the new race machine

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

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.

Mohican 100 Race Report (2010)

Mohican brake pad on the left, healthy new pad on the right. Doooom.

This wasn't what I wanted to see on the way to the Mohican 100:


But it didn't matter what I or any of the other 600 fools entered in the race wanted. It was going to rain. And it did.

There was a long enough break in the weather after we arrived that Steevo was able to set up a little canopy he had snatched from a dead man's house. We sat under the canopy in the drizzle, and life was all right. I extolled the virtues of my newly purchased Walmart "deluxe camp chair" with dual cup holders and 300 pound capacity, and the others listened in jealous awe. We cheerfully hoped that the trails would stay decent. Then a big black cloud rolled over the hill and tried to sweep us and the dead man's tent away.

Wind was blowing away the canopy, and rain was pelting through the mesh screen. Even with four guys, it was hard to hold the tent down. The thing lasted for almost half an hour, and all we could do was laugh miserably. 100 miles is a long way to go in the mud.


After the storm, we had to reset out tents because they were floating in their own private lakes.

Brad and Jason arrived later, and we went down to register and get drop bags. The line of guys bailing on the 100 miler and switching to the 100k was huge. Afterwards, we headed up to our tents and bedded down to the sweet sounds of screaming children and frustrated parents across the street.

I listened to the patter of heavy rain on the roof of my tent, and every few minutes a flash of lightning would make the fabric house glow like a lantern. Shit. I tried to sleep.

It's 5:00 when I hit the indiglow button on my watch. I'm not leaving my sleeping bag for at least another 30 minutes. I can still hear the rain. I groan and roll over. A few minutes later I pull on my kit and a hoodie, and stumble out into the dark morning. Everybody else is awake, and a few stoves are blasting blue jets of flame to boil water for coffee.

The rain stops, and we all get excited. Maybe the day won't be too bad after all. I'm still trying to pull my drop bags together and fill my bottles, and everybody else is rolling out to the start in downtown Loudenville. "WRAAA!" Steevo screams at the tent with the sleeping obnoxious family as he rides away.

I steal a banana from the picnic table and head for the start. A few minutes later, I stop by the side of the road to pee, but there's an endless stream of riders cruising by me "It's not worth it man!" somebody yells. Maybe he's right. I wait until I'm in the woods to go.

In the little town, people are lining up under the big "Mohican 100" banner that's stretched across the main street. I stand in the grass in the front row while the race promoter makes some announcements. Only a few minutes to go. Steavo straddles a telephone pole and pees. I'm as impressed with his ability to urinate in public as I am riding skills.

The promoter gives a five count. 4..3..2..the field starts to roll..1 everybody hits it and we sprint out of town. I spin my face off and catch up to the truck in front. I pull the big number one and lead the field until we hit the first hill in a few hundred yards. Then the field starts to wizz past me. But I was winning the race for a few seconds. And the truck caught it all on video. I'll take it.

(45 seconds of victory)

We stay on the road for a few miles before heading into the first muddy section of double track. The air is heavy with the smell of cow poop from surrounding farms. I wrinkle my nose.

The pack slows down to about 5 mph. I try to get around people. It looks like a lot of these guys have never ridden in the mud. They're slipping and sliding and putting a foot down all over the trail. We have to hike most of the hills.

The course winds in and out of our camp ground, and it's goopy single track for ever. I ride with Gunnar for a while, and we pass trains of geared guys, only to have to slow down again when we catch a new one. A bee stings me in the arm on a climb and I curse the little bastard. That frigging hurt.

More and more mud. I'm having a pretty good time in the woods. Almost 20 miles in. Nice.

I keep rolling on, but now I start to get a tired of the mud. I wana take a nap. Dammit. The single track feels like it's never going to end.

I catch up to Brad while he's fixing a flat after a sketchy water bar descent. The trail keeps getting muddier and muddier. "Dude this is so fucked. So so fuckity fucked." I say as we walk up the hill.

"My back brake quit working. It just goes all the way to the bar." he replied.

We ride the road together for a little while. A pack of tiny fat dogs attack Brad yipping and yapping as we pass a farm. Finally we roll into the 2nd aid station. I grab some pb&j and stick a banana in my back pocket while a super helpful volunteer power washes the muck off my bike. I hike up the grassy hill and hop back on when I finish my delicious sammach.

Brad drops me on the next road section, and I yell to him that he needs to fix the Simple Strap holding his tools and tube to his saddle. He doesn't listen, and his stuff falls off later in the day.

I roll along the lonely farm roads for a long time. I sing a crappy Lady Gaga song out loud. I really am starting to lose my mind. The road alternates from pavement to gravel and back. It rolls along the farmscape with some big climbs and descents. Still smells like cow shit.

A train of geared guys catch me, and I latch on to the back of their pace line as they take turns pulling. I love being the parasitic single speeder. They compare mileage. 5 Garmin units, 5 different readings. They range from 38 to 45 miles. I have 45 on my old school magnet and sensor computer, so we go with that.

We go back into the woods and I'm ready to strangle a kitten. Enough god damn muddy single track. I make a really angry face. There's really nothing else I can do so I keep riding.

At the 3rd aid, the 100k guys split off from us. In about 12 miles, they'll be home. We have over 50 to go. I grab more gel, another pb&j, and hose sandpaper mud off of my crotch. It's a huge climb out of the aid station. In mud. On single track. Again. Now I would skip strangulation and just bite the stupid kitten's head off.

I head back out onto the road by myself. More smelly rolling hills. I watch the miles slowly tick away on my speedometer. 60.35,  60.40,  60.45. I hit the rail trail of doom and I'm glad. It's so slow and long and soul crushing, but it's flat, and it's taking me closer to the finish.

People start to pass me every few minutes. I couldn't care less. I'm almost done racing at this point. I just want to be done. Rob blows by me and shouts "I eat the soul crushing rail trail of despair for breakfast!"

"You sure do" I murmur. I'd like to throw my decapitated kitten at his face.

We hit the next aid together and I down a cup of peanut m&ms. I feel a little better now. I try to hold on to Rob, but he is just way to strong on the road, so I let him go. I go back into the woods and hike up a super steep fire road. A geared guy passes me and we ride together for a while.

At the end of the fire road, we make a left on to paved road. Once we're out of cover from the trees, thunder cracks and the sky lets loose. A sheet of rain smacks down and pelts me in the face so hard that I can't open my eyes. We pass a group of people watching riders from their porch. "Hey you guys are goin the wrong way!" they yell.

Shit. We continue on for a while and don't see any signs. "We better turn back!" my companion in misery yells over the crushing storm. We head back down the road a few miles and find the arrow we missed. I look down at my computer. An extra 4 miles. Dammit.

More muddy single track. I try to catch a single speeder that passed me while I was lost. After a big climb we hit the 3rd aid station again. I ride right through it and roll with Gunnar for a while. He also passed me while I was lost in the rain. The finish is close I think. I start feeling good, and mash up a hill away from Gunnar.

I start passing a few 100k riders on a big fire road climb, and I'm almost happy. So close to being done. Then I hit the last aid station. "6 to go!" yells a volunteer. I'm so happy. Then I hit the muddy woods again. My happy leaves.

The last single track is the muddiest of the entire day. I'm moving at about 6 mph. I hate it. I want to be done. I pass people sitting by the side of the trail. "Hey man do you have a granola bar?" one poor soul asks. I throw a chewy bar at him. Screw this race. Screw mud. Screw the woods.

So close. There's mile markers on the trail but they tick by so slowly. I finally hit the camp ground, and see people riding up a road around the lake. I'm so pissed off. I thought we rolled right down to the finish. But there's more. I hit an over flowing stream. "Pick your bike up over your head and cross here! Get it over your head!" yells a volunteer. The brown water is moving fast and almost comes up to my chest.

I get out of the stream and keep riding. Not long to go. I see the banner up ahead. I'm so angry and spent that I'm not even relived to roll through the finish. That sucked. I stand in line for Mongolian barbecue.

The Wilds '10 Race Report

Remembering my dad's stories of sledding down parking lot snow mounds because Ohio had no hills, I fully expected the OMBC Wilds course to be smooth and flat. It was neither.

But I did get to enjoy some wide roads on the way there (quite novel for me as a hill dweller):


And although I was tempted to listen to this sign and pick up some calorie dense pickles for the race, somehow I stayed my wallet hand and kept moving:


After driving back the long dirt road to the start area, I was surprised by the number of people that were already there.

One team had an expansive setup that made the back of the Grumbler seem small and dirty in comparison (actually the back of the Grumbler seems small and dirty all the time.)


But I bet they didn't have one of these in their big fancy tent:

"Mwahaha. Send thar oral surgeon for me overbite"

I squandered most of my warm up time letting Aaron use my multi tool to fix his new bike, because roadies are too cool to carry tools. And apparently, they can only fix things with their heads upside down, closest to the up their ass position:


We headed back to the start line, and listened to the pre-race talk up while I apparently checked out my gloved fingernails (or gestured that a big a plate of spaghetti was magnifico):


And in a few more minutes, we saddled up and started the race. Prolouge is only a half mile long, all on gravel, all down hill. It ends with a sharp left turn into rocky and tight single track. There's no room to pass. I get into the woods about seven riders back and the front three guys immediately start to get away. Ben Ort has the twisty course nailed.

I'm trying to get around people, but the course is too full of roots, and the trail is only a few inches wide. The trees are close on all sides. I finally pick two or three off in a section of pines, but the top five guys are already out of sight.

Fifteen minutes in, I try to take a drink but I hit another section of roots and need both hands on the bars. I let my bottle dangle from my teeth. I drop it. Crap. Now I only have half a bottle of iced tea left.

I keep smashing along for the rest of the lap; there are no points on the course to rest. It's twisty and bumpy the whole time. For the first time I think I might be running a little too big of a gear. There are so many hard stops and punchy accelerations.

Half a lap in, I start to hit traffic. First the ladies, then the sport class. I have to get around them, but the course is still too tight to pass. It gets hard to keep any momentum. The field section comes up, but even it is too bumpy to get a rest.


I stop at the end of the first 14-mile lap to fill my bottle. I should have stashed a spare somewhere else.

I head back out and feel like I'm moving a little faster. I pass an expert or two. I'm a little smoother now that I know what's coming up on the course. Pre-riding this thing would have been huge. I finish out the lap without much incidence and sprint up the hill to finish.

1st SS, 4th or 5th overall. My lower back is killing me.
  

Mountwood race report (10')

We took off in the Grumbler for the rainy, three hour drive to Mountwood, and Don bitched about the lack of lumbar support the whole way. I actually thought my seats were rather comfy.

About 50 minutes from the park, I had a debilitating stomach cramp, and realized I needed a bathroom. Immediately. There were signs for "downtown" Salem that showed some forks, a shopping bag, and a hotel, so I figured that such a bustling metropolis would have to have a restroom area.

I pulled off the highway and went down the ramp into town to find one tiny dirt covered gas station and a few demo derby cars. I turned around and decided to hold it.

By the time we arrived to the park, Don was extremely disgruntled. We went over to register, and the cheery girl handing out forms tried to wish him luck, but he just looked away and scowled. She recoiled and rolled her eyes, and I laughed heartily.

I spent the rest of my time before the race attaching my fender with zip ties and wire (I left the mount at home.) Some people (who indecently brought umbrellas, a la Mary Poppins) made fun of my fender because it was "gay." However, they fail to realize that blinking grit out of their eyes every time they hit a mud puddle (or the entire Mountwood course) is far "gayer." And besides, I spray painted my fender purple to match my wheels. It looked too good not to use.

The rain was still coming down heavily, so I hung out in the back of the grumbler for a while and wished it was warmer. Near 12 I decided it was time to warm up. As I rode, my glasses made it seem like I was driving a submarine, so I ditched them and decided to rely on my fender for eye protection.

After the pre-race meeting, we rolled down to the pavement start. I do a couple of sprints to get the legs warmed up, then go over and stand next to Dustin Dorkieka in the steady rain. We're given a few seconds, then the promoter yells and we mash up the hill. The WV nightclub guys take the early lead as usual, but soon we reel them in. I'm surprised at how good I feel since Don, Mahokey, and I did a 43 mile mountain ride the day before.

We turn into the trail, and I make some quick passes to get up with Jeremy Rowand and Jason Cyr. Jason is leading and setting a good pace, and we're pulling away from the rest of the group. I'm glad for the distance I'm putting between me and the other single speeders.

Jeremy yells "Turtle!" and I swerve to avoid a little shelled critter. We hit a little rise and I pass Jeremy. A few seconds later I get around Jason. I'm leading the race now. Holy shit. I've never been in the lead of a mountain bike race. I'll see how long I can keep it up. At the least I should be able to drop the other single speeders.

The course is sloppy, but my Ignitors are predictable and don't pack up, and I'm super comfortable sliding around on my bike. People think I'm nuts for running a 38x20, but I'm able to stay on top of it and carry enough momentum to get over all the hills.

I can't see Jeremy or Jason anymore. The only indication that there are other riders out there is the occasional squeal of wet brakes. I could win this thing. No. Shut up. The race isn't over yet.

There are two turtles screwing each other in the middle of the trail. One is on it's back. "Oh hell man. Do you have to do that right here?" I yell as I ride by and splash some mud on them.

I'm not slowing down at all. The trail is fast and flowing, even with all the mud. I clean a technical rocky climb, and a guy compliments my wheels.

When I reach the dam, I recognize the place as the spot I caught Gerry Pflug last year. He was riding without a seat post, and still dropped me shortly afterwards. This year I'm winning the race. I tell myself to shut up again and sing louder in my head. (weird song to sing when I'm racing? a little.)

The second lap is way muddier than the first. All the sport and beginner riders have gone through and ripped up the soft course. Now I can hardly turn the big gear over. I'm making no progress. I get off and start to run. I'm afraid that one of the geared guys are just going to spin past me. But there is no way I'm going to let myself lose this race now. I've come too far.

The course becomes a little more ridable, and I hop back on my bike and start riding again. I pass a spectator.
"How many miles to go?"
"Six"

Ok. I've got this. I keep hammering and sliding around the turns. I look down at my watch. It's been about 25 minutes since I passed the spectator. It's gotta be almost over.

Suddenly I exit the woods and hit a road. There's a few guys cheering. I sprint across the grass, then cross a raging brown stream. I almost fall off my bike and into the torrent. I laugh and run through the water. The finish is in sight. I'm going to win this thing.

I almost blow right passt the finishing tent, and lock up my back brake to slide in. I go through.

I won the whole damn race, gears and single speeds be damned. I'm so stoked. Jeremy rolls through a little over a minute later and we congratulate each other.

Results and photos should be up here later today.

Don won the Expert Vet, and was paid $10 more than me for his victory, and I'm sure that Jeremy got a lot more than that for winning Expert. But I won a Surly flask in addition to my pay out (I'll use it for espresso or warm milk.) Such is the nature of single speeding. Wouldn't have it any other way. 

the cross'd bite

(I basically took all of January off from the blog thing, but I'm going to start posting Monday, Wednesday, and Friday again.) 

I'm delighted that I had the opportunity to hammer through the mud on my bicycle yesterday. So if you helped set up Cross'd Bite, gracias. We should do this more often.

The lady bear and I got to the slag heaps around 11 to help string up some course tape. We parked at the end of Goodman street in front of a foreboding and rusty chain link fence, and took the well worn muddy path around the edge of the thing. I have to wonder why someone even bothered to put up the barricade.

The skies were a flat grey, and the rain was falling steadily. Pushing the fluorescent death machine of doom, the lady bear and I hiked back to the black dirty piles of slag. The heaps are dark, gritty, and covered in scrubby little grasses. Slag is like a depressed Western PA imitation of a sand dune.

Stick, Ted, Eric and Eryn were the only people on the heaps so early. Eric's cargo bike was loaded with four cases of Straub beer, and a roll of yellow tape to make the place look like a 'cross venue. After a few minutes Ted proclaimed "However you decide to set up the course, I agree. Unless it sucks." and rode off to lead a group of riders back to the hill. On the edge of the hill top, I spied the rusty shell of a burnt out station wagon and ran over to throw my backpack under the shelter of its collapsing roof. Next to the bullet holes on its tail gate was scribed "The End"

We grabbed some bricks and attempted to pound in stakes to string the tape, but there was a layer of broken asphalt three inches under the slag, so even with mighty blows from our bird-like cyclist upper bodies, the stakes wouldn't sink down. Fortunately, there was a big pile of rubble next to "The End" so we were able to pile up chunks of concrete around the sticks and get them to hold. After a few minutes, we had something that resembled a legit 'cross course:


Riders started trickling in and a tiny little dog ripped across the course at full tilt. A tattooed guy took a 2X4 out of his messenger bag and tossed it across the heaps. The dog sprinted to retrieve the piece of wood that was as big as his body. The lady bear and I went over to talk to him and watch his dog sprint up and down an impossibly steep slag hill with a stick in his mouth as we waited for the race to start.

The Hammer was a messenger from Poland. He carried his dogs, Sugar and Tank, in his messenger bag. They were brother and sister, but Sugar looked looked like a jack rustle, and Tank resembled an athletic pug. He threw the stick down the hill yet again and Tank tirelessly sprinted back up. "I did this for 2 and a half hours the other day. And he still went home and fucked shit up."

Finally we lined up for the race. I was wearing my extra visible striped un-official race shirt, and when someone said go, I went for it. Chris Beech had the hole shot for about ten seconds before I passed him and took the lead. I was running a pretty big gear on my fixed gear 29er (38X17), so I just concentrated on staying on top of it and powering through the mud. After a few minutes, I rode the run up that marked the end of the first lap, and looked behind me. There was no one in sight.

Dave Gingrich photo

I had tons of energy I needed to burn off, so I didn't let up at all for the remaining 12 laps. I started passing people and on the 6th or 7th lap, I caught up to Chris. "Montana you motherfucker, did you just lap me?" "Aye." I said, "But it's cool man. It's cool."

"Well I'd rather it was you than somebody else." he replied. After that I stopped worrying about anybody catching me, and just focused on having fun riding my bike as fast as possible. My corduroy pants were so covered in mud that they actually started holding water in the places I had them cuffed, and the stripes on my shirt were no longer visible, but I was having such a good time that I didn't even notice. I finished up the 13th lap and stopped the clock right at one hour, which is exactly how long the race was supposed to take.

Victory! (and horsey teeth)

Afterwards we headed to the little post race potluck and loaded up on pasta salad and sloppy joes. The lady bear made a giant tray of cupcakes from scratch, which were quite delicious. We relaxed for a while until I realized that my back was still covered in slag, and decided that I needed to bathe, at which point we headed home. But I must say it was a grand day in the mud. I wish every day was like that.


Dave's pictures of the event

So how bout that punk bike?

Everyday thousands of spotted bananas are tossed in the garbage, left to decompose in a fetid hell filled with empty hummus tubs and dirty tissues.

A banana's life is not easy. Before they are even old enough to yellow, herds of the fruits are chopped from their home tree by a man named Felipe. Felipe's machete is sharp, but his aim is made unsure by a steady intake of coconut liqueur. Many hundreds of bananas are cut in two by the frenzied action of his swings.

If they survive the harvest, the fruits are thrown into a box and stacked, one on top of the other, for the arduous journey stateside. The boxes are rolled off the ships and onto trucks, where they endure hundreds more miles of travel without air conditioning or windows. When they finally reach a store, they are strewn about a table of fake wood. The faux tree bark and little green frills remind them of their tropical home, and silently they shed little sugary tears.

They sit on the table for weeks in the drafty super market basking in the artificial light. Person after person passes by, until finally a small woman towing her brood of little monsters stops at the display and examine the yellow foods. She decides to make a healthy choice for her family and rips three banana's from the rest of the herd. The fruits shriek in horror after being separated from their bunch mates, but without arms, they are powerless to resist.

The three are carted home in plastic bags before being offloaded to a special hanger behind the sink. They dangle for days, knowing that they will soon be eaten, and all the time they grow softer. Eventually they brown, but still the ripping finger nails and gnashing teeth never come. "I'm hungry!" cries one monster. "Eat a banana. It's good for you." responds the woman, but the beast fires back "NOO! I want the super sugar co co snackems!" The bananas continue to dangle.

Finally the fruits are covered in brown spots. The woman sighs in disgust and plucks them from their hanger. She opens the trash and summarily disposes of the over ripened plantains. To her, it is only a few dollars wasted. But the bananas are crushed. They could have been a new tree. They could have fueled a human for an hour. Or even two. They could have been bread.

The bananas came so far, but were never allowed to fulfill their caloric potential. I decided to ride the Punk Bike Enduro dressed as a banana to raise awareness for these poor under-appreciated fruits.

First, we derbied. 150ish people on bikes began riding in a circle and ramming into each other, and those who put a foot down were forced to exit the ring. I did my best to stay out of the fray, and before long, I was one of six riders left. The people on the outside moved in and tightened the circle, and we continued to go round and round. No one was making a move, so I decided to get aggressive and rammed my shoulder into the rider next to me. He was unfazed by my attack, so in a fit of rage I lunged onto his back wheel, thus removing myself and two other riders from the competition.

(the man in red is displeased that a freak in a banana suit is laying on his wheel)

The next stage was a steep road climb up to a forlorn farming field. I went hard on the climb, but my efforts were not enough to best a member of the plaid army, who happened to be riding a cross bike. We stood around at the top for a while before heading into the woods. When we were finally given the go signal, I sprinted off into the mud behind four other riders. Rob was charging ahead, but suddenly he slipped and the rest of us motored by. Chris Beech had speakers, so for a while I contented myself with riding behind him and listening to some soothing rap musac. When we popped back out into the field, I hiked up my banana suit and sprinted to the finish. I passed Chris and gained my first victory of the day.

We did a couple more stages in the mud, some of which I won, and others that I just scored points on. There were oodles of standing around, and the beer was flowing. A few hours passed, and we hit the up down. The up was a sprint (running) to the top of a steep leafy hill, and the down was a big mess of sliding bicyclists crashing into trees. I was one of the first to gain the top, but one of the last to descend:

(In case anyone cares, that tree really did hurt my face.)

Two of the stages were spent climbing a long steep gravel road. Despite Dave's attempt to sabotage me by grabbing my brake lever, I was able to win both times, once by sprinting Stick, and the second time by barely edging out Matt Ferrari (Ha! Take that Ferrari. You may be able to beat me by 2 hours in a 100 miler, but I'll be damned if I lose to you on a half mile gravel road.)

(Witness the disgruntled Stick in the background of this photo)

We did a couple more stages, but we stood around forever. We were out for 5 hours, but I think we only rode 10 miles. All the bs-ing was cool, but damn, I like to ride my bike, I would have liked to ride my bike more. Standing out in the cold (when sober) can get really tiring.

On the final downhill, I was battling for the lead when the two of us in front suddenly got lost. A stream of riders went by, including a heavily inebriated Santa Claus. Once we got back on course, we slid down a hill, hopped a little log, and collected the final punk points of the day. Other riders were still coming in, so near 30 minutes of heckling were enjoyed at the bottom of the hill (it was all fun until a guy on a comfort bike ran into a tree and mangled his knee.)

It felt super nice to get into the warm rugby lodge at the end of the day and load up on free food (And win the 'race'! Yay!) But there were no bananas.

Always remember kids, make bread, not compost.

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.