Todays stage is the one most of us look forward to over all the others. Every stage in this race is challenging in its own way, usually not to the advantage of my (admittedly limited) skillset, but Raystown is the rare exception: A Course On Which I Am Generally Competent. Fast, twisting - a BMX-style PEDAL PEDAL PEDAL coooooooooast PEDAL PEDAL coooooast interspersed with either big ring power climbing or extended, find a gear and grind it fireroads.
I drove out to the start blasting the first Today Is The Day record and in high spirits. I stopped at a Sheetz and got one of those green Odwalla smoothies. I was ready.
Rready, that is, to stand in line for the comically insufficient and oderous toilet. As bike racers, we can put up with a lot, but this humid turd-shack was truly and legitimately heinous. Cracking jokes through watering eyes and abbreviated gasps for breath, I laughed about how standing in that line would be our warmup for the race.
Turns out, Im a pretty funny guy.
They lined us up a few minutes later.
And the holeshot was actually important today.
Excellent.
The start was about as fast as a UCI cross race. Mattyus compared it to a world cup. I went out like my whole ass was on fire, settling in behind Justin Lindine and a CF guy. The first few minutes were glorious. I was at the front of the race, on trails I could ride well, with guys I could trust to pick the right lines.
Except after those few minutes, my riding began to deteriorate rapidly. I was sloppy, sketchy through the corners and riding brake when I should have been wide open. It was awful. I couldnt concentrate, and started to panic. Stephen asked if he could get by (very politely, which is far better than I deserved at that point) and I simply unraveled.
I waved the whole group through, and watched my race ride away.
I stood there, leaned over my bike, panting. My mind, previoulsy going a million miles a minute and in all directions began to slow, then stop, then collapse in on itself like a dying star. My panting became heaving. The heaving became gurgling.
It should be known to all that I cannot tolerate vomiting. Not other peoples, thats fine. My body simply rejects the notion of rejecting its contents.
So I was not particularly enthusiastic when every hole in my face turned into a geyser of green fluid.
I will not delve too far into the particulars of taste, odor, or consistency. I will, however, describe the experience as one of singular awfulness, and will likely have a long night of repeated and delightful puke-dreams ahead of me.
It was quiet. I was by myself. I had a very small amount of vomit on my shoe. It was time to go.
Getting back on, I didnt quite know what to expect. The pedals turned over, same as ever, and the trails didnt get less awesome on my account. Slowly, I got myself going.
In about eight or nine minutes I sighted my first group. Five minutes later, I passed them. I stood up. Another guy up the road, on top of the long climb. Sighted, chased, caught.
And then Tim Johnson caught me.
Now, I had momentarily forgotten that he is racing in another category that went off a few minutes after me. I just saw myself getting lapped less than halfway into a two lap race. There was panic, followed by realization, followed by a much more important realization: I could go fast here. Very fast. I came through my first lap in about 1:40ish, and Stephen Kincaid heckled me as we passed each other on the start/finish straight.
"Come and get me, Mike!"
And I set about my task.
Since I had already ditched all the internal weight I could, I decided to dump whatever remaining ballast I had attached. Pump and jersey pocket waterbottle were left in the feed zone. Small, not large bottle was obtained. HTFU acquired, I began the chase.
The second lap went almost exactly like the first, minus the shitty riding and vomit break. The trails were amazing, though I did manage to get a bit too rad on a few corners, I kept it upright and free of mechanicals. I conserved as best as I could on the climbs, and was out of the saddle through the turns and flats for literally miles at a time. I caught two more guys.
I still had no idea how I was doing.
But I managed to wash the taste of Vomit Flavored Heed out of my mouth, and the trails were fantastic, and more importantly I was grinning like an asshole as I aired out the bumps and dragged my back wheel around the turns. I was having a blast.
I sprinted to the line, even though I was by myself.
11th.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Transylvania Epic, Stage 3: Deep Hurting, and Bathroom Bear
At about 3 in the morning, I visited our deeply stressed out toilet. Groggy, half asleep and still kind of cramping, I started to look at the (hopefully) mud mixing with standing water on the floor and saw many animal-like shapes. Most were washed out and half formed, but one of them stood out. It looked like a bear. A sage, majestic bear. And at 3am, through a sleep-and-pain filled haze, I decided to pray to Bathroom Bear for a good result.
I was going to need all the help I could get.
After yesterdays mechanical, I had made a (unfortunately very public) promise to myself that I would absolutely bury myself today in pursuit of Scrubly Glory. The stage was 47 miles of Mostly Climbing. All of these dudes (and you had better believe, the girls - praise be to Bathroom Bear Im not racing them!) have lots of the watts. This was going to hurt.
First, the numbers:
Time:3:09
Temperature: 85
Humidity: Yes.
Top speed: 50.2mph
Avg Speed: 14.8mph
Distance: 46.9mi
Calories burned: 3458
Bottles consumed: 4
Climbing: All
Levels of Hell traversed: 5, perhaps 6
My goal for today was to stay with the front group, which had just added 100% more Tim Johnson. Which made that goal approximately 100% less likely to achieve.
The Start
Was once again merciful and slow, though this allowed some infiltrators to the group. One thing I do appreciate is the way the racers tend to sort themselves out for the starts. There is generally no jostling or other monkey business at the front - the food chain is pretty well established. Which is why I settle in behind the business end of the race: I was the Party At The Back, so to speak.
Not that I was feeling particularly festive on the first climb: I was almost immediately and unceremoniously dropped. Unacceptable. I ground it out, caught back on, and hung on to the next climb. Where I was again silently asked to leave.
I settled in with my old partner in droppitude Garth "Hash Apples" Prosser and we actually worked well together. He would pace my gravitationally challenged ass up the climbs and I would drag him back down the descents.
We made contact again.
Just in time to get dropped.
This was not exactly going to plan.
Clearly, Bathroom Bear is a wrathful god.
There was a quick turn into some singletrack (some of the only mtb descending we would get all day) and I tried to make the most of it. I lost Garth, passed another 2 guys, and came full gas into Mattyus just recovering from a mechanical. He jumped in front of me and we tore down the hill together.
And holy hell, can he descend: I was dodging golfball-sized bits of Pennsylvania shale as we tore through the twisting, washed out streambed.
We took back almost all the time I had lost on that 2 minutes of descending. I was also exactly one pant-load of crap lighter.
And just like that, we caught the NoTubes team that was so instrumental to my finish yesterday. Thinking we had a very strong group with which to pull back the leaders, I looked around to talk to Mattyus about working together. He had already dropped us, and was about halfway bridged up to Wicks and Jeremiah.
Well then.
We did eventually catch on, and this time they did not scrape me off right away. We rode a comfortable tempo, during which I was able to stay on without much difficulty over a few rollers, and then...
The Hills
We reached the first of three "major" climbs. I was determined to hang. I dug deep. I pushed. I prayed to Bathroom Bear. I gritted my teeth, and swore under my breath. I stood up; threw my bike from side to side trying to fool gravity into lending me a hand. I sat down; felt each patella strain against its connective tissue until there was an almost audible creak. None of it made a difference.
Like a dog dragging its ass across the lawn, they left me spread out all over the climb.
I was on my own.
The Hills, Part 2: More Hills
I caught a few would-be heroes trying to do the same thing as me, and with similar results. Blown up riders yo yo-ing across the jeep trail, jerseys flapping, all mouths wide open and most eyes squinted shut: it was a slow-motion massacre; the dead fell backwards drowning in molasses.
I did not drown. I put up my snorkel and fought my way through. Slowly. Everything was happening slowly. It was so strange for a bike race, where split-second timing and sharp accelerations tend to define its outcome - this was more like a water polo match in a pit filled with quicksand.
I was alone again, and went into the "other singletrack section" - also known as "The Fishermans Trail". I remember it as the trail I yardsaled all over the place two years ago. So I wasnt going to take chances here. I emerged from the other side only 15 or so seconds after the lead group. The chase was back on.
The Hills, Part 3: Seriously, Dude.
After The Tunnel (I cant really link anything here - Its pretty freaking awesome and all over the TSE website) and some more not-exactly encouraging solo bridging efforts, I got to The Big Climb. If there was anything that could convince just about anyone to get into downhill racing (or anything with lift access, honestly) it would be this climb. Holy hell.
Bathroom Bear, dont fail me now.
I caught Stephen Kincaid and one of the Kona guys on that climb, and was in turn caught by one of the CF guys. I was hopeful that we could use our combined (read: mostly spent) power to close the gap. No dice. Kincaid was toast, and the CF guy left me for dead before that plan had even formulated in by rapidly-failing brain.
The feed zone finally came after 3 or 4 fake summits. The always-helpful feed zone people gave me my bottles AND REMINDED ME TO TAKE MY FOOD. A+, Feed Zone Volunteer: this half-dead bike racer would be all-dead without you.
Just through the drop zone, Hash Apples caught me again. This is, after all, his playground.
The Hills, Part Whatever, It No Longer Matters, Kill Me Now.
I latched on to Garths resin-caked Wheel Teat and attempted a suckle. I discovered (painfully) that what Garth lacks in singletrack skills, he more than compensates with climbing ability.
He dropped me so hard I was left picking dreadlocks out of my teeth for the next 3 miles.
All of which, it seemed, were uphill.
I was beginning to think Bathroom Bear was a cruel and vengeful god.
With 5 miles to go, my race was over. I drifted from one side the road to the other, my eyes were closing, my heart rate suppressed. My stomach hurt. I hadnt felt my feet in an hour. And I knew there were guys behind me, gaining.
I was in a very, very dark place.
The road refused to relent - rollers that would have normally been a feature to look forward to on a ride were crushing glaciers, grinding my legs into smaller and smaller bits and pushing me back millimeter by millimeter until I was in danger of collapse. I wasnt even in the red anymore - the gauge had broken and steam was pouring up from the hood.
The last few kilometers were on the dirt, and I spent most of the time in the bushes. I simply could not respond to stimulus in a meaningful and appropriate way. Things were shutting down.
Dont you god damn quit, old man.
I crossed the line and fell in a heap, then dragged myself fully clothed into the lake.
It was done.
I have just enough energy left to destroy Bathroom Bear with a mop and a bucket of Pine Sol.
I was going to need all the help I could get.
After yesterdays mechanical, I had made a (unfortunately very public) promise to myself that I would absolutely bury myself today in pursuit of Scrubly Glory. The stage was 47 miles of Mostly Climbing. All of these dudes (and you had better believe, the girls - praise be to Bathroom Bear Im not racing them!) have lots of the watts. This was going to hurt.
First, the numbers:
Time:3:09
Temperature: 85
Humidity: Yes.
Top speed: 50.2mph
Avg Speed: 14.8mph
Distance: 46.9mi
Calories burned: 3458
Bottles consumed: 4
Climbing: All
Levels of Hell traversed: 5, perhaps 6
My goal for today was to stay with the front group, which had just added 100% more Tim Johnson. Which made that goal approximately 100% less likely to achieve.
The Start
Was once again merciful and slow, though this allowed some infiltrators to the group. One thing I do appreciate is the way the racers tend to sort themselves out for the starts. There is generally no jostling or other monkey business at the front - the food chain is pretty well established. Which is why I settle in behind the business end of the race: I was the Party At The Back, so to speak.
Not that I was feeling particularly festive on the first climb: I was almost immediately and unceremoniously dropped. Unacceptable. I ground it out, caught back on, and hung on to the next climb. Where I was again silently asked to leave.
I settled in with my old partner in droppitude Garth "Hash Apples" Prosser and we actually worked well together. He would pace my gravitationally challenged ass up the climbs and I would drag him back down the descents.
We made contact again.
Just in time to get dropped.
This was not exactly going to plan.
Clearly, Bathroom Bear is a wrathful god.
There was a quick turn into some singletrack (some of the only mtb descending we would get all day) and I tried to make the most of it. I lost Garth, passed another 2 guys, and came full gas into Mattyus just recovering from a mechanical. He jumped in front of me and we tore down the hill together.
And holy hell, can he descend: I was dodging golfball-sized bits of Pennsylvania shale as we tore through the twisting, washed out streambed.
We took back almost all the time I had lost on that 2 minutes of descending. I was also exactly one pant-load of crap lighter.
And just like that, we caught the NoTubes team that was so instrumental to my finish yesterday. Thinking we had a very strong group with which to pull back the leaders, I looked around to talk to Mattyus about working together. He had already dropped us, and was about halfway bridged up to Wicks and Jeremiah.
Well then.
We did eventually catch on, and this time they did not scrape me off right away. We rode a comfortable tempo, during which I was able to stay on without much difficulty over a few rollers, and then...
The Hills
We reached the first of three "major" climbs. I was determined to hang. I dug deep. I pushed. I prayed to Bathroom Bear. I gritted my teeth, and swore under my breath. I stood up; threw my bike from side to side trying to fool gravity into lending me a hand. I sat down; felt each patella strain against its connective tissue until there was an almost audible creak. None of it made a difference.
Like a dog dragging its ass across the lawn, they left me spread out all over the climb.
I was on my own.
The Hills, Part 2: More Hills
I caught a few would-be heroes trying to do the same thing as me, and with similar results. Blown up riders yo yo-ing across the jeep trail, jerseys flapping, all mouths wide open and most eyes squinted shut: it was a slow-motion massacre; the dead fell backwards drowning in molasses.
I did not drown. I put up my snorkel and fought my way through. Slowly. Everything was happening slowly. It was so strange for a bike race, where split-second timing and sharp accelerations tend to define its outcome - this was more like a water polo match in a pit filled with quicksand.
I was alone again, and went into the "other singletrack section" - also known as "The Fishermans Trail". I remember it as the trail I yardsaled all over the place two years ago. So I wasnt going to take chances here. I emerged from the other side only 15 or so seconds after the lead group. The chase was back on.
The Hills, Part 3: Seriously, Dude.
After The Tunnel (I cant really link anything here - Its pretty freaking awesome and all over the TSE website) and some more not-exactly encouraging solo bridging efforts, I got to The Big Climb. If there was anything that could convince just about anyone to get into downhill racing (or anything with lift access, honestly) it would be this climb. Holy hell.
Bathroom Bear, dont fail me now.
I caught Stephen Kincaid and one of the Kona guys on that climb, and was in turn caught by one of the CF guys. I was hopeful that we could use our combined (read: mostly spent) power to close the gap. No dice. Kincaid was toast, and the CF guy left me for dead before that plan had even formulated in by rapidly-failing brain.
The feed zone finally came after 3 or 4 fake summits. The always-helpful feed zone people gave me my bottles AND REMINDED ME TO TAKE MY FOOD. A+, Feed Zone Volunteer: this half-dead bike racer would be all-dead without you.
Just through the drop zone, Hash Apples caught me again. This is, after all, his playground.
The Hills, Part Whatever, It No Longer Matters, Kill Me Now.
I latched on to Garths resin-caked Wheel Teat and attempted a suckle. I discovered (painfully) that what Garth lacks in singletrack skills, he more than compensates with climbing ability.
He dropped me so hard I was left picking dreadlocks out of my teeth for the next 3 miles.
All of which, it seemed, were uphill.
I was beginning to think Bathroom Bear was a cruel and vengeful god.
With 5 miles to go, my race was over. I drifted from one side the road to the other, my eyes were closing, my heart rate suppressed. My stomach hurt. I hadnt felt my feet in an hour. And I knew there were guys behind me, gaining.
I was in a very, very dark place.
The road refused to relent - rollers that would have normally been a feature to look forward to on a ride were crushing glaciers, grinding my legs into smaller and smaller bits and pushing me back millimeter by millimeter until I was in danger of collapse. I wasnt even in the red anymore - the gauge had broken and steam was pouring up from the hood.
The last few kilometers were on the dirt, and I spent most of the time in the bushes. I simply could not respond to stimulus in a meaningful and appropriate way. Things were shutting down.
Dont you god damn quit, old man.
I crossed the line and fell in a heap, then dragged myself fully clothed into the lake.
It was done.
I have just enough energy left to destroy Bathroom Bear with a mop and a bucket of Pine Sol.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Transylvania Epic, Stage 2: Mike Makes It A Crappy Hat Trick
First, the good news: I finished stage 2.
And now, the race report.
The start was (mercifully) mellow. It seemed the heads of state had arrived at a "lets let Mike hang out with us for a little while" consensus, at least for the beginning. The first few climbs provided seperation, and our group of 15 or so went clear.
Then, oddly, Jeremiah Bishop dropped something other than me: his chain. The front of the field classily sat up and waited for him to resolve the issue. Sorted, Bishop drifted back up to the front and the pace was brought up a notch.
Then he shot backwards through the pack again.
Once again, we waited. He caught on, intently messing with his front barrel adjuster. We were about 4 miles in. JB and I rode together at the back for a few minutes, and he moved up around a little pile of deadfall that I had to ride over. This will become important very soon.
We started to climb again, and I was slowly being ground off the back. I just couldnt settle down - I would shift repeatedly, unable to find a suitable gear. Frustrated, and cursing my apparent lack of fitness, I stood up and tried sprinting back on. I went over the crest of the hill about 10 seconds off the back, then took some obscene risks trying to bridge back up on the descent.
Bridging achieved, the trail once again went up (this will be a recurring theme), this time ascending an at times unrideable (just ask Justin Lindine) soggy, mossy, rocky, rooty, off camber 20% grade. Moving up here was slow, but not impossible: simply wait for the guy in front of you to slip out and walk by him. Easy, right?
Woof.
At the top, I noticed that it was not so much a lack of fitness (I DID have a Honey Badger for company for most of the climb, after all) as a derailleur issue that was making life hard. I got off and retightened the cable screw, thinking some slippage was the cause of my sadness.
It was not.
I Mickey Moused my way to the first aid station, completely losing contact with the front group. My gears were all over the place, but it was manageable. I found a bike stand (thank you volunteers!) and set about trying to resolve my problem. Nothing I did seemed to work, though.
Then I noticed the housing under my bottom bracket.
Which was completely blown apart.
There are not enough curses in all the languages in all the world to describe my mental state during the next four to five minutes. Filled with rage, I limited my derailleur to the middle of the cassette, and got back on my bike.
I will take this opportunity to inform you of a newfound and all-consuming hatred for riding a single speed.
Ok, in fairness, it really was a two-speed.
My two gear choices included a 60rpm slog and a 120rpm hampster-on-a-wheel situation. Neither ideal, both a constant and painful reminder of just how hard this race can be. The climbs were absolute horror. Standing up and grinding out 30rpm under a 90 degree sun was murderous. I brought back a few riders that passed me while I was dorking with my bike, and eventually caught up to one of the No Tubes Duo teams.
And resolved to not let them out of my sight.
No matter what the cost to mind, body or bike.
The gap wavered between "talking distance" and "oh dear god dont leave me here alone" as I gound out a relentless, if at times hopeless-feeling chase.
I believe this is what Phil and Paul would refer to as "Plowing A Lonely Furrow".
And plow I did, for the climbs were both steep and seemingly infinite. And hot. Have I mentioned it was bloody hot? I was cramping so bad on one exposed climb that I thought my muscle was going to tear off the bone. I hit what bike racers refer to as "the wall".
I climbed "the wall", and discovered that beyond it was a "cave". I entered this cave, plumbed its depths, and emerged squinting and gasping for breath on the other side. I was not going to quit.
We (they) reached the summit and it was a desperate few minutes of trying to keep them in sight. Folded in half, spinning at 180rpm and chewing on my handlebar in my best ever Cunego impersonation, I only ceded a few extra seconds. We turned into the woods.
Now is the part of the story where I tell you (in retrospect) that I should in no way have made it through this stage in one piece.
Having only the middle (#5, whatever that is) cog to work with, there would be no way to keep those guys close on a twisting, fast singletrack descent. So I did the next best thing: I took unacceptable risks. I cut off little bits of turns by boosting over the bushes (completely unable to see the landing), I used the trees to change direction (they were hard, and also at times pointy) and cleared at least one stream in a 25 mile an hour Dukes of Hazard style up-and-over.
At the last aid station I stopped again and had them fill a bottle (again, thanks to all the folks standing around in the heat waiting to stuff our cracked-open pie holes with water). Of all the things that went wrong today, at least my food and water situation wasnt one of them. Gapped again, The Other Kona Guy passed me. I tried (and failed) to hold his wheel. Donnie (one of the Masters guys) pulled up next, and actually offered his Wheel Teat.
Teat graciously accepted, I clung to it for dear life. I suckled as long as I could, stretching that wheel-nipple to its breaking point and beyond. In the end, I lost it. I just couldnt keep the gear turning over fast enough on the slight downhill on the way back to the finish. I was alone.
My Garmin said I had about 4 or 5 miles left. This was bad. I could lose heaps of time in a downhill run-in of that length. Then, out of the blue, there was the tunnel that they said was one mile from the finish (see, actually listening at the prerace meeting can be life-saving!). I buried myself on the last climb, caught and passed the NoTubes guys (one seemed to be having an issue) and almost got Donnie back on the finishing circuit.
13th. I somehow managed 13th. Fitting, I guess. I figure I lost about 15-20 minutes, though its pretty hard to make those sorts of estimations.
I also dropped down to 12th on GC, something I plan to remedy.
Tomorrow, Im going to bury myself so deep its going to take a crew of Chilean miners to dig me out.
And now, the race report.
The start was (mercifully) mellow. It seemed the heads of state had arrived at a "lets let Mike hang out with us for a little while" consensus, at least for the beginning. The first few climbs provided seperation, and our group of 15 or so went clear.
Then, oddly, Jeremiah Bishop dropped something other than me: his chain. The front of the field classily sat up and waited for him to resolve the issue. Sorted, Bishop drifted back up to the front and the pace was brought up a notch.
Then he shot backwards through the pack again.
Once again, we waited. He caught on, intently messing with his front barrel adjuster. We were about 4 miles in. JB and I rode together at the back for a few minutes, and he moved up around a little pile of deadfall that I had to ride over. This will become important very soon.
We started to climb again, and I was slowly being ground off the back. I just couldnt settle down - I would shift repeatedly, unable to find a suitable gear. Frustrated, and cursing my apparent lack of fitness, I stood up and tried sprinting back on. I went over the crest of the hill about 10 seconds off the back, then took some obscene risks trying to bridge back up on the descent.
Bridging achieved, the trail once again went up (this will be a recurring theme), this time ascending an at times unrideable (just ask Justin Lindine) soggy, mossy, rocky, rooty, off camber 20% grade. Moving up here was slow, but not impossible: simply wait for the guy in front of you to slip out and walk by him. Easy, right?
Woof.
At the top, I noticed that it was not so much a lack of fitness (I DID have a Honey Badger for company for most of the climb, after all) as a derailleur issue that was making life hard. I got off and retightened the cable screw, thinking some slippage was the cause of my sadness.
It was not.
I Mickey Moused my way to the first aid station, completely losing contact with the front group. My gears were all over the place, but it was manageable. I found a bike stand (thank you volunteers!) and set about trying to resolve my problem. Nothing I did seemed to work, though.
Then I noticed the housing under my bottom bracket.
Which was completely blown apart.
There are not enough curses in all the languages in all the world to describe my mental state during the next four to five minutes. Filled with rage, I limited my derailleur to the middle of the cassette, and got back on my bike.
I will take this opportunity to inform you of a newfound and all-consuming hatred for riding a single speed.
Ok, in fairness, it really was a two-speed.
My two gear choices included a 60rpm slog and a 120rpm hampster-on-a-wheel situation. Neither ideal, both a constant and painful reminder of just how hard this race can be. The climbs were absolute horror. Standing up and grinding out 30rpm under a 90 degree sun was murderous. I brought back a few riders that passed me while I was dorking with my bike, and eventually caught up to one of the No Tubes Duo teams.
And resolved to not let them out of my sight.
No matter what the cost to mind, body or bike.
The gap wavered between "talking distance" and "oh dear god dont leave me here alone" as I gound out a relentless, if at times hopeless-feeling chase.
I believe this is what Phil and Paul would refer to as "Plowing A Lonely Furrow".
And plow I did, for the climbs were both steep and seemingly infinite. And hot. Have I mentioned it was bloody hot? I was cramping so bad on one exposed climb that I thought my muscle was going to tear off the bone. I hit what bike racers refer to as "the wall".
I climbed "the wall", and discovered that beyond it was a "cave". I entered this cave, plumbed its depths, and emerged squinting and gasping for breath on the other side. I was not going to quit.
We (they) reached the summit and it was a desperate few minutes of trying to keep them in sight. Folded in half, spinning at 180rpm and chewing on my handlebar in my best ever Cunego impersonation, I only ceded a few extra seconds. We turned into the woods.
Now is the part of the story where I tell you (in retrospect) that I should in no way have made it through this stage in one piece.
Having only the middle (#5, whatever that is) cog to work with, there would be no way to keep those guys close on a twisting, fast singletrack descent. So I did the next best thing: I took unacceptable risks. I cut off little bits of turns by boosting over the bushes (completely unable to see the landing), I used the trees to change direction (they were hard, and also at times pointy) and cleared at least one stream in a 25 mile an hour Dukes of Hazard style up-and-over.
At the last aid station I stopped again and had them fill a bottle (again, thanks to all the folks standing around in the heat waiting to stuff our cracked-open pie holes with water). Of all the things that went wrong today, at least my food and water situation wasnt one of them. Gapped again, The Other Kona Guy passed me. I tried (and failed) to hold his wheel. Donnie (one of the Masters guys) pulled up next, and actually offered his Wheel Teat.
Teat graciously accepted, I clung to it for dear life. I suckled as long as I could, stretching that wheel-nipple to its breaking point and beyond. In the end, I lost it. I just couldnt keep the gear turning over fast enough on the slight downhill on the way back to the finish. I was alone.
My Garmin said I had about 4 or 5 miles left. This was bad. I could lose heaps of time in a downhill run-in of that length. Then, out of the blue, there was the tunnel that they said was one mile from the finish (see, actually listening at the prerace meeting can be life-saving!). I buried myself on the last climb, caught and passed the NoTubes guys (one seemed to be having an issue) and almost got Donnie back on the finishing circuit.
13th. I somehow managed 13th. Fitting, I guess. I figure I lost about 15-20 minutes, though its pretty hard to make those sorts of estimations.
I also dropped down to 12th on GC, something I plan to remedy.
Tomorrow, Im going to bury myself so deep its going to take a crew of Chilean miners to dig me out.
Transylvania Epic, Stage 1: Trying To Do Good At What Im Bad At.
I begin this years annual Week Of The Cursed Bike Race
Transylvania Epic with hopes offinishing without undue catastrophe and hardship cracking the overall top ten. There are some new faces this year, and some good folks coming back for a second (or third) run at one of the best events in the Northeast.
Camp
They set up the first section mostly the same as last year: Twisty, almost cyclocross style turning with some intermediate short climbing. Stuff I generally like, and have developed some aptitude for. So far, so good, right? Sure.
After riding like a water buffalo in full rut through the technical singletrack, I hit the road. Hard. Angry-like. I passed my 30 second guy on the road out of camp, and sighted my 1 min and 1:30 rabbits up the road. I chased. Two riders ahead became four. Four became five. Four miles in, I had passed five people. Unsure of what to do with all this success, I looked around in search of some mitigating circumstance - something to rein in my premature exultation. Sure enough, I found it in the form of a steadily gaining Mattyus Beuks. Matt is from South Africa, where he races world cups. He started a minute back from me, and caught me with extreme prejudice just after the Moto Section. Which brings us to...
The Moto Section
The Transylvania guys apparently wanted to "spice up" the prologue this year. This enthusiasm to toss random and more often than not awesome things at us is one of the reasons I keep coming back here. After the 3ish mile road section, you dive into a (surprisingly dark) bit of woods, do some slippery root sliding around some turns, then end up in one of the course moto guys backyard. Which he turned into something of an endurocross course.
A few of us prerode the lap the previous day while they were putting the finishing touches on it. Not only was I filled with bunnyhop-addled joy, I (and everyone else in the group) was invited to the nighttime motorcycle race and party later that evening.
So I plowed my way through the Bicycle Double Dare section (cleaned the section is a little too generous) and around a few more turns, got passed by Matt, and began The Climb.
The Climb
I should frame this for you as best as I can: about four miles into the TT, its 87 dergees with about 90% humidity and Im already drifting perilously into the red as I hit the bottom of The Climb. It starts out in an unassuming, almost innocuous way - like when you meet a group of slightly awkward guys at the table next to you at the bar. They seem nice enough, and your friends are busy trying to attract the attention of a table of good-looking college girls a few tables down. So you start talking, maybe have a few drinks, then BAM! You wake up handcuffed to a radiator in a room full of feral cats wearing a leather Boy Sout uniform with a ball gag in your mouth.
Thats what The Climb was like.
The Catch
Lindine and co. so far held off, I tried to salvage what legs and motivation I had left and tried not to hemorrhage more time. This strategy went about as well as could be expected, as sure enough, The Honey Badger emerged a few turns back. Smiling.
Alarm bells (or dying neurons) went off in my head. Desperately trying to postpone the inevitable, or at least get to a point where I could reasonably let them pass, I floored it through the last few turns with enough enthusiasm to spend some quality time in the bushes and got to a short doubletrack climb.
And he brought friends.
And they passed.
All of them, it seemed.
Lindine led Wicks, Bishop, Sager and another guy I was too cooked to identify. As a small consolation, I passed a duo team. Who had a flat tire. Sigh. At this point, I was pretty much done. A few very fast fireroad descents and one absurdly steep wall later, I got to...
The Walkin' Section
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the walking section. A stalled-out motorcycle on the trail gave me all the excuse I needed to get off my bike and run (stumble) through this slippery quarter mile crash factory. I like technical sections even more than the next guy, but in the first stage of a week-long race, at the end of a goddamn time trial with The Climb of Not Enough Gears On This Earth featured prominently in its midsection, I was cool with walking. Especially seeing as when I did try to get back on my bike, I almost immediately crashed on my face.
And the guy in the dracula suit scared the living shit out of me.
Because I thought I was starting to hallucinate.
The Last Bit
The final bit was a fun tear through some singletrack around the lake. I finished in about 58 minutes, good enough to squeak into the top 10. I believe this puts me firmly in the lead of the "Scrub GC", a category I just made up now. I promise to try and hold on to my non-jersey as long as I can, and do it with both honor and dignity. At least until that stage with 6000+ feet of climbing.
Transylvania Epic with hopes of
Camp
They set up the first section mostly the same as last year: Twisty, almost cyclocross style turning with some intermediate short climbing. Stuff I generally like, and have developed some aptitude for. So far, so good, right? Sure.
After riding like a water buffalo in full rut through the technical singletrack, I hit the road. Hard. Angry-like. I passed my 30 second guy on the road out of camp, and sighted my 1 min and 1:30 rabbits up the road. I chased. Two riders ahead became four. Four became five. Four miles in, I had passed five people. Unsure of what to do with all this success, I looked around in search of some mitigating circumstance - something to rein in my premature exultation. Sure enough, I found it in the form of a steadily gaining Mattyus Beuks. Matt is from South Africa, where he races world cups. He started a minute back from me, and caught me with extreme prejudice just after the Moto Section. Which brings us to...
The Moto Section
The Transylvania guys apparently wanted to "spice up" the prologue this year. This enthusiasm to toss random and more often than not awesome things at us is one of the reasons I keep coming back here. After the 3ish mile road section, you dive into a (surprisingly dark) bit of woods, do some slippery root sliding around some turns, then end up in one of the course moto guys backyard. Which he turned into something of an endurocross course.
A few of us prerode the lap the previous day while they were putting the finishing touches on it. Not only was I filled with bunnyhop-addled joy, I (and everyone else in the group) was invited to the nighttime motorcycle race and party later that evening.
So I plowed my way through the Bicycle Double Dare section (cleaned the section is a little too generous) and around a few more turns, got passed by Matt, and began The Climb.
The Climb
I should frame this for you as best as I can: about four miles into the TT, its 87 dergees with about 90% humidity and Im already drifting perilously into the red as I hit the bottom of The Climb. It starts out in an unassuming, almost innocuous way - like when you meet a group of slightly awkward guys at the table next to you at the bar. They seem nice enough, and your friends are busy trying to attract the attention of a table of good-looking college girls a few tables down. So you start talking, maybe have a few drinks, then BAM! You wake up handcuffed to a radiator in a room full of feral cats wearing a leather Boy Sout uniform with a ball gag in your mouth.
Thats what The Climb was like.
The Catch
Lindine and co. so far held off, I tried to salvage what legs and motivation I had left and tried not to hemorrhage more time. This strategy went about as well as could be expected, as sure enough, The Honey Badger emerged a few turns back. Smiling.
Alarm bells (or dying neurons) went off in my head. Desperately trying to postpone the inevitable, or at least get to a point where I could reasonably let them pass, I floored it through the last few turns with enough enthusiasm to spend some quality time in the bushes and got to a short doubletrack climb.
And he brought friends.
And they passed.
All of them, it seemed.
Lindine led Wicks, Bishop, Sager and another guy I was too cooked to identify. As a small consolation, I passed a duo team. Who had a flat tire. Sigh. At this point, I was pretty much done. A few very fast fireroad descents and one absurdly steep wall later, I got to...
The Walkin' Section
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the walking section. A stalled-out motorcycle on the trail gave me all the excuse I needed to get off my bike and run (stumble) through this slippery quarter mile crash factory. I like technical sections even more than the next guy, but in the first stage of a week-long race, at the end of a goddamn time trial with The Climb of Not Enough Gears On This Earth featured prominently in its midsection, I was cool with walking. Especially seeing as when I did try to get back on my bike, I almost immediately crashed on my face.
And the guy in the dracula suit scared the living shit out of me.
Because I thought I was starting to hallucinate.
The Last Bit
The final bit was a fun tear through some singletrack around the lake. I finished in about 58 minutes, good enough to squeak into the top 10. I believe this puts me firmly in the lead of the "Scrub GC", a category I just made up now. I promise to try and hold on to my non-jersey as long as I can, and do it with both honor and dignity. At least until that stage with 6000+ feet of climbing.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Dodo Birds and Mountain Biking (Willowdale)
One would think that after a couple thousand hours working in a bike shop and a hundred or so road and cross races, I would have learned some valuable lessons from this sport. I might even be smart enough that I wouldn't fix my mountain bike the evening before a big race, then ride it for the first time since last autumn the next morning (in the aforementioned race). But much like the ill-fated dodo bird, I am incapable of adaptation, which leads inevitably to the path of harm and extinction.
With the outcome of this story already certain, the details are almost pointless. But here they are - the rear wheel from my 29er had been in horrible shape for months, and since I hate fixing my bikes, I was just pretending that the Karate Monkey was an ugly dirty piece of wall furniture. It certainly worked to impress girls. But I had a date with the Weeping Willow, so after riding some hilariously blocked-out openers on Saturday (hey heart rate, why won't you go above 165 bpm?) I took the wheel to Back Bay Bicycles. They opened up my hub and watched all of the black, pitted bearings fall out. Because they are wonderful and good-hearted mechanics, they replaced the bearings and the freehub body for me in the last hour before the shop closed. If you're reading this, you probably know that that is exceptional customer service and I am a horrible customer who should really know better.
With that taken care of, I put the bike back together and rolled out to the Willow the next morning. I had not put my MTB shoes on since cross season, and that was for racing a different kind of bicycles extremely poorly. I managed to put together a decent start on the fire roads and doubletrack, ahead of my roommate Eric (one of the GLV Empire's minions). Then the comedy began.
clunk.
I dropped my chain into the chainguide, fixed it, remounted, and caught back onto the group. There will be a separate blog post later about the excellence of poorly-maintained 1x10 drivetrains.
clunk.
There goes THAT group. A half lap of actual decent bike racing later and I made contact again. For those who don't care about roommate battles, this was not close to the pointy end of our category, but somewhere in the top half. I promptly celebrated by running into a tree and bending my brake lever into a new and interesting angle. This would be the last time I saw the aforementioned roommate. I spent the rest of the first lap dropping my chain 3 more times (clunkclunkclunk). I considered dropping out at the halfway point, but then realized that the course was awesome and I had paid money to ride on it.
The second lap was more of the same - I would pass ten or fifteen guys, do something dumb and/or drop my chain (clunk), and then pass the same ten guys again. It should be mentioned as a credit to our sponsor shop that through all of this my rear wheel performed admirably, unlike the rest of the bicycle and it's rider. I finished in some extremely poor position relative to most of my field and ate a potent lunch of gas station donuts, a Five Guys cheeseburger, and Advil.
Did I mention I used to be a bike mechanic as a kid? At the time, I made the Virginia minimum wage of $5.15 an hour, but still. This is embarrassing.
After typing all of this up, there are so many lessons to be learned from this experience. But since I don't learn things, I'm going to go race my road bike for a month and fix the Karate Monkey the day before the Pinnacle.
(not really don't kill me Mike)
With the outcome of this story already certain, the details are almost pointless. But here they are - the rear wheel from my 29er had been in horrible shape for months, and since I hate fixing my bikes, I was just pretending that the Karate Monkey was an ugly dirty piece of wall furniture. It certainly worked to impress girls. But I had a date with the Weeping Willow, so after riding some hilariously blocked-out openers on Saturday (hey heart rate, why won't you go above 165 bpm?) I took the wheel to Back Bay Bicycles. They opened up my hub and watched all of the black, pitted bearings fall out. Because they are wonderful and good-hearted mechanics, they replaced the bearings and the freehub body for me in the last hour before the shop closed. If you're reading this, you probably know that that is exceptional customer service and I am a horrible customer who should really know better.
With that taken care of, I put the bike back together and rolled out to the Willow the next morning. I had not put my MTB shoes on since cross season, and that was for racing a different kind of bicycles extremely poorly. I managed to put together a decent start on the fire roads and doubletrack, ahead of my roommate Eric (one of the GLV Empire's minions). Then the comedy began.
clunk.
I dropped my chain into the chainguide, fixed it, remounted, and caught back onto the group. There will be a separate blog post later about the excellence of poorly-maintained 1x10 drivetrains.
clunk.
There goes THAT group. A half lap of actual decent bike racing later and I made contact again. For those who don't care about roommate battles, this was not close to the pointy end of our category, but somewhere in the top half. I promptly celebrated by running into a tree and bending my brake lever into a new and interesting angle. This would be the last time I saw the aforementioned roommate. I spent the rest of the first lap dropping my chain 3 more times (clunkclunkclunk). I considered dropping out at the halfway point, but then realized that the course was awesome and I had paid money to ride on it.
The second lap was more of the same - I would pass ten or fifteen guys, do something dumb and/or drop my chain (clunk), and then pass the same ten guys again. It should be mentioned as a credit to our sponsor shop that through all of this my rear wheel performed admirably, unlike the rest of the bicycle and it's rider. I finished in some extremely poor position relative to most of my field and ate a potent lunch of gas station donuts, a Five Guys cheeseburger, and Advil.
Did I mention I used to be a bike mechanic as a kid? At the time, I made the Virginia minimum wage of $5.15 an hour, but still. This is embarrassing.
After typing all of this up, there are so many lessons to be learned from this experience. But since I don't learn things, I'm going to go race my road bike for a month and fix the Karate Monkey the day before the Pinnacle.
(not really don't kill me Mike)
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Rider Bio: Andrew Lysaght
Name: Andrew LysaghtRacing Age: 28
Discipline(s)/Categories: CX, Road, XC
Strengths: Training
Weaknesses: Racing
Favorite Burrito: The "Late November," may she rest in peace... with mango salsa
Favorite Race: Cliche, but GLOUCESTER!!! I always do terrible there but it's okay, because there is a party afterwards.
The Stable: 2007 Jamis Nova, 2012 Specialized Crux, 2008 Jamis Sputnik (earning my street cred), 2009 Co-Motion Primera (losing that street cred).
How It All Began: Brought the Nova to make the 5-mile ride to school and thought 'Hey, I've got this sweet cross bike, why not do a sweet cross race?!?' Three years after that folly I decided to give it another shot and I've been racing ever since.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Rider Bio: Hughes Burridge
Racing Age: 24
Strengths: Road
Weaknesses: Off-road
Favorite Burrito: The Tikka Monstrosity. With tofu.
Favorite Race: Boston Mayor's Cup, Yarmouth, Great Glen
The Stable: Spooky Skeletor, Specialized Crux Comp, Niner Air 9, Cannondale Major Taylor Track
Worst/Best Injury: Off-bike: I made myself a little shorter by fracturing my L1 vertebra. On-bike: Dislocated shoulder, fractured humerus, fractured scapula.
Rider Bio: Kristin Beville
Racing Age: 33
Discipline(s)/Categories: Cyclocross 4, Mountain 3
Strengths: I'm best at being average at everything I do.
Weaknesses: Dismounting (and a good donut)
Favorite Burrito: Bangkok Thai on wheat with tofu
Favorite Races: Shedd Park, Ice Weasels Cometh
The Stable: '06 Cannondale R1000, '10 Specialized Crux Comp, '09 Specialized Epic Expert
Craziest Ride: Night Weasels Cometh 2011 - I'm pretty sure my bike had 10 lbs of mud and grass attached by the end of the race. Riding in the dark with so much mud was so much fun though!
Pre-race Ritual: I tend to be the first one at the line for fear that I'll miss the start.
Worst/Best Injury: At my first race at Quad Cross, I fell off my bike a minimum of 15 times causing me to come in DFL. I'm not sure what hurt more, the bruises or my ego. Another good crash was at Thanksgiving Waffle Cross '11 where I slid on a wet bridge and crashed into a body size muddy puddle within the first 10 seconds of leaving the parking lot for a 2+ hour ride!
Poignant Thoughts: I don't sweat it I let the bullsh!t blow in the breeze
Rider Bio: Cimarron Wortham
Name: Cimarron Wortham
Racing Age: 30
Discipline(s)/Categories: MTB 1, Cyclocross 3, Road 4
Strengths: Bike handling
Weaknesses: Sustained power
Favorite Burrito: Classic Mexican with brown rice, grilled veggies, and guacamole!
Favorite Race: Cycle-Smart International in Northampton has the best course
The Stable: Intense Spider (MTB), Felt F15X ('cross), and Felt F3SL (road) for racing; Surly Cross-Check for touring, 1986 Trek for commuting, and 1996 Trek 930 hardtail for skills.
Craziest Ride: Ronde 2.5
How It All Began: My first bike was a sparkly red Schwinn Sting-Ray with a banana seat when I was 5. I was hooked!
Racing Age: 30Discipline(s)/Categories: MTB 1, Cyclocross 3, Road 4
Strengths: Bike handling
Weaknesses: Sustained power
Favorite Burrito: Classic Mexican with brown rice, grilled veggies, and guacamole!
Favorite Race: Cycle-Smart International in Northampton has the best course
The Stable: Intense Spider (MTB), Felt F15X ('cross), and Felt F3SL (road) for racing; Surly Cross-Check for touring, 1986 Trek for commuting, and 1996 Trek 930 hardtail for skills.
Craziest Ride: Ronde 2.5
How It All Began: My first bike was a sparkly red Schwinn Sting-Ray with a banana seat when I was 5. I was hooked!
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