The KSF'ed Up weekend

The little trophy Brad gave me says I'm Champion of the Universe. And I won't argue with that, because that practically makes me He-Man's brother.

The family resemblance is striking:


After a four hour drive to Charleston on Friday night, we watched the end of the original Clash of the Titans (it's an amazing movie,) got a few hours of sleep, then woke up at the butt crack of dawn to the smell of burning bacon and scrambled eggs. We spent a little while shaking off the groggies, then headed out to start the ride in the Kanawanana Rock Forest of Despair.

Rob had a gps and a camera, so he documented the day (even though a professional documenter of bicycle events was present.)

The first climb was a steep and loose kick in the nuts, but I was feeling light so I floated up to the top. Last year in the Black Bear race, I had to get off and run most of that hill with a 32X18, but this time I was able to clear the whole thing in a 38X20.

At the top of the hill, everybody's hands were burning from the cold. We took a couple minutes to catch our breath, then headed out.

The next trail we rode was smooth, flowing, and super fast:

It was so much fun, we did it twice (actually we had to double back and look for Jason's lost camera. But it was a ton o' fun)


Excluding Brad, none of us had ridden any significant downhills since the fall. The descents at Kananwana are quite a refresher. I kind of remembered them from the race, but they were a little different this time:

The black bear downhill is scary when it's dry, but with a river running down the middle of the trail, it's sketchy as hells.

At the bottom, Brad tallied up everbody's score in a little notebook. "You put a foot down but made it to the bottom first, so -2 points, I made it 2nd without a dab, so -2, Rob was 3rd -1..." and so on. I didn't quite get how he was assigning the points, but I did understand Jason's hike down the hill wasn't worth any points.

We went up and down the 500 foot ridge a few more times (it's a lot harder than it sounds) then headed back to the cars for some pizza that Kristin so graciously delivered to the forest.

After the za, we met up with a few grumpy old native Charlestinians who had been riding in the forest since the dawn of time. They all rode big full suspensions with downhill rotors, and fenders in the front and rear. We  climbed up a steep fire road, then headed off onto some trails that I wouldn't have even recognized as a trail without following the guys in front.

We turned down a stream or something that didn't look like trail, and while I was pounding down it, I must have touched my front brake and hit a root, because I was suddenly jettisoned over the bars. My hip took the brunt of the crash, and I landed right in the middle of the stream. I groaned, tried to get up, and promptly slid back into the stream. I laid there in the running water for a few minutes while Don laughed his ass off. "Ugh. Well I'm glad I'm entertaining" I grunted.

A little blunt impact is really effective at sucking the power out of the legs, and I was a little slower for the rest of the day. But we pressed on.


The old guys were awesome at climbing steep crap in the granny ring.

We were starting to get tired by that point in the day, so all the climbs slowly morphed into hike a bikes.

I tried to ride this one, and failed miserably. If you look at the back of the picture you can see me smashing my nuts into my stem.

We hit another back woods trail with Don and Jason in the back, and when we stopped to wait for them, both trudged into sight carrying their bikes. The trail had snapped both their derailleur hangers. The West Virginians (who carried bike shops in their backpacks) set to work repairing the bikes while we watched.

Jason had a spare hanger, so he was forced to continue the ride with a fully operable bike, but after setting Don's bike up as a SS failed, he got to bail and go sleep in the car.

We hiked up some more absurdly steep ridges, then bombed back down to the bottom on a rutted out, butt puckering descent.


Down at the bottom we started the climb up what was supposed to be a hard packed and steep, but very ridable road.

But some mining operations decided to ruin it. And it blew.


After that goopy mud, I think I'll pass on La Ruta if I ever have the chance to go.

We climbed and climbed and climbed to the top of the ridge, then headed to the last downhill of the day (after some more climbing.) I was toast by that point.


And I won the "race" thing that we were kind of doing at the beginning of the day.

Hooray! It was a great day, and there were times I wanted to slap Brad, so that means he did a fine job coming up with an endurance course.

Rob's little GPS had the profile for the whole thing:
Part I
Part Duex 

When we got back to Brad's house, Don slipped and rolled down the stairs. That's what he gets for laughing at me when I crashed. Karma's a bitch.

The Celtic Cross

(photos stolen from Spencer)

My big plan was to ride my bike really fast, and before we finished the prologue lap, I sprinted up to the front and started spinning away.


The day was totally opposite of Cross'd Bite in January. It was hot and cloudless, and the slate had dried into a hard dune. Traction on the slag was trickier in the dry than it was saturated.

I worked my way around the slag, then into the woods. There was a great little single track downhill that spilled into a stinky mud pit. Splashed through the pit, turned up a little hill, and splashed through the next pit.

The whole way through the big twisty field (which smelled like high school cross country) and over the barriers, my tires flung goopy mud onto my skin, where the sun dried it into a hard crust.

A scramble up full of sharp pieces of conglomerate and asphalt marked the end of the grass section. I did my best to hike up it, then finished off the slag portion and repeated the course.



On the 2nd lap, I started to catch the back of the field of racers, and tried to tell everybody good jerb so I didn't seem like a big meat head.

On the third or fourth time through the start area, I noticed my lovely girlfriend had fallen asleep in the slag with my t shirt over her face. "Well that's a hell of a thing" I thought "I'm winning this race and shes taking a damn nap."

I was hurting every time I hit the big field. The sun was beating down, and the grass was sucking all the power out of my pedaling. I kept wondering if I was going to be able to keep my pace. At the top of the scramble up, I looked behind me and saw Stik a few 30 seconds back. "Dammit" I grumbled, and started working harder to stay away from him.

Before long he was out of sight (I think he crashed somewhere) and I was able to keep tabs on his position by his booming shrill "WA KA KA KA!" every time he shot down the single track section.

On my 11th lap, I caught Chris Beech, and put in a quick sprint to get ahead of him before a skinny section of slag. "Oh you bastard" he yelled. I laughed villainously in reply and dinged my little bell. Right before the finish he attacked and we shot across the line and into a big group of people. We decided to call it a tie for lapping.

My title of King o' Thar Slag defended, I need to get used to riding races that last longer than an hour, because the Michaux Mash is back on, and the real season is about to begin.

Results and more pictures

celtic 'cross and purple wheels

Celtic 'Cross was outstanding yesterday. Chris, Stick, and all the other people that helped did a great job of setting up the course, which split the difference between 'cross, and short track mountain biking.

My purple wheels arrived three days ago, and the Celtic was their first race.

So far they're undefeated. Hells yes.

I'll write s'more when I have time (and I find pictures of the race.)