Wisp XC and Some Other Stuff

A quick update while I have a chance to steal some internet.

Last week was JR's Wisp XC. I won, and turned the podium box on it's side so that I would be taller than Dahn Pahrs and Cinder Bloch.

It was sweet.

The Mohican 100 is this Saturday. I'm doing the 100k sport race, because I hate riding flat roads in Ohio, and the 100k course has 40 miles less of them. After the race, I plan on snuggling with the Birdman in the cozy cabin love nest.

Epic Pro Cycling Team Pro-Cyclist Sam Meat Scissors Morrison was back in Pennsylvania last week, but we didn't ride bikes. As he put it, "Waaaa, I'm Sam and I'm sick. Bikes are stupid. Waaa." 

Sam Morrison, Pro Mountain Biker

I only mention Old Meat Scissors because I wanted to post that embarrassing picture of him again. I don't really care that we didn't ride bikes.

In a couple months, I'm leaving for the Great Breck Epic via SSUSA Vermont Trip. I need to ride up a bunch more mountains between now and then. While I'm standing around on concrete selling chips and Gatorade, my toughest competition is at Transylvania Epic tuning up the race legs.

I'm intimidated.

Completely forgot to mention this in the Cranky Monkey thing, but Cinder Bloch is still narcoleptic. I exchanged the beer he fell asleep with for a sausage. We took a picture.

Then he woke up, spiked his sausage into the dirt, and shuffled away to pee on somebodies tent. 

9 Hours of Cranky Monkey Race Report (2012)

Got a little behind on this, but that's the way it goes living in an information dead-zone:

No convenient internet around here. The trailer is an addition for our new Jamaican cook. Can't even buy a newspaper in this town. Time melts away. Soon it'll be time to head west and do Breck Epic again. Anyway, the Nine Hours of Cranky Monkey.


"I have to help open the store in the morning. I'll be there around nine," I wrote.

"Woah...dude. Last year there was a large line in the morning. You're doing the first lap," wrote Gnarmire.

"You get race on time better. Gnarmire look for a new teammate. DAHN PAHRS. smash bye." texted Dahn Pahrs.

"I'm really curious how this is going to work out. I think I'm going to drive myself so that I can leave when Montana doesn't show up on time," wrote Gnarmire

"I'll be to the damn race on time," I wrote, getting pissed.

Everybody went to Maryland the day before the race to pre-ride. I had to work the morning of the race. I knew that I could easily open the store, then drive an hour to the start line. But as our pre-race electronic correspondence showed, Gnarmire and Dahn Pahrs weren't so confident. Gnarmire spent all night before the race chewing on his finger nails and crumpling his panties into little bunches.

At 7:30, I leave Ohiopyle. At 8:30, I pull into Rocky Gap State Park. I get a text from Dahn Pahrs.

"Are you on the road yet?"

"Just left. It's gonna be close, but I should make it before 11," I said, hoping to stop Gnarmire's fragile heart.

I pull into the parking lot and carry my dufflebag over to the Pittsburgh West Virginia tent area. I look left. There's not a line for registration. There definitely isn't a large line for registration.

"Oh, Gnarmire, hurry! We have to register! There's only two and a half hours before the race starts, and I still need to eat a pickle and fill my water bottles!" I yell.

We fill out the registration forms. Then we sit around for two and a half hours, because we're there two and a half hours early. I give Gnarmire dirty looks behind his back for doubting me.

Two and a half hours later, I set my bike down, and run over to the start line. It's a Le Mans start. I jump up and down a few times, and wish my West Virginian arch-rival Nate Anon good luck.

"I don't like you and you sound like you just had a peanutbutter-novocaine shot in the middle of your tongue," I say.

"Go!" says the guy with the stop watch.



In a few steps, I look back. I already have a big lead. Cyclists are so bad at running. First to my bike, I jump on. Sprint out of the field and onto the pavement. Jason Cyr burns past me. He's fast this year. That diabetes causing African virus he got is really working well for him. I try to hang on, but it's no good. He's moving up the road too quick.

I turn into the single track with Nate behind me. Skid into the first tight corner, straighten it out, and into the next one. Nate's right there. We hit a wide spot, and he passes. I stick on his wheel.

Through the rock garden, back down a little hill, and around the lake. Jason hits a tree or something. His tire is rolled off when we pass him. That's a bummer. Up the big climb, I stick right on Nate's wheel. I have to try to get away from him somewhere.

We hit the only descent on the course. I rip down it, then look back. I pulled away by about 20 feet. A few seconds later, Nate passes me again. He's riding gears, and I just can't get away on the flat course. But he can't get away either. I sit behind him and we rip into the start finish area together. I punch the little plastic baton card, and hand it off to Gnarmire. He rides away with Nate's teammate JPok.

Back at camp, I eat a couple pickles, drink some water, and sit down. Little over 30 minutes later, it's time to go again.

Gnarmire hands me the punch card. JPok is going out again. I sprint out of the start with him. We crush the lap. At the end we pull up behind Gretta Daniels. There's no room to pass on the tight winding section. JPok sees a hole, and shoots through it. I've gotta go with him. Try to follow, and run into Gretta's handle bars. She almost crashes into the lake.

"Oh shit! Sorry about that! Didn't mean it," I yell apologetically. That went badly. I pedal hard to catch up with JPok. We roll through the start finish and I hand the e-punch  to Gnarmire. He goes out against Nate. Gretta rolls through the start finish and punches me in the back. I deserved that.

The break goes fast. I barely have time to sit down before Gnarmire is back again. He's a little bit behind Nate.

I go out for the lap alone. Nate's out of sight, and my legs feel heavy. I'm grinding up the climb on the backside of the course. Jim Mayuric sneaks up behind me, then spins away. Shit. Now we're in 3rd. I try to go with him, but he's climbing too well.

Back into the start-finish behind Jim, and a little farther behind Nate. I give Gnarmire the punch and walk back over to the tents.

The Pflug rolls into the pit. He's racing solo. One of his carbon crankarms is wobbling badly.

"Rob can you go grab me my other bike?" he yells to Cinder Bloch.

"What happened Pfluger, did that crank arm come apart?" I say. The carbon is splintered around the bottom bracket.

"Yeah," he says.

"I bet they're really light-weight though. Think all those weight savings made you faster?" I say. The Pflug glares at me. I'm glad he doesn't have room for his gun in that kit.

Grab the punch from Gnarmire. Out for another lap. It starts to rain. By the end of the lap, the backside of the course is a sloppy mess. I can't put anytime into the Nate/JPok or Mayuric/ Mold teams.

Gnarmire can't either. We do more laps, the course gets worse and worse to ride, and we solidify our position. We're about six minutes behind 2nd, and 20 minutes ahead of 4th. Before the last lap, I talk to Jim.

"Hey man, if we get in right before the cut off, want to just call it instead of going back out there?" I say. He agrees. JPok agrees as well. The course is miserable at this point. We clean off and change clothes.

Nate gets back 10 minutes before the cutoff. JPok tells him that everybody right behind him. Nate looks sad, then goes out for another lap. I laugh. Mould gets back a few minutes later. Jim doesn't go out. Gnarmire rolls in right after the cutoff. I don't even have deal with the guilt of quitting the race. Sweet.

And that's the end. We finish a solid third overall out of around 160 teams. First single speed team.

Then there was a shot-ski and the burning of some dumpster wood. To appease Prof. Gnarmire, I will write nothing more of that on the public internets.

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.