that promiscuous post was not without controversy. The very nice Church Lady came and talked at school, then linked to everybody.

One reader was quite offended by this sentence: "And lastly, putting a turbo in a car that looks like a retarded manatee trapped inside a Sketchers Shape-Up is not going to allow me to have "sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis."

Offended reader said: "You should consider signing this pledge and sharing it with others:

http://www.r-word.org.

Better yet, you could write a blog post about the issue, encourage people not to use such a derogatory word and help make the southwestern PA corner a better place.

Think about it..."

So, if you're a manatee or whale and you're reading this post on your coral computer, I'm sorry. But I'm not going to give you an apologetic hug. I still think you're ugly and slimy. Shit. Just used the u-word. Damn me.

I will acknowledge that I can be an insensitive idiot. But it's not my fault. I hang out with Don Powers too much.

Anyway, I think I was really doing that person a favor because white people like being offended.

Laurel Highlands 50 and Coopers Rocks

2011-03-21T07:06:00.000-07:00

Don Powers asked if I wanted to ride on the mountain. I wanted to.

Don Powers mapped out a route that strung together every long painful climb in the Laurel Mountain area. I wanted to kill Don Powers.

I felt good for the first couple climbs, then my back started to lock up. It just wasn't ready to grind up that many miles of steep dirt.

Over on the Laurel Mountain side of the mountain parts of the fire road were still frozen.

We rode across on Beam Run Trail, which is just another fire road, then hit all the rocky single track through Black Bear, Wolf Rocks, and Fish Run.

I was eating vegan cookies and granola bars that I pilfered from Colleen. For some reason, they weren't doing shit for my energy levels. I'm done with sawdust and cranberries on long bike rides.

After beating ourselves to death on ten miles of rock gardens, Don insisted that we ride the whole way down the mountain.

Then we rode the whole way back up. Something in my lower back felt like it was going to rupture every time I turned the pedals over.

Don will probably want me to mention that I was tired in the last ten miles. So there. I mentioned it.

When we finally got back to the cars I drove straight to the Pie Shop and bought two cherry turnovers and a Starbucks bottled sugar coffee thing.

The next day we headed to Coopers Rock in WV for an easy ride with a hunchback and some other people.

I brought two king sized Twix Bars and some Reese's Cups and felt great all day. That proves that processed sugar garbage is superior to processed soy garbage for bike riding.

Coopers has a really nice network of trails. I'll have to hit that place more this year.

I was keeping my camera in a plastic bag (I'm very open to clever dry-camera suggestions), so it was a pain in the ass take pictures. I did a bad job of documenting the ride. But there were nice views:

Some standing and shin welts:

And dirty dirt:

We went to Burger King afterwards. Everybody ate some floppy little slabs of meat. Mine had two miserable slices of bacon. Don was very proud of consuming three double cheese burgers. I was very grossed out.

the poorly composed parting shot II: across the laurel highlands

2011-03-18T12:39:00.000-07:00

Zeus god of obscure fields:

promiscuous nissan jukes and rotten couches

2011-03-17T10:09:00.000-07:00

I was listening to the skatilites on Pandora and going about my rat killing watching a ball python kill a rat, when the music stopped for an ad.

We put a turbo in the Nissan Juke so you can be as promiscuous with the ladies as you are with your music!

I have a number of problems with this.

I've never met a girl that was impressed out of her pants by car, let alone a Japanese economy suv thing.

I don't appreciate that google tracks my every move on line, knows that I'm a young male, knows I like stupid looking cars, and knows that I have casual sex with my Pandora stations.

And lastly, putting a turbo in a car that looks like a retarded manatee trapped inside a Sketchers Shape-Up is not going to allow me to have "sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis."

Unless I can find a girl that's really turned on by sea-life and bad tennis shoes.

I did ride my bike yesterday, and I was going to come on here today and talk about how great it is to be a mountain biker in Western PA.

Then I ran into a branch that forced it's way up my nasal passage and made contact with my brain, killing the area that allows me to love Pennsylvania.

So here's my ride. There was a decayed couch. Yellow and orange shot gun shells. Slag heaps. An empty case of Keystone Lite. And some muddy ATV trails.

mushroom melts

2011-03-16T08:11:00.000-07:00

Inspired by my girlfriend's and friend who is not a girl's blogs, I decided to make weird looking hippy food. (Actually I was forced to because I ran out of cereal and tortellini.)

When ever I cook something, I have one goal. Edibility.

It doesn't have to taste or look nice, but it must make me feel like I've eaten something. This opens me up to range options that are overlooked by most people.

Things like peanut butter dipped carrots, Chexmix n' tuna, and provolone and honey sandwiches all burn in the great gastrointestinal furnace.

So yesterday I chopped up some fungus, covered it in cheese, and threw it on an English muffin.

To my surprise, it was more than edible. It actually tasted like food. But in the end it was a failure, because I wasn't full and had to supplement my diet with a bunch of pretzels.

Back to bikes.

It rained yesterday when I left class. I hated it. The Gnar Check V.2 has no fenders. My ass got soaked. I hated it more. I was cold.

I'm down to the treads on the Gnar Check V.2's rear tire. I plan to keep skidding it around corners until it pops. That should be an exciting event.

Ohiopyle - sugarloaf/ mccune/ baughman loop

2011-03-15T09:04:00.000-07:00

This has to be one of the biggest single track climbs in PA:

Seven miles with 1722 of elevation gain, all in one push. (Elevation profiles are a cyclist's version of blasting terrible music with the windows down. "Notice me notice me! Does this make my penis look bigger?")

It's almost as long as the Wheeler Loop climb at Breck Epic (minus the thin air.)

I mapped it out from Wilderness Voyaguers in town. I guesstimated the exact route since I have yet to enter the age of gps's and spinal taps and other bicycle mounted wiz-bangery.

Although I did recently upgrade my telephone so that it could remind me of important events:

Masking tape app(lication)

Anyway, there should be a cue sheet of trail names on the MapMyRide.
<p>&amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br /&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt; &amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/view/29617918"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Sugarloaf/ Mccune/ Baughman&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br/&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br /&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt; &amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/?location=Mill Run, PA"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Find more Cycling Routes / Bike Rides in Mill Run, PA&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br /&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt; &amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;gt;</p>
I do a short version of this loop most days over the summer, but on Sunday I went the whole way to the top of the mountain.

It was almost 90 minutes of standing on the pedals. Most of Sugarloaf is wide and covered in loose river stones. In the middle it's almost too steep to clear.

On top of the mountain at McCune, the trail narrows down and the vegetation is scrubby. Stuff gets twisty and rocky like Big Bear or Laurel Mountain. There's a few overlooks on the trail. The river is a long way down.

After that, the downhill is almost 20 minutes of steep singletrack. My hands went numb from the cold, and I could barely grab the brakes before I hit the last steep drop on Baughman.

It good preparation for the Annual Championship of the Universe of Riding Raccoon Trails.

the poorly composed parting shot

2011-03-11T06:28:00.000-08:00

I don't think people spend much time reading blogs on Friday, and I don't feel like writing a lot. (If you want to read something, I have an article in today's Post-Gazette.) So I'm going to start ending the week with a few bad pictures.

Bird eats squirrel:

Montana eats bird:

clearing mohican

2011-03-10T14:58:00.000-08:00

I did go to Mohican the other day, and all the trails were perfect.

Well, all of them except this one:

This trail will be temporarily closed while Columbia Gas is working on the well clearings. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Like most state forests, I'm sure that Mohican has had wells in place for a while. I just can't help thinking that I'll be running in to closures like this pretty often now that Marcellus drilling is ramping up.

I went back to check it out, and the gas company had cut about a 30 foot wide swath of trees out. I assume it was for a pipe line.

Leasing popular park land to a gas company is like renting a church for a porn convention. There are some places that should be off limits.

But at least the notice was polite.

missed exits and bananas fosters coffee

2011-03-09T08:24:00.001-08:00

Back into the grey plains.

Every time I drive into Ohio, I look down at my ipod to skip some terrible song at exactly the wrong second. Then I curse loudly, smack my steering wheel, and miss the exit.

This time I ended up at the Arabica Cafe, so it was alright.

The place reminded me of the Coffee Bean where I used to work. It had the same horribly confusing and inconvenient entrance, pumpkin orange bathroom walls, and fake fire place.

I got a mug of bananas fosters coffee. It smelled exactly like artificial banana and tasted exactly like coffee.

I normally like things to smell like they taste (garlic should smell like garlic and taste like garlic, tofu should smell like processed soy garbage and taste like processed soy garbage, ect.) but the banana fosters coffee was a nice effect. The nose had me expecting to taste something kind of I enjoy, but then it hit the tongue and turned out to be something I love.

Once I got to Wooster, the town was so excited that they brought out their miserable smiling pizza slice to greet me.

I rode the 24 mile loop at Mohican yesterday, and it was great. Maybe I'll talk about that tomorrow.

vulture's knob

2011-03-08T07:09:00.000-08:00

If somebody tried to convince me that there was a rad trail system next to this soda/cereal/cheese puff field, I'd tell them to dive into a pine tree.

But it's there, and it has descents like this:

The trail is that shale filled rut under the bridge. I rode it a couple times this summer, and it was sketch balls crazy. The waterfall running down the middle of it yesterday was too much. I walked.

The guys that build the trails at Vulture's Knob have done an awesome job. It's a small piece of land, but by twisting the trails around, they've squeezed at least 10 miles of single track out of the place.

There aren't any long climbs, but they're all hard. Steep, loose, and full of tight turns.

The dirt out there is thick clay with some loose pebbles worked in. Even with all the snow that just melted, the trails were nice and tacky. It felt so good to flow through the trees after a long winter.

A few of the downhill sections had turned into rivers. They were looking pretty eroded, so I took it slow to avoid making them any worse. Everywhere else the mud was concentrated into a few puddles.

I tried to ride up one of the bridges, and my rear tire broke free half way up. I got my feet down, but kept sliding backwards. Right before I went over the edge I was able to grab a railing.

I took it easy on the wood work after that. It was slippier than shampoo on a linoleum floor.

The Knob is a great example of how much can be done with a few acres of well managed ground.

I even found some dinner there:

Trial guide and directions

I'm going to Mohican today. If you have the means, I highly recommend dating someone who lives next to a bunch of good mountain biking. It's swell.

fixing things that aren’t broken

2011-03-07T10:15:00.001-08:00

You might have noticed the new header. If you didn't, that last bump in the road was a fluffy little puppy. Start paying attention. There's a small child weeping back there.

But it's a damn fine piece of original art work.

Anyway, I'm changing things up a little. This blog's focus is going to shift from "a blog about bike racing by a goddamn dirty hippy" to "a blog about being a goddamn dirty hippy and racing bikes."

So not much will really change. I'm just terrified that if I keep only writing about bike racing I'll end up disappearing like Thom Parsons, pumping a constant stream of Morrissey into my head like Mahokey, or worse, becoming a Velcro strap salesman like Dicky.

Knobby Meats is a great title and stuff, but I know I'm missing out on hits because people are afraid they're clicking on a rancid porn site. I'm not going to change the address now, but I might at some point. If somebody knows how to have an old url redirect to a new one, let me know. I'll have to do something else with the venerable Meats name.

Maybe I'll start a rancid porn site. That would be a good way to generate funds for this season. Anybody want to let me film them doing it with a bag of expired turkey?

In any case, stuff is going to get more exciting and regular around here (just like my metabolism.) So saddle up and click that little follow button down on the bottom right. That's right, I'm pitifully asking you to boost my motivation to write things.

2011-03-04T12:59:00.000-08:00

No post here today, but I wrote a review of my white person bare feet over on the Wilderness Voyaguers blog.

Here's a teaser:

Sexy, ain't it?

more of the stupid gnar check

2011-03-02T05:18:00.000-08:00

The more I ride it around, the more I like it.

This bike is making me rethink what a commuter bike should be. Before I built this up, I was riding my Crosby with disc brakes, hope hubs, fenders and all the other wiz-bangs. It was good, but I really didn't need all that stuff. It took me 12 minutes to ride to class on the Crosby and it takes 15 on the Gnar Check v2.

Once I got to class on the Crosby, I had to spend the day clacking around in very un-fashionable spd shoes. Now I can wear my blue leopard print pumas whenever it strikes my fancy.

I don't have to worry about adjusting crap and making sure my discs don't rub. The bike is even less maintenance than a brakeless fixed gear.

On a fixed gear, I always have to check the chain tension, but on the Gnar Check I could care less. If the chain wants to fall off, I'll let it. The coaster brake doesn't really work anyway.

Running Down the Ohiopyle

2011-03-01T07:44:00.000-08:00

It looks like Shelmire and some other mystery man are going to challenge Dahn Powers and I at the 9 Hours of Cranky Monkey. I would be worried, but apparently he can't dismount a stationary trainer without snagging himself on a chain ring.

So I'm not worried.

In Colleen's last day of being here and not next to the Eye of Sauron, we went trail running in Ohiopyle on Great Gorge. The trail was covered in water from a thunderstorm that hit in the morning, but it was still a swell time.

I'm going to have to go running a few days a week this season. Maybe I'll even do an Xterra Tri. Tim Carson always told me there was big money in Xterras.

With all the rain and snow melt, the water was the highest I've ever seen it at Cucumber Falls.

Looks like the perfect place to slap a few Marcellus Shale drilling pads doesn't it?

Oh well. At least the waste water isn't radioactive or anything.

Natalie Portman and Peeps

2011-02-28T07:46:00.000-08:00

Don Powers clicked in our registration for 9 Hours of Cranky Monkey. Along with the Mohican 100, that brings the 100% official race schedule up to two. To prepare for the pain of those races, I went to see Black Swan with Colleen.

As much as I love irrational women, dancing and watching someone clip their finger nails, I couldn't get into the movie. I won't say it was terrible, but I will say that I hated it.

After watching Nataile Portman cry and vomit for two hours, I needed something to cheer me up. So we went to a drug store and looked at Peeps.

Ah. Much happier.

We were in Slippery Rock all weekend visiting some friends, and I hoped to get out to Moraine, but it seemed like the trails would be too snowy. A shady arcade/ bowling ally seemed like a reasonable alternative. It was worth it when Colleen was ~~crushed~~ mistaken for a teenager and hit on by some sweaty pre-teen in Dance Dance Revolution.

(Had I been brave enough to face him, that sweaty pre-teen would have crushed me even worse. He was a damn fine dancer. And more fun to watch than Natalie Portman.)

The next day we drove back down the spine of Pennsylvania to the Ohiopyle Metropolitan area. Given my gay little convertible's status as the happiest car in the world, I've decided to name it The Toot. I'd rather be on a bike, but when I can't be, this is a step in the right direction.

mohican gallahand

2011-02-23T08:31:00.000-08:00

I spent another weekend in the state that can't decide if it's Middle America, Middle Earth, or the Middle East.

While Colleen was waiting all day for her chance to run 25 laps on a carpet oval, I went to Mohican State Park. The trails were great, the sun was out, and my feet were sweating in my winter riding shoes. That place incredible when it's dry. I rolled about 20 miles of single track before I had to go watch the aforementioned oval running.

After the meet, I witnessed an adult tricycle carrying a load of freshly pressed dress shirts.

After witnessing freshly pressed dress shirts on an adult tricycle, we drove back to the annual Winter Galaland (which I pronounced like a Scottish name, but everyone else insisted was gala land.) I was instructed to dress nice, so I put on my finest Canadian Tuxedo:

At the Galaland, my faith in a higher power was restored. Colleen wanted me to dance to that horrible horrible Journey song that everyone loves, and as she grabbed my hand to drag me to the dance floor, she turned and cracked her head into a pole.

It wasn't a lightning bolt, but there's no doubt in my mind that something intervened to save me from the devil music.

And I won't be getting that frame that I thought I was going to get. This year I'll be racing on something very similar to what I've always raced on.

otters and pictures of don powers

2011-02-16T07:19:00.000-08:00

See that?

That's the sun. I took a picture because living in Western PA sometimes I forget what it looks like.

It's been nice for a few days, so Rob and I are going to hit some trails today. It should be awesome and muddy.

And to get to those trails, I'll be cruising with the top down:

Driving such a feminine little car, I expect a certain degree of ribbing.

Mahokey wants to borrow the car so he can try to get a little action at a truck stop.

Don Powers keeps sending me this picture of himself and Aaron:

(I'm still not sure what his point is.)

And Team Dicklover called me gay. This is the same man who spent three days talking about dildos, and the creator of the "wind up hopping penis" video.

Then to prove his superior oldness, he compared me to a movie that was released nine years before my birth. (I had no idea what he was talking about before some intensive googling.)

The basis for his claim was that I hated otters because I didn't pay the DMV extra for a wildlife plate. Which is funny, because but the Department of Motor Vehicles isn't the first organization that pops into my head when I think "otter conservation."

Driving a car with a wildlife plate is kind of like wearing a Jan Sport fanny pack with embroidery that says "I <3 high fashion!!!"

But in any case, I love otters. They're like the aquatic version of viking cats.

I wasn't born on the peach truck yesterday

2011-02-15T05:34:00.000-08:00

I put my Niner on Craigslist, and I got some quick responses. From Robert Lee.

Robert Lee: Hello

I will like to know if this item still up for sale?

Get back to me as soon as possible.

Thanks

I was a little disturbed by the premonition (I will like to know) and the forgotten "is" (if this item still up for sale), but hey, it's internets. I screw stuff up all the time on here. So I replied.

Me: Yep. It's still for sale.

Robert Lee: Hello,i am highly interested in buying your item listed on CL from you, I will like you to give me the Price . As for the shipping, I have a reliable shipper that takes goods care of all my shipping and he will be picking it up after you get the payment and cashed it.Cashier Check is my payment method. So please email me back so that we can conclude about it. and also i will like you to feed me out with all of this information so i can send payment down...

Name on check...

Address...

City...

State...

Zip code.......

Phone#......(both cell and home number)

I await your this information so that i can fax it down to my client that will send you the payment.so i will like you to keep off all other buyer as i will be buying it from you.do email me back a.s.a.p....

He changed the font of his email to Comic Sans. When I looked at that first curvy hello, I knew it was a scam. Does he really think that a little round font all it takes to gain people's trust? Needless to say, I didn't "feed him out with all this information."

But maybe he was really going to "send payment down" from his castle in the clouds. If he was genuine, I'm sorry. Fortunately there are plenty of other prospective buyers out there:

Hello,
I really appreciate your response and i want you to consider the item
has been sold,i promise to add extra $100 for you to take the advert
down completely.... so i will be rest assured am in hand of the
item..,anyway i should have come down to come and look at it but I
don't have time to come over to take a look due to my Business
transactions that makes me busy

Damn those Business transactions that makes him busy.

the glamorous side of bike racing

2011-02-12T10:18:00.000-08:00

Racing is hard on equipment, and eventually everything breaks. But some things start to go out way before their time.

Like my shoes:

I need to get at least two seasons out of a pair of shoes. I bought these last July, and they're already starting to come apart. I do have a ton miles on them, but carbon fiber clicky-buckle shoes are way to expensive to throw away every 6 months.

So I've gotta fix them. I tried stitching them back together, but I couldn't get the needle in (partly because the leather is hard, and partly because I'm a crappy seamstress.)

Then I tried silicone sealant:

Meant for cars, not shoes. Big fail. I did succeed in covering my fingers in black shit.

The only other glue I had sitting around was good old Elmer's Wood Glue:

Wood is porous, fabric is porous, therefore wood glue must work on fabric. At least I hope it does. It seems like it's holding, and if I smother the seams in the silicone they should be good for another couple of months.

Next season is coming up fast, and I might be riding a new frame. The new frame will be almost twice the weight of my old frame. And that's all I'm gonna say at the moment.

But to make room for the new, I've gotta sell some stuff:
Niner One9
Surly Cross Check
Specalized S-Works Helmet

the new transport machine

2011-02-10T07:29:00.000-08:00

It took some craigslist work, but I was eventually able to sell the Grumbler for two grand, which is the same price I paid for it. Considering I put 40,000 miles and three years on it, that's alright.

I was planning on buying a VW Golf. Before the weekend I checked craigslist one more time, and found what I wasn't looking for. A rust free Cabrio. I instantly decided that I wanted a convertible Golf anyway and bought it.

Eat your heart out Dahn Powers. I bought the only vehicle gayer than a Miata. (not a hatch-back Miata, which is like a Miata's homophobic bro, making it even lamer than a true Miata, and thus lamer than a Cabrio)

Relatedly, I pushed a Miata out of the snow this weekend. It was stuck in a flat parking lot. Cool car.

Back to my very awesome Cabrio. It rocks. Cheaper insurance, almost twice as fuel efficient as the Grumbler, and it's so much more fun to drive. It's a lot smaller than the Jeep was (I could probably fit the Cabrio in the Jeep), but I can still cram all my stuff inside.

Once I get a hitch and put on my Yakmia Doubledown (not to be confused with a KFC Doubledown), I should be able to carry everything I need to live over the summer. And I can cruise with the top down. Very sweet.

This car has forced me to conclude that big SUVs are silly. I really liked the Grumbler, but even living in the woods for half the year I never found a situation where I actually need four wheel drive. I had to go hunt for places to use the transfer case. Kinda fun, but not practical.

The huge amount of space in the Jeep was cool but I never used all of it. Even with the back seat out, it was about 6 inches too short to sleep in comfortably. Better setting up a tent.

When I got the Cabrio, it was pretty far out of alignment but the tires were still good. I convinced myself that it would be fine, and put 600 miles on the car over the weekend. I really wanted to go see Colleen's dirty Ohio floor:

And I paid for those floor Cheese-itz:

Good thing 14" car tires are the same price as bicycle tires.

good news from the great beady-eyed rat

2011-02-02T07:21:00.000-08:00

In other news related to worthless mammals, it looks like my cats have figured out where the magic food comes from.

They can knock the bag over and spill the food, but they can't eat it until it's in their bowl. When I came home the fuzzy one attacked me like he hadn't eaten in days. I picked food up off the floor, put it in his dish, and he munched away happily.

In other other news related to even bigger and more worthless mammals, I'm continuing the quest to make my Cross Check as stupid and pointless as possible.

Behold, the Gnar Check v2:

I got bored of the 29er fork and fixed gear, so I put the original fork back on. Then I threw on some 26 inch wheels and a coaster brake.

Nothing makes a bike suck quite like a coaster brake. There's a ton of drag, the bike can't stop, and when I ride off a curb the back wheel locks up and sends me over the bars. I think drop bars, gears and road tires are the only things that could make this bike worse.

2011-01-31T12:54:00.000-08:00

After a weekend of starvation and drinking dirty sink water at American University in DC, I felt pretty ok on my ride home today.

It always feels good to get out there in the sun and breathe.

I registered for the Mohican 100 this morning. If it rains again...I'll still race, but I'll be real pissed about it. I can't wait for the season to start so that I can get back out on the road.

stop sign sprints

2011-01-28T09:11:00.000-08:00

Stop sign sprints are the closest thing to structured training that I do all year. They suck real bad, but they work the legs quick.

I don't keep track of zones or heart rates or any of that other witchcraft, but they still work. They seem like the best way to replicate the short bursts of power used in racing on east coast single track.

I leave my house and sprint up to the top of the hill without warming up to simulate the start of a race. Then I roll into a neighborhood, and every time I hit a stop sign I slam on the brakes and track stand for 10 seconds. Then I sprint as hard as I can to the next stop sign and brake again.

I do that until I feel like throwing up, then roll around for a few minutes of recovery. Then I start sprinting and stopping again. When I reach the vomit threshold, I slow down and soft pedal to recover. Then I go home and dig into the mini-marshmallows.

Or I used to dig into the mini-marshmallows until I saw this:

I wonder how many people died with a mouth stuffed full of tiny marshmallows before Kraft started printing this warning.

bare feet for white people

2011-01-24T14:00:00.000-08:00

Vibram has built the most advanced shoes in history. This combination of abrasion resistant polyamide fabric, Hypalon straps, Chinese sweat shop labor, and antimicrobial microfiber has produced a shoe that feels like a bare foot. They're so sensitive that technical tree climbers can "tune into tree time" while wearing them.

Behold, the culmination of hundreds of years of rubber and textile technologies.

It's amazing. Vibram has managed to charge $85.00 for something that much of the world does out of necessity:

Look at how connected to nature that little barefoot starving kid is.

Sarcasm and the fact that the price of my pseudo-barefeet could probably feed that kid for a year aside, I dig these things. They're neat.

They don't really feel like bare feet. They feel more like a 2mm thick rubber sock. Because that's what they are.

I don't feel more connected to the Earth, nor do I feel all Zen-ey like I do when I "become one with my fixed gear bicycle", but I can feel sticks and rocks and other shit that I step on. I'm not sure why I want to feel all the little pointy things under my feet, but I do. I'll leave it at that.

They are very light and fun to hop around in. I wore them hiking for a few miles when the ground was melted, and they felt good. I tried to run in them a few days ago when the snow was still on the ground, and my feet went numb. So they didn't feel like anything.

Cool shoes. If you're not afraid of looking like a pretentious hippy douche bag, I highly recommend picking some up.

a super productive weekend

2011-01-23T08:24:00.000-08:00

The Mountain State 100 put registration up over on bikereg. A 100 miler in West Virginia sounds pretty sweet. And the after party is at a place called the Dirtbean. That's just too good to be true. I'm thinking about it. Race is on May 14th.

It's been awful cold here for the last few days. I rode a little and ran up some stairs in a parking garage for a while, but mostly I sat on my ass and read.

I discovered the primary danger in buying a book from a used book store. A bookmark with someone's child on it might fall out:

I was terrified when this little blond kid fell into my lap. Look at the beady-eyed devil. Smiling his little 2005 smile. Who knows where he is now. He could be selling heroine on the streets, or worse, making smoothies at Orange Julius.

I also repacked my tool bag. While I had everything out, I made a list of all the stuff I haul around.

-8 spare I9 spokes (they don't break often, but I assume that I won't be able to walk into a shop and buy some if they do.)

-Ratcheting screwdriver with torx and hex bits

-Formula brake bleed kit

-Needle nose pliers

-Shock pump

-Hammer, a plastic one for fixing things and a metal one for destroying them

-Crank Brothers Multi tool

-Vice grips

-Channel Locks

-Pedal Wrench (not sure why I carry that around, none of my pedals have wrench flats)

-Files

-Ratchet Set

-Stans sealant and tape

-Chain lube

-Park grease

-Floor pump

And small parts:

-Formula compression fittings

-Headset spacer

-Northwave shoe buckles (rocks are not kind to clicky-buckles)

-Crank Brothers Cleats

-Stan's valve stems

-CO2

-Zip ties

-Extra chain pieces

-Digital pressure gauge

-Locktite

-Brake pads

-Pad spreader

-Duct tape

-20t cog for when the first one wears out

With some spare tires and friends to steal stuff from that's enough to fix almost any bike or small car problem on the road. It's probably two much. I think the back pack I have that stuff in weighs almost 40 pounds:

But I'd rather have something and not need it than need it and not have it.