mountwood challenge race report 2011

1st SS - 2nd Overall - Dry, sunny, 85 degrees - 25 miles - 2:06 hours

I picked Don Powers up in the tiny convertible at 7 to start our Big Gay WV Adventure. We were cruising down 79, and Don Powers kept begging me to put the top down so he could feel the wind in his hair. I told him to wait. We would put it down in a few minutes when the fog burned off.

Then the transmission popped out of gear. I put it back in. It popped out again. Everything started rattling and grinding in a horrible way. I put it in forth and crawled to the last exit in Pennsylvania. We were six miles from Morgantown.

I pulled into a gas station and called Rob. They were a few miles behind us, but he didn't think his small VW would be able to take two more people. Probably right. So he had Aaron start calling people. He got a hold of Joanna and MJ, who were also a few minutes behind us on 79.

Rescued by the women in the big pickup truck, we abandoned the tiny convertible and our Big Gay WV Adventure. But we were still going bike racing. The whole ordeal cost us about 15 minutes. It's good to know nice people.

When we pulled into Mountwood Park the place was packed. The turn out was huge since it was a combined WV and OH series race. The sun was out and it was legitimately hot for the first time since September.

We lined up on the road and I punched Nate Annon in the ribs a few times as we compared the size of our emaciated biceps.

"20 seconds. No, hold on. 3 2 1 go!" the starter yelled.

I clipped in and sprinted hard. I took the lead on the road climb kept it until the top of the hill. I thought the single track started when the pavement ended, so it seemed like all the work to get the hole shot would be worth it.

It wasn't. Turned on to a long section of rolling gravel double track. Hell. I was breathing hard and loosing ground. Went way to hard off that start.

A bunch of geared guys passed me, then a single speeder I didn't know, then Nate. When we finally hit the single track I was in about 10th. Tim Carson two other guys had formed a lead group and were breaking away.

I was still trying to recover from that start. Nate started making quick passes. I tried to go with him, but I was still recovering from that fast start. He pulled away.

After a few miles, I let Joey the Riddler go around me. I sat on his wheel and we started picking up the pace. Not feeling great, but not terrible either.

It was so hot. My vision was going blurry on the hills. I was putting out so much effort, generating so much heat, and moving so slow. The sun was beating down through the leafless trees, and there was no breeze. My hands were on fire and my head felt like it was going to pop.

We ripped down a switch backed descent and rolled on to the paved road around the lake. I went around the Riddler and started chasing Nate down. I reached out and grabbed a cup of water from the water stop and dumped it on my head.

Back into the woods. I caught some guy on gears first, and kept getting glimpses of Nate through the trees. He was getting closer. I pedaled hard and cruised along the flowing dirt.

Caught him in a field. We complained about how hot it was, then I went around him and put in an effort to get away. He looked pretty cracked.

Then I saw Tim Carson. He looked back at me, and his face was the color of a stop sign. He was barely moving. Even from a hundred yards back, I could tell what was wrong. His fancy new $8,000 Specilized Epic only had room to carry one bottle.

I caught him right as he was grabbing his second bottle from a post on the side of the trail. There were only six miles left to go. It was way to late for him. I'd drank 48 ounces of water in the same time he'd had 24. I went around and wished him luck.

That put me in 2nd overall. I passed some volunteers and they told me I was four minutes behind the leader. There wasn't enough course left to catch him. I rode conservatively into the finish. Nate came in a few minutes later.

I was pumped to finish 2nd and win single speed in such a big field. When I saw how dry and fast the trails were, I wasn't expecting anything better than a top ten overall. And with how bad I felt at the start, I wasn't sure I'd even be able to catch Nate. But as bad as I felt, the heat made everybody else feel even worse.

When it's dry, Mountwood is one of the best race courses I've ever been on. The trails are awesome and fast, there's room to pass, and there are plenty of tight turns and fun downhills. It's perfect.

After the race, we sat in a stream and Don Powers puked everywhere.

It was a solid first race, but not a good day for the tiny convertible. Poor guy:

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.

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

raccoon township 'cross

I have to qualify this post by saying that racing 'cross on a fixed gear is so much frigging fun. It really is. I had a blast. If you've ever ridden an old cruiser with a coaster brake and locked it up around a turn, you'll understand why I enjoyed it so much.

The course at Raccoon Township Park yesterday was very well laid out. Laps were about two miles long, plenty of turns, one dirt (mud after the first lap) section, and multiple off camber corners. There were only two places per lap that forced a dismount; one set of barriers, and one muddy set of log steps.

We had a solid day of rain on Saturday and through Sunday morning, so I knew it was going to get muddy. I rolled into the race early enough to take some practice laps, and the course was already soggy. I knew that it would probably be a better idea to race my mountain bike, but I really wanted to do a race on the Poo Poo Thunder II, and since I'm already out of the running for the month of mud overall, (I missed the first race because of Coopers Rock) I figured I might as well do it.

From Drop Box

The race started without much warning, and I got caught in the back. I spent the first flat section futzing with my watch and trying to get the timer to start. That was probably a mistake. Oh wells.

From Drop Box

For half of the first lap, we stayed in a pretty tight pack. But around the first set of muddy steps, things started to thin out and I became a little more comfortable.

From Drop Box

From Drop Box

I had to lock the back wheel up and skid down this muddy slope. I'm pleased to say that I made it without crashing everytime.

From Drop Box

(this pour soul was not so lucky)

The only way for me to slow down was to skid my back wheel. I would lock it up into and around a corner, sprint out, skid at the next corner, and so on. For the first 4 laps, it was fine. But when I came in for that 4th one and saw that there were still 4 more to go, I could have died. The course was becoming muddier, and it was taking more concentration (when I had less to give) to keep my bike upright.

All the skid/sprinting was taking its toll on me. Eventually I stopped skidding through the corners and started to just peddle slowly through them, which was certainly slower.

Before long my goal shifted from having a good finish to not getting lapped by the leaders.

When I crossed the line and started my last lap, I saw the lead pack a few turns behind me.

From Drop Box

From Drop Box

(I made it over the barriers every lap but one. On the forth or fifth time I was so tired that I skidded right into it. Running into the barrier is not the most effective way to cross it.)

I really started to push again, and I finished the lap with a few minutes to spare.

From Drop Box

I skidded across the line totally spent. Cross' really is hard. And I was not expecting the race to take over an hour. I figured that I finished very well into the back of the pack. But I was still going to call the day a success, because I didn't crash, I didn't touch my front brake, and I beat a few people.

I was cleaning up the Thunder and getting ready to pack it into the Grumbler when one of the volunteers came by and handed me a single speed third place envelope. "Huh? I was third?" I said in astonishment.

"Yep. Did you think you were lapped?"

"No definitely did not get lapped."
"Well then congrats." he said

I have no idea how I came in third, but hells, I'll take it. Yesterday was a good day. The next cross race is next weekend at Grove City, and I'll be on the fixed thunder again. Can't wait.

wilderness 101 (105) race report

Wow. That was hard.

While the elevation profile did feel eerily like my rendering:

From Drop Box

I'll include the real thing for reference.

As we rolled out of Coburn at 7 am, the fog was thick and the day looked dreary. I still don't think that my brain had processed that we were about to ride 101 miles, and I had never even ridden 90. When the moto pulled off and ending the controlled start, we were slammed with the first big climb of the day. I got out of the saddle and started to roll by the riders around me.

Down the other side, the road alternated between pavement and super smooth gravel. I stayed in my lame mountain bike aero tuck and tried to save as much energy as possible. Every few minutes, a train of 10 geared riders would come chugging by me at 30 mph. I attempted to latch on the the back of their paceline, but I can only spin my 32X18 up to 24mph, so each and every effort was thwarted. The ease with which they passed me on that flat section was comical.

I hit the first aid station in 1:20 and blew right through it. I had hardly touched my water to that point. After the aid we hit another big climb and I caught most of the geared guys that had toasted me on the flat. 20 miles in the terrain was finally starting to feel like something worthy of fat tires. I was keeping up with my nutritional needs, and other than the incessant fogging of my glasses, I felt great.

Down the first single track decent of the day we went. The trail was smooth, straight, and fast. I spun my bike up to almost 30 mph and let it coast over the smattering of rocks and roots as I neared the bottom. Suddenly, I felt something jerk my handlebar to the side, then I was rolling on the ground.

"Shit. Holy shit. What the f#$k?!" I exclaimed

About 20 riders went buzzing by. I looked over and saw the catalyst of my crash laying in the dirt a few feet up the trail. "You ok man? Need anything?" I said. "No..my bad, I'm just gonna lay here for a little...." he replied. I got up and dusted my self off. My elbow was bleeding profusely, and my hip hurt like hell, but my bike was unscathed. "Ok. Well it could have been worse." "Yeah.. except half of my f#$king bar is gone." he held up a disconnected brake lever. I asked him if he would be ok one more time, then continued down the trail, a bit slower than before.

On the next climb I re-caught many of the riders who had passed me while I was laying in the leaves. "Shit dude. That was a hell of a crash. I didn't expect to see you again." said one guy. All I could think about was how hard I was going to have to work to make up that lost time. Before long we rolled into the first section of technical singletrack. My bloody elbow (i mean that in both the literal and british way) was throbbing harder and harder every time I hit a bump in the trail. I failed to clear to the first boulder field, but I could not have cared less. I was in pain, and the rocks were wet.

From Drop Box

photo credit bob

A group of four of us soon bunched up. We turned up and ridiculously rocky trail and started to hike our bikes. The same question was on everyone's mind. "I wonder if the top guys like Eatough and Tostado and riding this.." We hiked for half an hour, and we hadn't seen anyone come from behind us. I assumed we were just out hiking everyone. The trail got rockier and steeper. It was a crazy glute and hamstring burner.

Finally we reached the top. There were no arrows. No tire tracks. Shit.

The four of us consulted each other. "Did we miss something?" "No way man, there were four of us, and we were all walking. We couldn't have." "Yeah but we were all staring at the guy in front of us." We rode up the fire road to the top of the hill just to make sure. There were no markings up there either. "Yep. We're screw." I verbalized what we were all thinking. We turned back and rode back down the trail. It was a crazy fun and technical decent. It almost made all the walking worth it. Almost.

We didn't see the turn until we were all the way to the bottom of the trail. We should have just rolled onto a nice smooth fire road. Instead we had hiked the whole way to the top of a ridge on what we would later find out was a local downhill course. The trip had cost us 4 extremely hard earned miles, and 45 minutes. I rode with the only single speeder in our four man expedition group. "Well that screws any chance I had of getting under 9 hours." he said. "That's kind of a demotivator."

I had to agree.

When I reached the second aid station, (yes all that crap happened before the race was even half over) I grabbed a gel flask and banana, and explained what had happened to the lady bear and my padre (i strategically left out the part about the crash.) I was informed that I was now an hour back from the lead pack. Which meant that before my grand adventure, I was only 15 minutes back. Damn.

I started up the most painful climb of the day, and in fact, of my life. It was frigging torturous. My knees are still hurting from that one. Fortunately, half way up the trail there was a man clad in the garb of a spartan warrior shouting and beating a gong.

He said something to the effect of "Huzzah for single speeders and orange bicycles!" and began to push me up the hill. "Hells yeah dude." I said. "Just keep goin to the top"

At the top we were rewarded with a nice view and a ripping singletrack decent. I was loving the the downhill, and I passed at least five nervous descenders.

At some point coming down the mountain I lost a bottle. Of course I lost my full bottle, and not the one that I had already drained. I tried to ration what little water I had left. The rest of the miles to aid number 3 were lovely rolling singletrack. I was really enjoying myself. But I knew that I would soon be hitting the only big singletrack climb of the day.

From Drop Box

I grabbed a fresh bottle and a sammich at the aid and headed up the trail. Before long I was off the bike and hiking. When I can only ride 4 mph, and I can hike at 3, it makes a considerable amount of sense to just hike. It was a long walk to the top. There was another single track downhill on the other side that started out nice, but soon morphed into a "holy christ are the promoters trying to kill us?" type of trail. It was insanely steep, 12 inches wide, and covered in loose shale. And there was a big drop off on the right side. Good times. At the bottom of the death section there was a nice section of smooth flowy trail, then more of the death descending. I rode all the slippery rock descents, but there were plenty of guys walking their bikes down the trail.

Finally we were spit out onto a fire road that soon turned into pavement. We rolled out onto the side of a hi way and into aid station 4. I asked how many more climbs. "Two big ones. One before aid 5 and one after" was the reply. "Dammit. Thank god for that." I muttered.

The climb out of that aid was a big one. It was rocky, rutted, and very steep. Half way, the road goes downhill for a bit, then turns right back up. I had to get off the bike and hike a few times just to give myself a break. The rest of the path into the fifth aid was an ever narrowing section of single track that got more rocky and technical with every turn of the pedals. It started to get extremely draining. It was by far the worst part of the race for me. I was just feeling beat up and ready to be done with the day. I think I cursed the course designers and vowed to never race again a few dozen times on that section.

I rolled into the last aid station with a huge sense of relief. One more climb to go. I took off down the road and turned right onto a rail trail. I rode with two other SSer's for a while, and we soon disappeared into a surreal unlit tunnel. I could see the light at the end, but everything else was dark. It was a little unnerving when I was almost to tired to balance.

The final climb was much easier than the previous hills. I grunted up it then coasted down the other side. At the bottom, there was a ridiculous section of un-ridable single track that I stumbled around on for a few minutes. All I could do was laugh. I was to exhausted to be angry.

From Drop Box

The singletrack ended and I was spit back onto the rail trail where I spun the last few miles to the finish. I never thought I would be so glad to see Coburn, PA.

Results are up I finished in 10:08 hours, 119th out of 347 overall, and 32nd single speed.

For my first century, I'll take it. If I wouldn't have gotten lost, I would have definitely beaten my 10 hour goal. I guess I'll just have to take another stab at it next year.

I'll add some pictures later today

1st 2nd

2nd single speed at the Mountwood Challenge. The SS that beat me was Gerry Pflug, who rode almost 20 miles 

without a seat post (yes, he is that good.) The course 

looked like it was covered in a layer of shit 

laden chocolate pudding.

Race repor to follow.

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!