a tandumb dirty dozen ('10)

It started to snow while I was driving to Pittsburgh for the Dirty Dozen. I got a little worried:


And a certain girl was scheduled to come spectate the event, but she got a bad case of the sniffles. So I replaced her with an inflatable pink flamingo:


A few weeks ago, previous almost DD winner Sam Morrison told me that he wasn't motivated to train for this year's event. Since I find it hard to care about races without singletrack, I suggested that we do the race on a tandumb. So it was settled. We would try the DD on a tandumb.

A week later, Sam changed his mind. He was going to start training to beat Steevo. A few days after that decision, he changed his mind again. Now we would for sure do it on a tandem. Five minutes after that, Sam talked to Danny Chew on the phone. He was motivated to train again. Alright. I was sure he'd waffle a few more times.

He changed it at least two more times, but three days before the race we made the last call. We would do it on a tandem. We emailed the wizened and creaky Gunnar Shogren and asked to borrow his road tandem. He was happy to lend it to us.

Since Sam can't ride down a paved bike trail without going over the bars, we decided that I'd drive. Neither of us had ever ridden a tandem, I'd only ridden drop bars twice, (the second time I destroyed an entire drive train with my awesome shifting abilities,) I hadn't ridden a geared bike in over a year, and Gunnar sets his brakes up moto style. But I was pretty certain we could score some points on a hill.


"You're going to fail miserably." said Don Powers. What an encouraging guy.

When we got on the bike, we were wobbly as hell. I could hardly control the thing. But I didn't get really nervous until we hit the first hill.

The first hill is one of the easier ones, and we only got about half way up before we started to swerve. We fell off. At that point, I was really scared about the rest of our day. It was super hard to balance the bike and pedal up a hill.

We went back down to the bottom, and agreed to stay in the saddle instead of trying to stand up. That worked much better, and we cleared the hill.

Eventually I got a little better at controlling the tandem. On Logan we decided to go for points. We were crushing it up the hill, but still moving slow for the amount of effort we were putting in. We held on to 6th most of the way up, but dropped back a little and finished the hill in 8th or 9th. Just outside of the points.


After that effort, we were pretty shelled. We took it easy on the next few hills. Tried for points again on Mt. Washington, but we were too dead.

Canton Ave. was next. Since it's the steepest street in the US, it's one of the most feared hills.

We took a line through the rough cobbles in the middle and cruised right up it. With a long wheel base and almost 300 pounds on the wheels, we had no problems with traction.


We were a little more than half way through the ride. By that point at least two dozen people had asked Sam if he enjoyed staring at my ass. I laughed every time. Never got old.


The next few hills were like the rest. Hard, but we made them. Some people weren't so lucky:

Ben Stephens photo

On the flat section to the last hill, we tried to use our combined power to break away from the pack. We went from the back of the herd all the way to the front, but cracked when we hit the hill. We slowly spun up and finished the day.

Next year I might get a real road bike and try to actually race it.

Or I might have to do it on a single speed again. Gunnar did it on a fixed gear this year, in a 45x22, and scored one point. I can't let an old person one up me like that.

In any case, that'll be my last ride on a tandem.

stoopid 50 2009 race report

I'll start by saying that the Stoopid was a beautiful course, and I would highly recommend it to anyone who wants to die (on the inside. while riding. i'm just sayin its hard.)

getting there:

The lady bear and I got the grumbler on the road about an hour later than I planned. Fortunately, the old grumbles did not give us any trouble and we arrived at the Penn Roosevelt camp ground in Rothrock Forest at 10:45. It was obviously pitch black by that time, and not wanting to disturb anyone who was sleeping, I parked the grumbler by the side of the road and pitched our tent a few feet away under a large conifer.

From 2009 Racing Season

Our lodging for the night was strategically placed on top of a small rock that protruded into the lady bear's rib cage. Magnifico.

I had a comfortable sleep and awoke with the sun to get everything packed up. By 6:45 we were ready to go, and headed over to the start area.

From 2009 Racing Season

We ending up being one of the first ones there, and almost had first dibs on the portapoties. Life doesn't get any sweeter.

I ran up to the registration table to sign the obligatory "I promise I won't sue you if I die" paper work and get my drop bag. I came back and ate some cereal while the lady bear made me samiches and packed the bag with cliff bars, organic un-oreos, and other delectables.

From 2009 Racing Season

From 2009 Racing Season

I like to think that the flying ham on the bottom left corner of my drop bag made me faster.

At 8:15 I had to take another dump. And apparently, so did everyone else. I did the potty dance for a solid 15 minutes while I waited for my turn in one of the two bathrooms. By the time I was out, there was only 25 minutes until the start. I pulled on my bibs and jersey (courtesy of the fine folks at twin six) and filled my bottles. Then I headed over to the racer meeting.

the race:

The start was controlled, so for the first few miles we followed a truck up a paved road. Unfortunately, I was standing near the back of the race meeting, so when the promoter yelled "roll out!" I was already near the back of the pack. I was technically not supposed to pass while we were still following the truck, but I knew that if I didn't I would have about 100 pieces of slow moving traffic in front of me when we hit the single track. I should have done a lot more passing than I did those first few miles.

When the truck blew its horn to signify the end of the controlled start, I was so far back that I could hardly hear it. I picked up the pace a little bit, but I did not want to kill myself those first few miles.

When we hit the single track, the course jammed up almost instantly. My speed dropped to about 6 mph as I fought to ride the rocks and not hit the guys wheel in front of me. The only time I, or anyone else could pass, was when someone dabbed and fell to the side of the trail. There was a solid stream of riders in front and behind me. I knew that the lead guys were going a metric shit ton faster than 6 mph, so I got a little edgy.

After a few miles, the herd finally started to thin and I was able to ride at my own pace. I was loving the single track. I felt so at home there with the big rock gardens, logs, and little chatter rocks every where in between. Just like Laural Mountain, there was not a section of smooth dirt anywhere.

I rolled by a photographer and threw her my most dashing smile. "Rigid eh?" she yelled. "Yep. It's a bitch." I shouted back as I pedaled away. Using the power of their squishy forks, a few guys were passing me on the rockier down hills, but I knew that there was really nothing I could do to stay with them. So I contented myself with the lovely views of the mountains in the distance.

Just when my hands were starting to scream for mercy from the relentless jarring, we hit the fire road and started to climb. I had not been able to eat or drink on the single track, so I at about the one hour mark I sucked down my first gel and drank half a bottle of water.

I was feeling great and immediately started passing people. I rang my little bell and let my tongue loll out the side of my mouth as I pounded by one single speed. Judging by the disgusted look on his face, I think he thought I was crazed.

The road kept getting steeper, and I stayed out of the saddle passing both geared and SS riders. As I passed one geared guy, (passing on a climb takes at least a couple minutes. it feels like your going in slow motion), I said "I spose there's some climbing around these parts" "Yep. This is an 18% grade." he replied.

'huh.' I thought as I motored by.

When I hit the top of the road the view was spectacular. It was a perfectly clear sunny day and I could see for miles. I really wanted to stop and take it in, but I had no time for relaxing. It was a race dammit.

The fire road turned back downhill and I fully expected to be passed by some of the geared guys that I had gone by on the climb. But it never really happened. I spun up to 30 mph, got off the saddle and tucked in to get the most out of the hill. Only one or two guys on full suspensions went by me in their big rings.

I knew the aid station was coming up soon, but it surprised the hell out of me when I rounded a corner and it popped up.

From 2009 Racing Season

I slammed on the brakes and skidded over to the table. With a cloud of dust settling around me I pulled in and grabbed a sammich while a volunteer filled my bottle. Within a minute I was back on the road. Good service.

I ate half of the half sammich while I caught up to the two guys in front of me that had bypassed the aid. By the two hour mark I had eaten one gel and 1/4 of a pb&j. You can probably guess where this is going.

We went back into the single track, and I really started to slow down. The constant beating from the rocks was taking its toll, and guys with suspension where passing me in alarming numbers. I went up a steep rocky climb that opened into a section of muddy double track. When I turned back onto the trail, I was met with a long twisty rock strewn downhill. Under different circumstances, it would have been a blast, but as it was it just hurt. A lot.

The climb back up was partly ridable, but it was almost as fast to hike it. As usual, I made up a few places as I hiked by people.

At 2 1/2 hours I still had not eaten anything else and was running out of water. I started to pray that the aid station would appear soon. The terrain was varied from rooted pine forest to sun baked field on that section of trail. But the overriding theme was rocks. And more rocks. The rocks never seemed to end. I watched in dismay as three single speeds passed me. But still the trail continued with its relentless beating.

After what felt like an eternity, I exited the trail and hit the fire road. I was starting to bonk by this point. I looked down at my computer and saw that I was only moving at 7 mph on the road, where earlier in the day I had averaged 15. My legs felt dead, but I was hesitant to eat because I was out of water. After three hours of hard riding, I had only taken in 250 calories, while I had likely burned nearly 900. That's a bit of a deficit.

After a few more minutes I said screw the water and ate my emergency cliff bar, and washed it down with a gel. I felt a little better, but now I was hungry. In a couple more miles, the aid station appeared again. I had my bottles filled by my padre and the lady bear, who had apparently become aid volunteers.

I ran over to check out the food table.

From 2009 Racing Season

1 1/2 bannas, 1/2 of a pb&j, a few oreos, a chewy bar, and a bottle of water later, I was back on the trail. There was only 15 miles to go, and with the food in my belly I was starting to feel much better. I hooked up with a geared guy and we took a few turns pulling each other up the climb. Somehow, almost all of the last 15 miles was up hill. I had caught two SS's and was feeling much stronger. Then, at mile 42, in the middle of a huge climb, I felt my back tire go squishy.

Shit. I stopped and pulled out my CO2, only to find that at some point it had sprung a leak, and was now empty. Double shit. I started walking up the hill while I waited for some riders to catch up to me. As they went by, I begged for some CO2. One fine soul answered my pleas and gave me his inflator. (thanks jake)

I pumped up the tire, and fortunately the stan's sealed the hole, and I was on my way again. There were only 8 miles to go, and for most of the time I was alone. Before the race, the promoter had mentioned that the final 2 miles to the finish were a super technical rock garden, so the whole time I was on the fire road, I tried to mentally prepare myself.

I hit the down hill, which was actually a mile and a half from the finish, and immediately began to curse the sadistic mother f###er that designed the course. It was hard, and I was tired. I was not pleased. My hands were just being completely worked over by the combination of rocks and rigid fork. Then I rolled through the finish. And I was completely pleased. Two riders rolled in right behind me, that I had apparently held off on the descent (by held off I just mean that they had nowhere to pass.)

I shook my hands out and winced as another rider said to me "Not bad for a rigid. This really isn't the course for that shit." I immediately vowed to get a suspension fork.

But now I'm not so sure. I really am a stubborn ass.

Mountwood Challenge Race Report

I just checked the website, and the official results are in. 2nd SS and 10th overall. Not to shabby I say.

Unfortunately, I must be very un-photogenic on the bike, because I again failed to make it into any of the event photos. At the risk of wounding my pride, I shall maintain that I am simply to fast to be photographed. Harrumph.

Sunday was rainy. And grey. And a bit nippy. Not my idea of ideal weather. But the race had to go on. 

After signing in at the signing in table in the signing in area, I was presented with a tee shirt, a map of West Virgina, and a sticker. The tee shirt was grey, small, and cotton. The sticker had an adhesive backing. The map was paper. None of the above (or beside depending on the width of your monitor) has any relevance. But I thought I should share anyway. 

After my mandatory quadruple pre-race water closet breaks, I rolled up to the start about a minute before the race began. I lined up in the back again. 

(I'm the handsome devil astride the orange and lime steed)

The course started with a mellow climb up a paved road. I did my best to stay with the geared riders, and to my surprise, I was fairly successful. By success I mean that I wasn't dropped and spit out by the pack, left wheezing on the road side. 

We made a turn onto gravel, and the trail narrowed down. I started working my way around a few riders. Before long, I spotted Gerry Pflug in all his black and orange stripped strippieness. I made some passes and tried to get up with him, assuming that if I could stay close to him I would have a good finish. He kept passing riders in the single track, and I tried to follow, but I just was not making my passes happen as quickly. After a few minutes he was gone.

I settled into a pace and tried to stay smooth. At this point, the trails were a little moist, and traction was sketchy in places, but nothing was unrideable. I was probably a bit to cautious on some turns, but I had qualifying for track and field states in the back of my mind the whole race. I did not want to crash and get hurt. (I have to admit that I am still primarily a distance runner. At least until May 22nd)

The pack thinned significantly, and my passing essentially came to an end. I kept pedaling away and making good turns. The course was almost all cut into the side of a hill, so it kept me on mi toes the whole time. The trail was starting to get a little muddy, and I was starting to get a little glad that I was running a fender. 

Before long, I hit a much dreaded section of downhill switchbacks. I sped down them, made the first turn, pedaled up to speed, braked for the second turn, and promptly shot off the trail. Two riders passed me. I'm not even sure where they came from. I shook it off, and the race was on again. 

I did hammered to try to stay with the two passing riders. I kept with them on the climbs and flats, but as usual, I lost a little ground on the descents. I hit another switchback section, and noticed this fine gentleman on my tail.

He passed me on a section similar to the one I was currently on last race. I was determined not to let it happen again. I weighted my front wheel and managed to keep my bike on the trail through the turns. I struck out and pedaled away from him.

At the bottom of the hill there were a series of wooden bridges. On the first one, about six feet in the air, I almost lost it. I yanked my bars back to the right and averted a disaster. "Ohh hoo whoo. That's a trixy one!" I shouted to the legions of on lookers. They were greatly impressed with my manly man speech.

I hammered up a hill (its a common theme on this course. I don't recollect much flat ground.) Pulled nails out (opposite of hammering.) on the way down, and was spit onto a section of road. The fine gentleman from Trek, we'll call him Stephen, (only because I think that's his name.) was still behind me. I put in a mighty effort on the road, and actually pulled away from him while catching up to another SSer. I grabbed a water at the aid station, almost knocking over one of the helpers (lo siento. and thanks for the agua) and climbed back into the woods. To my extreme surprise, Pflug appeared about 30 meters ahead of me. 

As I caught up with him, I noticed he was standing an awful lot. On closer inspection, I discovered that his seatpost was missing. I spent the next 10 minutes trying to think of something witty to say to him. 

"Rigid SS not hard enough for ya?" was the least lame thing I could muster in my anaerobic state.

His retort was nearly as clever: "Yeah. Right?"

I passed him, but he stayed right behind. The trail was getting extremely muddy now. We were covered in the greasy brown stuff, but I hardly noticed. We were routed back onto the trail for a second lap, and the real mud began.

I'm going to assume that the sport and beginners also rode this section of trail, because it was completely torn apart. My speed slowed to a crawl. I couldn't get out of the saddle because the traction was so bad. I came off the bike at one point, causing Gerry and Steve (who had caught back up) to do the same. Gerry ran and did a cyclocross mount, swinging his leg perfectly across the saddle. Or so he thought. 

But he still had no saddle. I'm not sure how he avoided mashing his delicates, but he seemed ok. Steve decided that since he could spin a nice low gear and keep traction, he would pass. Then Gerry went. I was alone again.

I passed three people with clipboards and asked each one how many miles were left. I was getting tired, and I think my inexperience was showing. I kept slogging along in the mud, hoping the finish was near. 

I found Stephen on the trailside a few miles later with a flat. I raced by, and he DNF'ed for the day. After climbing a hill, I finally got a definite distance to the finish from someone. 

"1/2 mile to go!"

"That's it? really?" I shouted back. But I didn't wait for the reply. I gave all I had left.

Then I crashed. (it was really slippery. i can't be blamed.) 

I rolled in the last few meters without incidence. I was pleased, and figured that I at least had a decent finish. 

big bear classic race report

The Bowl and I met at walmart at around 8:00 to head to the big bear race. (big bear, race. not to be confused with a race of large furry mammals)(although some of the SS racers could be described as large furry mammals.) But anyway. Enough parenthetical use. Back on topic.

The Bowl and I left walmart at 8:10 for the big race. We headed down the long and winding road to Bruceton Mills, WV full of anticipation, coffee, and eggs. I forgot the directions.
We reached Bruceton Mills without much incident, and having forgotten the cue sheet prepared by the lovely people at google maps, I had to try to recall what the Big Bear Campground instructions said. After much meditation I remembered what was written. It was: "look for signs to campground." So look we did.

We searched and searched but could not find a single sign. The inability to read signs would prove to be Bowl's downfall later in the day. Finally I stopped at a gas station and asked for directions. "Go dawn to road ta hazleton and follow the signs. But I'm not to good with directions." said the attendant. A ha! My memory had served me. We were supposed to follow the signs... they were just in a town six miles from where we were.

We finally arrived at the campground with one hour to race time. We unloaded the Grumbler, and since Bowl had never ridden a mountain bike before, he pedaled around the parking lot in an attempt to familiarize himself with his new steed.

The Start
Experts lined up first, with the SS group starting 15 seconds behind. I stood near the back of the pack, assuming that I would finish the same. The man on the line said "Go!" and the experts were off. The SS class started rolling up, and after what I'm guessing was about 5 to 45 seconds, we left as well.

We shot across 200 meters of open field before being funneled into the woods. I tried for the hole shot, but since I had lined up in the back, it was impossible. The first mile of the course was tight and smooth single track with almost no room to pass. Things were getting a little jammed up and I tried to get around people, but I was racing a little conservatively at that point.

When we left the little tree patch the course opened into a longish fire road climb. I gunned it and passed a huge portion of the pack. The trail slowly narrowed down, but I stayed on the gas and kept passing. I was feeling good.

The Meat of the Bear
At the top of the climb, I latched onto a blue (I think) jerseyed man's wheel and we started chasing the rider in front of us. I eventually passed blue jersey man and caught the red and white clothed guy ahead of me. The trail was still pointing up, but big embedded rocks were becoming more numerous. 

I got into a rhythm and kept pushing, trying to catch a Speedgoat rider that was off in the distance. The course was twisty and rocky, there was never a dull moment, and I felt like I was riding great. After a while I started to notice that most of the guys around me were running gears. I had not seen a SS in a while. I assumed that I was way behind.

The trail was still climbing, and I knew in the back of my mind that I was eventually going to have to descend. I tried not to think about it, because I knew that it was going to be an arm pumping death fest without front suspension. The trail smoothed out and leveled off with some nice bermed corners and swoopy sections through a pine forest. Then, finally, it pointed down.

And it pointed down steeply. The smooth dirt turned into a mess of leaves and loose chunk rock about the size of softballs. It sucked. My arms were dieing and my hands could barely hold the bars. I was getting bounced in every direction and I could hear the big rocks shooting up and smacking my frame. It was all I could do to keep the bike on the trail.

I made it around the first two big turns switchbacks, but on the third I lost it. I was going to fast, and my front wheel was bouncing to much. I careened off the side of the trail. Two experts and one SS shot past.

I hopped back on my bike and started wobbling down the trail. That little slide really took me out of it mentally. I tried to catch the guys who passed me, but they kept getting farther away.

A few minutes later, I was able to collect myself and get back in the race. On a little climb, I re- passed one racer and got back in my groove. For the next few rocky miles, I rode alone.

Pretty soon I realized that my homemade saddle bag was loose. I grabbed it and realized with a start, that my multi tool had jumped out. Yarg! I privately screamed. I tried to keep riding, but the loose saddlebag was driving me nuts. I did not want to lose anything else. So I stopped to tighten it. A SS trucked on by. I got on my bike and started chasing him. At least now I had someone to race.

Finishing Blow
I saw trailers off to my right and realized that we were getting very close to the finish. My legs and hands began feeling better and I pushed hard to stay with the guy that I just let pass. We hit a little fire road and I caught him, but when the trail turned back to a rocky single track descent, he pulled away. Damn people and their squishy forks.

We shot back across the damn and down the fire road that we started on. I sprinted hard to make up a little time, but he was rolling down the hill faster than me. We crossed the line and I got off and started drinking some water. I was mighty parched. The 16 mile course had not let up enough for me to drink more than a few times.

I looked around me, and there were not any single speeds, other than the racer who edged me out. I started to wonder where I finished.

I walked over the the score board they had set up and started watching for my name. Eventually it showed up.
Miller, Montana 4th SS
Holy crap! 4th! Which meant that if I would not have stopped to tighten my saddlebag, I might have been third. And before I slid off the trail, I was in second! I had no idea that I was that close to the front. I was stoked.

Meanwhile, Bowl had still not made it back from his eight mile beginner race. I started getting a little worried. But since awards would start soon, I headed to the building.

45 minutes later, and two hours after he started his 8 mile race, Bowl walked in, covered in mud, blood trickling down his shin. "Where the hells were you?" I asked. "I took a detor." was his reply.

They started giving awards, and I was given a big mug (with a small bear on it) and fifty dollars. First prize money I've ever won. Huzzah!