Wednesday, April 18, 2012

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.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Dragon's Tail Race Report (2012)

Last Friday, I spilled suspension oil on my rotor. Then I drove to the Birdman of Charleston's nest.

The next day I cleaned suspension oil off my rotor while his vicious pit bull tried to figure out the best way to eat me.


We met Ted and Mayor McCheese in the Birdman's front yard and packed into Ted's hybrid Highlander to head south-east. Once we got off the interstate in Virginia the roads got twisty, and I got car sick.

While I tried to settle my stomach by burping, we forded a stream in the half-electric SUV, unloaded the bikes, and watched McCheese pick his nose.


Half a mile into our pre-ride, we crossed another stream. When I got to the other side, there was hissing and my leg was being sprayed with Stan's. I checked the tire. There was an inch long sidewall cut. Karma. A couple days earlier, I was made fun of one of my friends when he asked for advice on cut resistant tires 'Pilot error. Rock always wins. Ride around them,' I'd said.

I put a tube in and we continued. The first section of the course was all fast dirt roads. It was a beautiful day, everything was dry, and the air smelled strangely like Colorado. The place was awesome, and I felt horrible. Everybody was going an easy pace and dropping me on the climbs. When we started up the single track to the top of the ridge, I felt like I was going to fall off the side. I was so dizzy and disoriented. I considered turning back, but the other three were already out of sight. So I kept trudging up the hill.

As I crested the top, the Birdman was lounging with his magic phone, shooting pictures. I told him to fuck himself.

On the way back to the car, I ran into Chris Scott. He asked if I'd gotten my tire fixed. Nope.

"We have freshies, Stan's, and a compressor back at the start. Just find me tonight or tomorrow," he said. Sweet. I was pumped. Maybe tomorrow would turn out alright after all.

That night, there was a dog who's stomach needed rubbed:


Morning. I almost vomit on the car ride to the start. When I step out of the Highlander, I can barely  stand up straight.

"Well, I'm not sure I'm even going to make it to the first stream crossing," I say to the Birdman.

"Not with that attitude you won't," he says.

"Fuck you," I say. I stumble over to the registration area to find Chris and steal a tire. He's not around, and there's an hour until the start. My tube is being held inside my destroyed tire with dollar bill. This isn't going well. I stand in line for the port-a-potty.

With 20 minutes to go before the start, I find Chris. He gives me a tire, I blow it onto the rim and dump some Stan's in it. I thank him, and he mumbles something unintelligible. I nod and smile. 10 minutes to go. I ride the tire up and down the road. It seems like it's holding air. Sweet. Maybe I'm gonna be able to race.

We roll out for the neutral start, and everybody behind me starts bike racer shit talking (shit talking at mountain bike races is typically polite and un-offensive) my over-sized florescent blue camelbak.

"Look at that thing, are you carrying presents for us?" No.

"That's a big backpack. Har har." Yes.

Or my favorite, "He's going on an adventure!" That was supposed to be an insult. Because people who go on adventures are dumb. And carry big florescent blue camelbaks. Which made me dumb, and going on an adventure. Or something. I didn't really follow him.

"Fuck you guys," I say. 'Fuck you' was the only comeback I could think of all weekend. I know it's not witty, but my girlfriend has been in New Zealand for a long time.

Chris pulls his truck off to the side, and the race starts. The entire field narrows into a paceline behind me. Jeremiah Bishop, Sam Koerber, and Brandon Dragonogulous are there, and for some reason people think it's a good idea to draft a hack on a single speed.

"Why the hell are you people drafting me? Fuck you," I yell. People laugh, then shift up and speed away. That's more like it. At the first stream crossing, I stop to pee. The entire field rumbles past me in a cloud of dust. Pee break was probably a bad choice.

For the first four miles, I feel pretty good. Then I start climbing. The dizziness comes back. I can't ride, I can barely hike, and I'm jamming up people behind me on the narrow single track. I stop every few hundred feet to let someone pass.

After about an hour of walking, I finally get to the top of the ridge. Ok, I'm going to ride down to the aid station, then back to town. There's no way I can climb the ridge again.

When I hit the aid, I stick to my plan. I make it about a half mile down the road. No. You weak bastard. You can't stop. But I feel terrible. I've gotta quit. Nope. You can't do it. Gotta keep going. Dammit. I hate me. I turn around and ride back onto the course.

I'm hiking up the ridge even slower than before. This was a bad choice. I stop every few minutes to regain my balance. I can ride a little, but something isn't right.

A long time later, I get back to the top of the ridge. There's a trail called Turkey that should take me back down the hill and onto the road. I confirm that with a few guys around me, and keep plugging along. A half hour later, I see the turnoff. I take it. I'm 30 miles into a 40 mile race, and I'm bailing. Probably another bad choice.

I make it down to the bottom of the ridge, take a right, and start heading towards Aid 2. 45 minutes later, I'm still heading to Aid 2, and now I'm climbing up to the top of the ridge again. This couldn't be right. Hell. I'll give it 10 more minutes.

10 more minutes, and still climbing. Screw it. I'm going back the way I came. I ride all the way back down the road, through all the streams, and onto the road where the race started. Fortunately, Niner rider Donna Miller was helping out with the race, and heading to town. I caught up with her at a stream crossing, then she let me draft her the whole way back to town. Mighty swell of her.

It took five hours to DNF.

Major bummer. Couldn't have asked for a better day, nicer trails, or a cooler course. I just wasn't all there. But I'm definitely going to try again next year. I want to race that thing when I can actually race.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Bleeding

Finally got a chance to bleed my brakes. The bleed screws need to be vertical to do a good job, so I rigged up this sweet setup with an old road bar (I've never owned a road bike, but somehow I have a bunch of old road bars sitting around. The unstoppable accumulation of stuff.)

I didn't have an old rotor, so I used the 25t "Sam is a giant pussy/ Diedre wears the pants" Breckenridge cog to hold the caliper.


The brakes feel good, all my bearings are re-packed, and I think my bike is ready to go for Dragons Tale. Which is good, because I'm heading to the Bird's Nest tomorrow.

And I'm finally retiring my trusty Giro Atmos. Way back in 2010, at the WVMBA Championship race, I rode into a big hole going about 20 mph. My bike was swallowed. I went over the bars and landed squarely on my head. It left a big dent in my helmet:

I probably should have retired it right away. But I kept putting it off, and before I knew it two years went by. Whoops 

So yesterday I grabbed a Giro Xar, which the Viking Cat refuses to let me photograph.