Michaux Maximus Race Report (2012)

"Are those painted on?"

"They've gotta be."

Cinder Bloch and I are eating fine meat burgers at Shipwreck in Shippensburg. The waitress is wearing the tightest pair of black tights I've ever seen. Ever curve of her vagina is clearly visible. Now she's bending over a table, taking orders from a family with a bunch of little kids. Can't believe that's legal. This place is awesome.

"So should we camp, or stay with JPok? He said that there's one bed, and no floor space, but we could probably make it work," Cinder Bloch says.

"There's no way I'm sleeping in a crusty one-bed motel room with JPok. Let's take our chances camping. Maybe it won't rain," I say.

We finish our meat burgers, then wait for the waitress to take our money. And wait. And wait. So much for setting up tents in the daylight. Finally pay our bills, drive out of the town, out of the ticky-tacky development, and into the big empty forest. Motor around on dark back roads for a while, and thanks to Cinder Bloch's magic phone, we don't get lost.

There's fire at the edge of the big big grassy parking lot. An electric hoola-hoop is flashing around in the dark.

We walk over to the fire. Topher is wiggling around with one of the hoola-hoops. His Osama beard is dancing under his chin.

"Get it up on your belly! Use it like a shelf!" somebody yells. A blonde girl is giving him instructions. The hoola-hoop passes to another crusty stoned dude. She yells at him for his incorrect hooping technique. Buck is talking about his moon mat. It's made out of sheets of leftover ear plug material.

"No! You're doing it all wrong!" the girl yells at somebody else. Cool. That's enough of that. I walk into the dark field. Lay down in my tent.

I wake up. Hit the glow button on my watch. 2:30. Dammit. I'm freezing. I wrap my pillow around my face and slide deeper into the sleeping bag.

Crawl out of the tent at seven. Pretty chilly, but the sun is out and it's starting to look like a good day. I eat a couple pickles, then smear peanut butter on an expired pop-tart.

By start time, it's beautiful. Perfect blue sky, and warm enough to ditch my arm warmers. This is gonna be sweet. We line up on the gravel road. The Open Men's class is released. The single speeders shuffle forward. This is a long race, don't burn up in the first few miles like last year.

Go. A guy in a skid lid and Dickies shorts gets out front. That's fine. I sit on Skid Lid's wheel. We make a right turn. The single track is coming up. I spin fast and shoot around Skid Lid, slid into the turn and start climbing the first hill.

The double track is covered in sharp rock. It looks like somebody shattered a huge limestone window and scattered the pieces through the woods.

Pass some of the guys in Open. Riding well, just stay smooth. I hit a short steep piece of trail. There's some grinding, and a guy on a single speed shoots around me. Fine fine. Just stay with him. He's going hard over the rocks, and climbing well. We cruise through some tight single track that's barely wide enough for my handle bars. Mountain laurel scrapes at my face.

We start a descent. There's some rattling. Then a thud. I look down. Shit. Bottle ejected again. I stop, grab the bottle, and bend my cage back. The guy is gone. Gotta chase him down now. I get a few glimpses of him  through the trees. Then we hit a gravel road. I pedal hard. Almost got him.

Swing around a gate on the road, and scrape into a stick. I take another pedal stroke, and lunge towards my stem. Chain dropped. Goddammit. I get the chain back on. The guy is way up the climb now. Settle into this climb, and go get him. You're fine.

I start cruising up the hill. I feel strong. I pass a couple guys, then a couple more, then the guy on the single. Sweet. Keep it rolling.

The climb goes on forever. Up and up and up. Finally hit the top, then start winding through some super rocky single track. I'm riding smooth, and I think I'm opening up the gap a little. I don't see or hear anyone around me. Just rocks and red arrows on the trees.

I pick my way down one of the descents. Big rock drop after rock drop. You have the lead, just ride smart. No reason to risk a flat.

Through a switchback section. They're 180 degrees, with a big rock drop in the middle, and barely long enough to get a bike turned around. Back up to the top of the ridge, over some huge boulders. I dab a foot, stop, then clip back in. I'm half way through a pedal stroke, and flying over the bars. Shit. My front tire was butted right up against a little stump. I push my bike off me, then roll over in the soft dirt.

Flowing down a smoother section of trail. Making good time. I've got this. I'm finally gonna have a good race in Michaux. I roll over a rock. There's hissing.

Stan's is spraying all over the trail. Fuck no. I get off my bike, and shake the tire. Not sealing. I look at it closer. Just a little puncture. I spin the wheel. And an inch-long sidewall cut. Fucking shit. Another sidewall cut. That's the third time this month.

It's fine. Don't panic. Just get it fixed. I undo my stuff strap. JPok rides past towing a single speeder. I get the tube in. The single speeder I was chasing before rides past. Screw in the CO2. Two more guys and TJ on a single speed rip past. I put a Cliff Bar wrapper against the cut, blow up the tube, put the wheel on, set my bike down, and take a pee break.

You've got some work to do, but you can still win this. I get back on my bike and start hammering. I catch TJ at a stream crossing. Then ride a hill that the a few other guys are walking. Keep it going. I'm winding through a pine section, roots going every direction. I see JPok and the other guy up ahead. It looks like I'm closing the gap.

Out onto a steep 4x4 road. JPok is farther up, but I can see the other single speed. Get him on the hill. I spin up until I'm right on his wheel, then give it everything to accelerate past. It hurts, but I keep it going until I have a big gap. Gunnar and the Pflug always drop me like that.

The gaps open. Awesome. It worked. I keep going hard through the single track. I see JPok up ahead occasionally. I stop at the third aid.

"How far to the finish?" I say.

"2.5 miles," he says. He's filling one of my bottles.

"That's it? Just 2.5 miles?" I grab the bottle. This thing's almost over. I grind up the last climb, turn onto another road. There's the finish. Damn. Already. I sprint down the road, and under some red streamers.

"Where's the finish?" I yell to some spectators. They point back to the streamers. That was supposed to be a turn. You dumbass. I sprint back, make the turn, and cross the line.

Won it. I'm stoked. It wasn't a perfect race, but I kept it together.

Mountwood WVMBA #1 (2012)

I'm sitting in fifth, drafting behind the lead guys on the gravel. We're two miles in and about to hit the single track. I slingshot around the back four guys and get on Tim de le Garcon's wheel right as we go into the woods. Perfect. I've never had a better start. Now I just need to stick up here for a while. We already have a 30 second gap on the field.

"Hey, Montana, you lost a bottle," says whoever was right behind me.

"Damn, where at?" I say.

"Back at that little log bridge,"

Man. I should go back. I remember how bad Garcon looked last year when he finished with one bottle. He was hardly moving when I passed him. It's just as hot this year. Better go back. I slide off the trail and start running backwards.

Then everything goes to hell. I'm sprinting the wrong way down the tight single track, and about 40 people are riding fast the other way. I see my bottle. Some other guy doesn't. He nails it with his front wheel, goes over the bars. There's a big pile up and some yelling.

I'm still running. The bottle is way farther back than I though. I'm about to hit the front of the train. The first riders come through and shoulder me to the side. I knock someone off the trail. Another rider hits me back. I feel like I'm trying to drive the wrong way on an interstate.

Finally get to the bottle. I bend over to pick it up. I'm causing such a mess that Betsy Shogren yells at me. I stumble back onto my bike and start riding.

One hand off the bars, I try to put the bottle in my back pocket. Then I'm rolling headfirst into the dirt. Shit. Clipped a tree. This is going horribly. Betsy yells at me again. First time I've heard her sound annoyed. Weird.

I get back on again. Get it together dumbass. Now you've got some passing to do. About 30 people went around me while I was fumbling with that stupid bottle. Such a mistake. Being thirsty would have been way better.

Start passing. Everybody is spread out, so now I have to get one rider at a time. Sprint coast. Sprint coast. Sprint coast. Going fast then backing off is killing me. Halfway though the lap I finally catch up to Gnarmire.

Then I catch Jake. "Is Don Powers ahead of you?"

"Yeah, he's riding good,"

He's riding good? Fuck me. Why does he have to ride good today? He'll have to stop to throw up soon. Then I'll catch him. I hope. I'm not in a happy place. So pissed at myself for bumbling that start.

I'm going as hard as I can and riding well, but it isn't enough. It takes almost 20 minutes to chase down Joey Riddle from the first time I see him. Back on the gravel road we started on, I can see Nate up in the woods. He's gotta be leading single speed, and a least a few minutes ahead. There just isn't enough race left.

Joey and I go back and forth down the hill a couple times. Then we hit the final section to the finish. I get ready to sprint for it.

30 yards to the finish. I pull along side him and start to go. He slows down. I look over. What the hell is he doing?

"My legs went soft," he says.

Fine by me. I give it one more pedal stroke and coast in ahead of him. Dahn Powers is already standing at the finish.

"DAHN PAHRS RIDE BIKE REAL GOODER THAN YOU!" he shouts. Fuck me.

By the luck of registration, I ended up 2nd SS. Nate won, Dahn was racing Vet on a single speed, and John Proppe was racing expert on a single speed. They were both a few minutes ahead of me. Happily, I won more money than Dahn (4th in Vet).

That's the first time I've gone back for dropped equipment in a race. Won't do it again. I've had near perfect races at Mountwood for the last three years, so I guess I was due to screw up. Still one of my favorite courses though. The folks who work on those trails put some serious time in, and it shows. Everything is perfect flowing bench cut. Fun times. Unless Dahn Pahrs beats you.

Big Bear 2X12 Report '10

Last weekend was supposed to be the 24 Hour National Championships at Big Bear, but after some shady excuses from the promoter, the event was canceled, leaving a pack bicycle racers full of gu and anger.

The Big Bear2X12 was created to fill the void left by the 24 hour. The race consisted of a really confusing name, duo teams, six twelve mile laps per team, and a $1000 prize in each category. Rob and I teamed up for the event, and I was confident that we could be victorious, even with a fast SS class that included a team of national champions. Even still, Rob required coaxing, so I promised that if he did the 2X12 with me, I would go to Stoopid 50 with him the next day. It sounded like a fun idea.

Rob picked me up in the Greensburg, and we headed down to WV with offical pghracing.org reporter Benjamin "the official pghracing.org reporter" Stephens. We stopped at a Sheetz so I could pick up some riding glasses, and Ben took a rather stalkerish photo of me exiting the building:

(Pghracing's finest cycling coverage.)

When we got to Big Bear, we had to wait in line to do our second registration and legal paper signing. The line was moving quickly, and pretty soon the annoyed looking helper lady got to us.

"Team name?" she asked
"EAT ME." Rob replied.
Not amused, she stared at us for a few seconds. "Yeah. I did see that one in there. I should have assigned you 69. Here." she shoved a red relay stick at us and two number plates. "Are you both over 21?"

I told her that Rob wasn't, and we tried to explain that we weren't going to stick around for the party anyway, because we were heading to State college to race the next day. "Well that's just stupid." she replied.

We drove the rest of the way up the road and got Rob's little easy up popped up next to a few of the other SS teams. The clearing where everyone was camped was huge and covered in sand and fire ants. It looked like a desert in the middle of the forest. The wind was blowing, and Rob didn't have stakes for the tent. He tied it to the plastic fender of his Jetta to keep it from blowing away.

The race started at the bottom of the big gravel road that we had just driven up, so after I got myself all changed I headed down to the line. Seconds before the race started, Gunnar came bombing down the hill, and as soon as he crossed the line in the wrong direction, we were off.

Everybody's crushing it up the hill, fighting for the hole shot. I enter the woods about 10 riders back, and I'm not able to work up the steam to pass for almost 15 minutes. The fields flying. I guess a $1000 prize is powerful incentive to go fast.

I finally start to get some passes, and work my way up to fifth. The course is damp and soft. Even flat ground is hard to ride with all the resistance in the soil. The rocks are everywhere. I'm digging it.

We hit the big chunky downhill on the course, and I bump and bounce my way down it and catch up to Jason Cyr and JPok. I pass Jason on the next climb and move into 4th. The rest of the course is a false flat, and I feel like I'm not going anywhere even though I'm working like crazy. The soil is so loamy.


I pass the WV Night Club's tent in the woods, and ride over their sweet jump, satisfying their request to "Huck it!"


(I landed on my front wheel, but this picture sure makes it look like I know what I'm doing.)

I finish the lap and hand the stick to Rob. Go over and look at the clock. We're already 4 minutes behind the Wes S. and Gerry Pflug national champion team. Nuts. I'm not very confident anymore. Oh wells.

I wonder how Rob's lap is going. Looks like it's going frowny:


I head back to the pop up to drink a starbucks frappuchino and eat some chex mix. Rob Spreng (enemy Rob, not team mate Rob) and I talk about the lap while lying in camp chairs. It only feels like a few minutes, but it's already been an hour, so we head back to the exchange zone to go out for the next lap.

Evan Perone passed teammate Rob during the lap, so enemy Rob gets to go out before me. I spend my lap trying to catch him, but I never see the guy. I feel better than I did the first lap, but I'm pretty sure that's only because I'm going slower. Mike "vaginas are cool" Cordaro is on my ass for most of the lap.

Try to pass a sport rider, but he has ear buds in both ears, music blasting. I ring my bell and yell at him, but he still doesn't hear me. I go for the pass and he jumps out of the way. "Oh sorry man!" he blurts.

"It's ok man. Just put it in one ear." I doubt he hears me.



I come back to the exchange zone and Rob goes out for his second lap. I repeat the sitting and relaxing routine for a few minutes, then the announcer comes on the loud speaker.

"Folks, just so you know, there is a thunderstorm on the way, and there are 40 mph winds. Get your stuff tied down."

Dammit man. I'm so sick of rain. I pack up the pop up and put all the chairs in the car. It starts to rain, and Ben and I get inside the sun heated Jetta. It starts to pour. "Well now how do you feel about going out for your lap?" he asks.

"Like shit." I reply. But I have to, so I head out into the rain.

Rob comes back, and I go for the last lap. It's dumping rain. Now the course is muddy and slippery. I'm having a good time at first, but after the big downhill I hit the false flat again and feel like I'm going even slower than before. I am. It's so slow. It feels like a continuation of Mohican last week.

I end the lap covered in mud and 14 minutes slower than my 1st lap. I didn't lose any places, but I didn't gain any either. The sun comes out. I go get in the shower wearing my full kit and shoes. I'm done for the day. We're sitting in forth.

Rob finishes his lap in about the same amount of time I did mine and we get packed up and ready to head for State College. We grab some food and hang out for a little before we leave.

50 miles of rocks tomorrow. We're not so sure that it sounds like a fun idea anymore.

And I won (actually I came in 2nd. but 2nd is still a win when you only need to be top 4) the Breck Epic Bloggers Grant Competition. I'm going to Breck! Hells yeah! I can't wait. Thanks a ton if you took the time to vote for me.

The Big Bear race was a great event. Super course, and the 6 lap format was perfect. Long enough, but not too long. I liked it a lot. Stoopid 50 report tomorrow. All photos stolen from Ben Stephens or the facebook.

first fixed dirty dozen

"a) you're retarded

b) you're crazy
c) you're insane
dd on fixed has never been done.
you'd need at least a 39x27, or maybe a 34x20 could do it." 

"Your knees will explode and shower surrounding riders with fiery bone fragments"

"It could be done on a single speed with some fairly low gearing (low enough to get up canton). Staying with the group in between hills would be somewhat hard. 
Fixed is out. No way would that work!"


(two direct quotes and one paraphrase. I will not reveal which is which)


The Dirty Dozen has been held for 25 years without anyone completing it on a single speed or fixed gear. And with good reason. But I'm young and stupid, and someone was going to be the first to do it eventually, so I decided to take a stab at it.  


I hatched the plan to ride the Dirty Dozen on a fixed gear about a month ago. I figured (correctly) that if I picked the right gear (39X20), the hills would suck, and the flats and downhills would suck even more.


I knew riding 60ish miles in such a small gear was going to be hard, and when Don, Aaron, and I rode over to the Washington Blvd. Oval, my suspicions were confirmed. They were easily rolling away from me while I was spinning my brains out.  


We arrived at the oval and registered, then proceeded to stand around in the cold for almost two hours 180 as riders trickled in and got suited up. The whole time I was worried more about being dropped between the hills than I was about actually getting up them. 

(photo cred Fred Jordan)

(The day before the race I decided to throw a yellow wheel on my bike to keep it nice and low-key)

Eventually everyone registered, and we grouped up and prepared to head out. 

(Rob Lochner)

To my delight, the pace to the first hill was completely relaxed. I chatted with a few people on the way over, and was asked for the first of 180 times that day "What gear are ya runnin?" Eventually we hit the base Center Ave., and I took it easy on the way up. It didn't feel to hard, and before I knew it, the first climb was over. Only 12 more to go.

I have never felt comfortable taking my feet off the pedals and fixed gear coasting down big hills. So when we hit the first big descent of the day, I decided to pedal it. That was the dumbest decision I've ever made. I was spinning so fast my back wheel was skipping on the pavement. My legs felt like noodles as riders streamed past me. Finally it ended, and everybody bunched back up.

So one yelped in place of Chew's whistle to signify the start of the race up Ravine St. I swung wide into some gravel, and started pounding up the hill. I had managed to start fairly near the front, so before long I saw Tim off in the distance. I sprinted up to and passed him, and he countered and passed me back. Before the finish of the hill I put in another sprint, and beat him to the top. That was my little victory for the day (I think I was in the top ten.) 

We rolled across some flat, and I let my feet dangle while Gunnar gave me a little push. Another big downhill was coming up, and there was no way in hells I was going to try to spin again, so I tucked my feet onto my seat stays and held on. 

The downhill led immediately into the climb up Berryhill. For the 179 riders that could coast, the goal was to carry as much speed as possible into the hill. For me, the goal was to stay upright. I couldn't get clipped back in at any speed above 8mph, so I had to keep my feet out for the first part of the climb, then quickly pull them back in when the grade had slowed me down enough.

I got about 1/5th of the way up the hill before I captured both pedals, and was able to start mashing up. It got really steep at one point, and I passed a group of walking riders who had apparently hit the climb in too hard of a gear and been unable to shift down. The irony was killing me. 

The next few hill didn't stick out in my mind, but at the top, we stopped for food. I grabbed a couple oatmeal cookies and filled my non-coffee bottle with iced tea before heading out. 

When we hit Logan, I almost cried as I looked up it and saw how steep and long it was, but I got myself together. Two years ago when I rode my fixed gear (in a 39X15) up Laural ridge from Greensburg, PA to Johnstown, I realized that every time I turned the cranks over, I was a meter closer to the top. That little realization has been super helpful on spirit crushing hills, because when I break it down to one revolution of the cranks at a time, the climb does not seem so bad. I topped out on Logan with a nice view of the city, and the group headed over to Rialto.

The points leaders headed down the hill first to race up, followed by the womens field, and then the rest of us poor schmucks. Rialto was another steep one, but it was short. Oddly, I thought it looked steeper in the down hill direction than it did riding up. After everyone had attempted the hill, we started the longish roll over to Suffolk.

Suffolk was hard. It started out steep, became steeper, then shot skyward one more time on  rough cobbles.

(los fotos por Roberto Lochner)

On the top we stopped again to fill our bellies (some more than others) with crap from the expired food store.

We were half way done with the ride, and my legs were still feeling pretty fresh. I stuffed a couple hoho's and a banana in my pockets, put my feet up, and rolled down into the city. We crossed the Roberto Clemete bridge, and as soon as we were on the other side, someone was almost creamed by a ducky tour full of screaming children. Very nice.

(The group stops at a red light while I explaining what gear I'm running for the 93rd time that day)

The next climb up the top of Mount Washington was similar to Suffolk. Steep, Steeper, Cobblestones. The group stopped for a photo, then headed to the infamous Canton Ave.

By that point in the day, people were really starting to slow down. On the hill that led to Canton, the group was going so slow it was becoming a challenge for me to stay upright. In a granny ring, or a 39X27, it probably felt great to slowly spin up the hill. But in my much bigger gear, to go the same speed as the rest of the group I had to practically trackstand between each pedal stroke. To make matters worse, the roads started to narrow, leaving no room to pass.

Finnnaly we hit Canton Ave., which is billed as the steepest legal road in the world. The first few feet of the climb are on cement, but it quickly turns to rough cobbles. Most people get moving fast on the cement, then hit the cobbles and let their back tire fly up into the air. They are immediately robbed of all their momentum, and they topple over and slid down the hill. The carnage is mildly entertaining. I charged at the hill as soon as it was in sight, but was pushed to the left by another rider and had to dismount.

I walked down to the bottom and waited for the stream of sprinting, falling, and sliding riders to thin. I dropped a few psi from my back tire, then mounted up for another attempt. This time I stayed to the right and stuck out my tongue in an effort to produce more power. Slowly, one painful turn of the pedals at a time, I neared the top. Everyone at the top of the hill was going nuts. Then at last I made it and rolled across the top.

I shuffled back over to the crowd to join in cheering for the rest of the people who were attempting to make the hill.

On the way to the next hill, someone asked me if I had cleared Canton. "Sure did" I replied. "Ok," he said "Then I can tell you this. When I saw you at the start I thought there was no way in hell you would make these hills." I grinned. Then he asked what gear I was running.

We hit the next hill and people almost came to a complete stop.  The road was covered in little sections of pea gravel and cobblestone, so the traction was still tricky, and people were just crawling up the thing. I rode next to Don most of the way up the hill, and when we were almost at the top, someone suddenly swerved in front of us and fell off their bike. I darted to the left and made it around the traffic, but Don went right and was forced to dismount. I was extremely thankful that I did not have to get off my bike and fail the hill.

I put my feet up again and coasted down hill, and we soon hit the the sprint through Liberty tubes. I spun as fast as I could, but absolutely everyone passed me in those tunnels. It felt like it took me days to pop out on the other side. When I finnanly exited the tunnels I was next to a guy in a blue wind breaker. He asked how the hills were. "Eh, not too bad" I replied. He smacked his back side and a mechanical voice announced "that was easy" "huh?" I said. And he smacked his backside again "that was easy" "What?" I was so tired and confused. "I have an easy button in my pocket!" he exclaimed. I smiled and laughed.

We were almost to Welsh Way when my hub started to make a horrible popping grinding noise. I was a little worried, but there was nothing to be done about it, so I rode on.

Welsh was steep, but not difficult compared to the other hills. We topped out in a little muddy parking lot, and I yelled "Dirt!" gleefully when I rolled in. Is it mountain bike season yet?

Elenore was the last hard hill of the day. Traffic was heavy on the hill, and the whole time I was fervently hoping that no one would fall in front of me. Fortunately, there were no accidents and I was able to finish the hill.

The final miles of the day were a road race across flat ground to the final hill. Rob offered to push me for a while across the flat, and I was more than happy to accept.

In the last minutes of sunlight, we hit the 13th hill of the day.

The last kicker to the finish was steep, but it did not matter. I topped out, and was done. (Well almost done. We still had a six mile ride in the dark back to Aaron's.)

And with that, I was the first person in 25 years to finish the Dirty Dozen on a fixed gear. By all accounts, it was:

a) retarded

b) crazy

c) and insane

Bruceton Mills CX 2009

The Bruceton Mills Cross' was in the middle of no where, but it was more somewhere than where I originally went. I crossed the top of some lonely mountain, drove past Quebec run, and entered WV. There was a house with arrows on it and I did stopped to check out the mail box, but I did not see any signs proclaiming "Race Here!," so I continued to Grumble on. I drove down a rocky dirt road, over to a church, a couple miles to the right of the church, then a couple miles to the left. When I reentered PA, I knew I had gone to far, so I backtracked up the rocky road of ice cream.

Before long, I saw the Shogren bus rolling down the hill in the opposite direction, so I swung the Grumbler around and followed them. They went to the house where I had originally stopped to look for a sign denoting a bicycle race. There was in fact a sign, but it was not visible from the direction I drove in. Oi.

The race started at the bottom of a steep gravel hill, but the rest of the course was smooth and short grass. The traction was awesome, so I could really rail the tight turns without worrying about slipping (but I did have to worry about clipping a pedal.)

15 minutes later than scheduled, I lined up next to Stephen Rowand, who had beaten me last race at Marilla. We were given a quick 'go', and I and stuttered trying to get my big gear turning through the rocks. I was one of the last ones to get to the top of the hill, but after a few minutes, Steve and I got off the front and started to build up a little lead. For the better part of two laps we traded places, I would pass him on the open flat sections, and he would come back when we hit the tight spots.

From Drop Box

On the third lap I decided to make a run for it. I got on the gas on one of the flat sections, and did not let up for the remaining five laps. I just kept my head down and focused on turning the cranks.

From Drop Box

Before long, I had a decent gap on Steve, but I really, really wanted to win a race, so I kept hammering. When I crossed the finish line, I was about 50 feet away from lapping the 3rd and 4th place single speeders. I'm quite pleased with that.

After crossing the line I waited for Justin, who had just completed and enjoyed his first bicycle race. I stumbled over to the garage and loaded up on cornbread, chili, and hot chocolate in an attempt to recover before the A race. We stood around ringing cow bells and watching Stick win the B race in cuffed jeans before heading back to the grumbler for warm clothes.

Soon enough, it was time to race again. After I making some coffee, I felt fresh, so I rolled happily down to the start line. The A field was small, but with Gunnar, Gerry Pflug, and others, it was going to be a plenty fast race.

Again I had trouble getting my 39x17 started on the hill, and I immediately found myself in dead last with Stick. I hung near the back for the first lap, but on the second I decided to go for it.

From Drop Box

I sprinted across the flat section at the bottom of the course, and caught and passed the large group that Gunnar was leading. Gerry was still up front, but to my surprise, I was closing the gap on him when we hit the hill on the back side of the course.

(photo cred be bestowed upon the rob lochner)

A few seconds later, we hit the twisty section again, and Gunnar decided to crush my dreams. He went flying by, and hooked up with Gerry, and they immediately started pulling away from me. At that point, riding two races fixed was starting to catch up with my legs, but I held onto third for a while longer.

On the next lap, I hit an off camber turn heard a "fwoosh!" and my back tire went soft. Knowing I had burped it, I silently swore, but decided to keep riding until the tire pulled off the rim or went completely flat. Every time I hit a bump, or did a hard turn, a little more air leaked out. I rode it for three more laps and stayed in 3rd, but at the 40 minute mark, I had to either stop or risk a spectacular crash. Betsy offered to let me use her bike, but the pedals were wrong, so she ran off and grabbed Justin's cross check for me. I jumped back on the course, but I was almost in last by that point. I decided just to concentrate on finishing the race.

I don't know if I could have held onto third for the remainder of the race, but if I wouldn't have flatted I would have tried like hell to. The Bruceton Mills race made me realize that I have the speed to hang with the fast guys, but I don't yet have the endurance to go all out for two races (racing the fixed gear probably didn't help.) Next year I'm going to run a free wheel and try to be competitive.

Gerry did end up beating Gunnar, and was rewarded with an absurdly large trophy. I ended up as the 3rd SS for the series, and was given a slightly smaller trophy for my SS win earlier in the day. I'm pretty sure that will be the last cross race for me this year, but with five days to go, the Dirty Dozen is looming.

Cross' next year looks like its going to be pretty outstanding with JR's 8 race Appalachian Bicycle Racing Association series.  


  

Murrysville 'Cross 2009

I planned on riding out to the Murrysville Cross race last Saturday, but I decided against it. It was raining and I did not want to be wet and freezing until I actually started racing.

By the time I did actually get there, it was 9:40, and the U19/Cat 4 race started in 20 minutes. I went over to the registration and tried to understand how much it was going to cost me to register for two races, but I was thoroughly confused. It was $5 more for each race than it was on line, $10 for a one day licence, $5 less if I did two, and something else. Too many numbers for my little brain. I was waffling between signing up for both races and skipping the U19 since it started in 15 minutes. Finally I signed up for the U19 with the stipulation that I would come back over later and register for the 3/4.

I rushed back to the Grumbler, threw my clothes on, and bolted on the Thunder's front wheel. There was just enough time to spin up and down the road before we lined up.

The race started with a sprint up the road before turning off to the left. I got up to the front of the pack early on and stayed there. Midway into the race I was in 2nd, with no one close behind, and the leader pretty far ahead. I tried to bridge the gap between me and the leader, but I was not making up any meaningful ground. At that point it occurred to me that I would probably be crushed in the 3/4 race. I rode the rest of the laps without much incidence and finished 2nd overall and 1st in the U19.

For my efforts I got a cowbell medal and a place on the podium, two tires (both for the 2nd in Cat 4), and a super swanky helmet (for the U19 win.) I felt a little bad when I saw that the other U19's looked like they were U16, but whatevs. I might as well use the youngness while I have it.

After that race I was a little tired, and seriously considering skipping the 3/4, but once I grabbed some free coffee (at least I hope it was free. Otherwise I stole some coffee) I was right as rain again. I stood around for an hour before the next race and watched in dismay as the mud covering my legs turned crusty.

At last it was time to line up for the next race. I was mingling in the field when Gregg said "Has anybody ever given you shit about not having a back brake?" "No, nobodys said anything" "Do you even use the front?" "No, I can't really get to it." I replied. The field gave a collective chuckle. I think I was the only SS in that race, and certainly the only fixed gear.

The starting line girl gave us a barely audible 'go' and we took off up the road. I found my self in the middle of the pack, and started to try and work my way up. The course twisted around and rolled back onto the road before going back into the grass. Up ahead, I saw a gnarly crass and several riders pile up around it. Someone yelled "Jay Downnnns!" (which is funny, because he was down, and his name is downs. heh heh.)

Fortunately, I was able to stay on the bike and go wide around the cf. I sprinted up to the first run up, jumped off, and tried to stay on my feet.

(picture stolen from Aaron Bennett's facebook)

I kept my head down and ground up the next section of power sucking grass. For the rest of the lap I continued picking people off, and somewhere around the middle of the second lap, I moved into 2nd place. I was genuinely surprised. I held onto 2nd for a lap or two before Jake Grantham went by me in a slippery turn. Another lap latter someone else passed in almost the same spot.

(photo pirated from Vaughn Wallace's facebook)

Churning the 39x17 through the mud was starting to wear me down, but every time I hit the road section I still had enough energy to get out of the saddle and sprint up. When we started the last lap I had a ProGraphics guy sitting right behind me. I tried to lose him for the remainder of the race, but I just couldn't get a gap on him.

We hit the road for the last time and I gave it everything I had, but he clicked into a faster gear and got me by half a wheel length for 4th.

With four 'cross races on the fixed poo poo thunder, I can honestly say that what I read here when I was looking for info on racing cross fixed is not accurate:

"If you want to race fixed gear cross, make sure you are comfortable with all sorts of flying dismounts and lots of off camber skidding stuff. Prepare to be utterly uncompetitive, but a crowd favorite."

Now that I'm starting to really get the technique of racing the fixed gear down, I don't think that I would be that much faster on a coasting bike, especially in the mud.

The Pittsburgh Post Gazette was there taking pictures of the race, and for some reason, they chose to publish my ugly mug bounding over a barrier:

I'm guessing they used my picture because my neon fixed gear with checkered deep V's and flipped cruiser bars is representative of most bikes at a cyclocross race.

(I can't find the actual damn paper, but I guess the color version is prettier anyway.)
Montana Miller of Greensburg jumps over an obstacle in the second Murrysville Cyclocross race held in Murrysville Community Park. Racers sometimes have to get off their bikes and carry them. Mr. Miller came 2nd in the Mens Category 4 & Under 19 race. Photo by: Tony Tye / Pittsburgh Post-Gazette (10/25/2009)

As far as I can tell, the above blurb, which is entirely about me, was the only coverage of the race in that paper. I'm hittin the big time now. Nice.

Month of Mud Moraine 2009 Repor

Another excellent weekend of racing is in the bag. On Saturday I raced the fixed gear twice at the Murrysville 'Cross and ended up with a win in the Under 19, a 2nd in Cat 4, and a 5th in Cat 3/4.

Yesterday was the final Month of Mud race in Moraine State Park, and I retained my status of perpetual second place single speeder (except when the pflug races gearless and I'm bumped into third.)

Race reports will appear on the blog in reverse chronological order, just because thats how I feel like doing it. And that makes Moraine first. Salty.

When we lined up and were given a go signal, the field blasted out of the parking lot and onto the first section of double track. I put my hands on the skinniest part of my bars to get into my stunningly lame single speed aero tuck and started spinning my brains out. To my anaerobic elation, I actually passed a few geared guys. The track made a sharp left and started up a gradual climb. I kept my head down and ground up it on the way to the first section of single track. A little bit ahead I saw JPok shoot up the hill and into the woods.

The opening single track is a section of climbing switchbacks, on one of the first turns, I passed Steve Bedillion as he was stopped on the side of the trail. I went by, and knew that I had probably just moved into the 2nd place SS spot.

After cresting the hill, the trail turned down and in my typical early race jumpiness, I skidded off slippery rooted turn and into some trees. I stood to the side and let Aaron Shelmire go by before hopping back on my cycle and continuing down the hill.

We hit the first big rock garden, and Aaron made pass on a guy who was moving a little slow through the chunks. I was trying to get by him, and when he picked up his bike and started to run, I yelled to him that I was going to try to go around. He told me to go for it, but he was carrying his bike across the flat of his back, so his wheels stretched from one side of the trail to the other. Finally I yelled "Dude your bikes in the way!" and he quickly pointed it forward. I went around and chased down Aaron.

At some point I passed him, and put a little gap on him, but at the bottom of a big descent I lost the trail. For the entire race, everything was covered in wet leaves, so not only was it difficult to ride, it was really hard to discern which way the course went. By the time I figured it out, he had closed down the gap.

I turned on the gas and tried to get away from the man. When we hit the spectator filled boulder field, we were moving:

When we ran out onto the double track again, I saw Jake Grantham up ahead in the distance. I made it my goal to chase him down. By the time I hit the single track again, I had almost cut the gap between him and me in half. I kept chasing him, and Aaron kept chasing me, and at times I really thought we were going to be able to catch him.

Then we hit the big rock garden again. I completely blew up. It was as if I'd never ridden a bike over a rock before. I was tripping and slipping all over the place like a duck with greased feet. Aaron shot by in a blazing quest for glory, and I continued to wallow in among the stones. I finally got my shit together when I glimpsed another rider behind me. After convincing myself that he was another SS, I hammered down the hill and through the boulder field.

From Drop Box

I was able to hold him off for the rest of the lap, and I rolled across the finish in 6th (I think) overall, and 2nd in the SS (and the guy behind me was not in fact another SS.)

Results will be here when they're there.

I finished 4th in the series with my one missed race. Ryan Gotch took 3rd, Steve Bedillion came in 2nd, and JPok took the win while earning a spot in the MOM hall of fame. Nice job gents.

I know its hard for anybody to care about the experts when the Single Speeders are so damn good looking, but Tim Carson won the overall. He really can get that little belly moving. Kudos dude.

After the race, everybody went to the Brewery, and I joined a couple of girls and Don Powers in not having a beer. Good times.

Speaking of Don, the Padre was quick enough to capture him running his geared hardtail over some rocks while Darin Shriver crushes it on a fully rigid single speed:

And in fact, here's Dave Krack riding the same section on a single wheeled fixed gear:

(I love the person behind him dragging the bike. Good stuff)

black bear 40k: part one + deux

edit: this be both parts now

(I’m starting to get carried away with these race reports. Understanding the short attention span of the average reader, I’m going to break it up over two days. So there will be more talk about races and less bs-ing about new tires and training rides. That’s a good thing right? Nobody wants to hear me cry over a punctured rubber.)

The Black Bear is billed as the hardest race in the WVMBA series. The race t-shirt (which was awesome) claims it is the “scariest mountain bike race in the world.” Not having ridden every mountain bike race in the world, I can’t attest to that, but it is a pretty damn scary course, from both an elevated heart rate and technical ridiculousness standpoint.

The experts started 1 hour before the other classes. We were to ride two loops, the first one small, and the second larger. We lined up on the far bank of a creek. “Is this all the experts that came this year?” the promoter questioned, “they must be too afraid of the Bear...”

When the starter gave the go ahead, we splashed across in a fury of clicking gears and straining chains. Don from Pro Bikes had given me a little bit of info about the course, so I wasn’t overly surprised when we began a 3-ish mile climb on the opposite bank.

The field started up the steep fire road at a fast clip, but before long was strung out in single file. Every few hundred feet the road would level out, giving a moment’s reprieve before turning again turning skyward, steeper than before. I alternated standing and mashing in the saddle in an attempt to keep my legs from exploding in the first 10 minutes of the race. I was a little behind the lead pack, but before long I caught up to Rob Loehr, the SS leader.

He was off his bike hiking, and taking the cue, I dismounted and tried to recover while walking up the pebbled road. A string of 3 geared riders started to spin by me, so I took a deep breath and began to run. Within a few feet, I caught them and remounted my bike in one lightning fast motion. I put my head down blasted the rest of the way up the hill at a space-time continuum bending 4 miles per hour.

Somewhere before the top I caught Rob, and I was the first SS into the single track. The trails were fast, dry and smooth. It was vaguely reminiscent of the riding at Raystown Lake. I was still a little lightheaded from the effort on the first climb, so at that point I wasn’t exactly carving the best corners.

Eventually I heard someone ask to get around me, and being the upstanding gentleman I am, I obliged. Unfortunately, it was Mr. Robert (who will henceforth be referred to as the Dread Pirate Roberts. but not the original one.) ‘Dammit’ I muttered, ‘I have to quit letting people in my class have the pass like that...’ The Dread Pirate Roberts rolled away as I made a feeble attempt at chasing him.

Don was riding close behind me and giving some trips about the up coming trail features, which up to that point were not to numerous. Then we hit the first of six (I think) downhills. The trail dropped.

Roots and loose dirt filled my vision as I struggled to maintain control of my bike. I took the wrong line around a switchback and locked up both wheels in an attempt to stay on the trail. I failed, and started sliding down the hill. Pulling my feet out of the pedals and digging in my heels, I finally arrested my sliding. Don took the correct line and shot by me down the hill. I hopped back on and completed the descent. The trail spilled out onto a paved road. I tried to stay on Don’s wheel across the bottom. We hit another gravel climb. The gravel was deep and energy zapping. The Bear was starting to remind me of a miniature Wilderness 101 with its steep road climbs followed by steeper singletrack declines.

The next downhill was similar to the first with loose chunk and roots a plenty. We climbed up another hill and completed the first lap (I think. The details got real fuzzy at that point. Oxygen deprivation. The legs are more important than the brain anyway right?)

At some point we climbed up a short-ish grade, and I proceeded to make a wrong turn. I didn’t realize my error until I saw two riders that were behind me go the opposite direction. I think it was at that point that Aron passed me, and I dropped into third place. I cursed, smacked myself in the helmet, and turned back.

The guys had dismounted their bikes, and I did the same and proceeded to hike around. If there were any “hike while pushing a bicycle that racers are forbidden to mount at any time” races, I would absolutely kill. Maybe I need to get into burro racing.

From Drop Box

We were hiking up a super steep rooty section, and a rider came by spinning his granny ring and climbing like his tires had fingers. “Yeah! Get it get it!” we shouted, and by some miracle, the guy cleaned the section. I was thoroughly impressed.

Another piece of single track flew by, and I was feeling less than stellar. I got over to the side and let Don speed by, as he was pinning the turns. Finally I hit the long anticipated Black Bear downhill. Rocks were everywhere. Big, big, sharp, pointy rocks. My brain couldn’t process the information my eyes were sending it, so I just got my ass behind the saddle and hoped for the best. As usual, having my seat anterior to my posterior pulled me through. I dropped off rock after rock, but managed to stay in control and alive.

(the black bear downhill. it looks worse in person)

Again I ascended, and at the top turned onto pine ridge trail. I had heard the promoter say before the race that this was the hardest descent of the day, but at the moment I had no idea why. I flew by a sign that exclaimed “SSS (very scary.)” I rolled onto the top of a rock, and suddenly the trail disappeared. I almost shit my pants.

“Holy Shit!” I exclaimed as I grabbed two fist full’s of brakes. There was a four plus foot drop inches from my front wheel. “You got it!” yelled a woman 10 feet below the level of my head. I got my butt back, stuck my tongue out (I’m guessing I did that so I could bite it off if I crashed) and proceeded not to think. I rolled the drop, and honestly, I have no idea how. Somehow I avoided what should have been a spectacular endo, and laughed delightedly that I had cheated certain mangling. I felt like a loon.

More switchbacked descending followed, and I must say I’ve made some big improvements in that area. There’s no way that I would have made a single one of those sharp turns at the beginning of the season.

We hit the bottom and Brad from Bikeman informed me that we had one climb, one descent, and one big hike a bike left. He then told me that he thought his rib was broken and was finding it hard to breathe. I acted on his first bit of information and tried to catch Aaron for the third time. I got him on the up hill, but when we hit the down he pulled out of sight again. It wasn’t quite fair. I did hard work to catch him, and he got the pleasure of passing me on the fun sections. A mighty harrumph to that.

I hit the hike a bike and Brad was close behind. “Hey you found the hike a bike!” he exclaimed. “No shit.” I thought to myself. We trudged up the incredibly steep incline. “I always thought this would be the worst place to get attacked by bees.” Brad chirped “You’re a sitting duck. You can’t go down, and you can’t run up” I laughed. He had a point. Or I think he had a point. It seemed relevant at the time.

We went down a swoopy down hill and spilled out on to the road. “Whoohoo! Almos there!” shouted a large man with suspenders wearing a beard. We rode up a steep climb, and then rolled back down to a stream.

I pedaled along the stream and at last the finish line appeared. I rolled across and jumped off my bike. I was beat.

From Drop Box

New River Bike Fest

The lady bear and I rolled down to the New River Bike Fest on Saturday after a stint in Ohiopyle at the Falls Race.

From New River and falls race 09

From New River and falls race 09

From New River and falls race 09

(I keep saying I’m going to learn to kayak)

From New River and falls race 09

When we crossed the New River Gorge Bridge, we knew we were getting close to Oak Hill. Eventually we arrived at Ace Adventure Center, and I have to say, at first I was a little concerned. From the quality of their website, I was expecting a little more from the welcome center. It was small, olive drab, and unassuming.

After checking in and receiving our free camping, we headed up the steep switchback laden road to the ‘mountain top’ campsite. My trepidation was erased when I saw the bathrooms. They were very nice, and very clean. Nothing says more for a place than a nice place to do business. It was with out a doubt one of the nicest campgrounds I’ve ever stayed in (with the exception of the loud, intoxicated neighbors.)

From New River and falls race 09

My original plan was to pre-ride the course, but we arrived too late, so I contented myself with a short spin around the camping area before bed.

From New River and falls race 09

Yes yes yes. Its that way. Im certain.

The short rotund man with glasses raised his arm and cried “Ready!” We were off. Befuddled, he said “ok, I guess go.” But we were already flying down the dusty road. I had lined up at the front so I struggled to spin fast enough to stay with the geared riders. Before we finished the first half mile, I heard the hiss of a flat tire. Another single speeder had picked up a puncture right off the start. The field rolled by.

As we narrowed down and hit the first section of singletrack, I had managed to stay near the front. The trail was cut into the side of a steep ridge, and the guy in front of me was sliding all over the place. On the first climb I saw Benji come around me and promptly crash into the rider in front of him. He hit the ground with a thud and I swerved to avoid him, knowing that he would probably catch up again.

The trail opened up to a section of dirt road and I estimated there to be about five riders ahead of me. We rode down more singletrack before hitting a dark tunnel of rhododendrons. The slippery path snaked through the shrubberies before terminating in a long rock garden. I was bunched up behind a guy who dabbed a foot or two, and I saw Benji take a shorter line through the rocks and blow by.

We spilled out onto a fire road climb, and I put in a hard effort to catch back up. I looked down at my computer and saw that I was climbing at 17 mph. Not to shabby.

We made a quick left and started a steep descent. I noticed that the trail name was ‘Rigor Mortis’ Suddenly my field of vision was filled with big yellow signs that exclaimed ‘!!!CAUTION!!!’ The rider in front of me skidded to a stop and dismounted his bike. Not knowing any better, I kept going, and the trail dropped straight down. There were roots and slippery rocks scattered all over the path, with a few big ledges thrown in. At the bottom of the section, the 12’ ribbon of dirt turned sharply to the right with a huge drop off on the left side. The next down hill was nearly identical. I got my ass way behind the saddle and hoped for the best.

When I finally hit the bottom, I shook out my hands and put the power down. Before long I caught Benji, and we rode together for a few minutes. Eventually I heard him say “I’ve got no recovery today.” With that I pulled away and kept hammering up the climbs. The rest of the lap was much less technical, but still a blast. I was looking over my shoulder the entire time, expecting to be passed.

From New River and falls race 09

I rolled through the start finish area and started my second lap. My mind was on Rigor Mortis the whole time. I traded places with a geared Gary Fisher guy a few times before we hit the deadly down hill. I rode the descant sans drama, and pulled away from the other rider on the next climb. I was so excited that my skin was intact and that I hadn’t crashed.

The course was super fun the rest of the way. It was smooth, with fast turns and just enough technical and climbing thrown in. I was still pushing hard expecting to be passed, and my quads felt fit to burst. In my oxygen deprived state I reasoned that one 11.5 mile lap + another 11.5 mile lap = 21 miles. When my computer hit 20 miles I started to sprint, thinking that the finish was less than a mile away. 21 miles came and went, and with a disheartened laugh I realized that 11.5 + 11.5 = 23 miles. Oops.

Finally I saw the light at the end of the trees and I hit the last climb. Gunnar came from nowhere and passed me. “No way am I gona let that old man beat me with 400 meters to go” I thought. But I did. I was tired. And he was fast.

From New River and falls race 09

I crossed the line with one other single speeder in front of me. I had ridden my entire race like I was in 2nd and chasing the winner, and as it turned out, that’s exactly what I was doing.

From New River and falls race 09

ouch