A Heart Full of The Good Thing

My last race was pretty much total crap, but otherwise things are pretty much quite alright. The day after the Pat's Peak race I convinced nephew Noah to upgrade from the 12er to the 16er, he bought into the whole "decreased angle of attack, larger contact patch, yadda, yadda, yadda" argument. After his win in the Single Speed, Coaster Brake, 1-5 Age Group category at Pat's Peak International Bicycle Center decided to pick him up, knowing a hot prospect when they see one. Here he makes his first attempt at the Jump of Death on the new ride:

He went off the side but rode it out like the sick bike handler he is.

Here he is again sticking it, rocking his new IBC jersey.

Wish I had my camera earlier in the day when he was rolling over the Teeter Totter of Death at Gramma's house. That was nuts.

Later that day I went and dropped the car up in Concord for Miriam who had ridden to work after her first Ski area single speed race the day before. Usually my recovery ride involves hammering belligerently through traffic on the way to work tuesday morning, this was different. I cruised down route 27 through the 85° air with a ripping tailwind, spinning my
39 X 19 at 20MPH. Belligerence did get the better of me as Miriam passed me in traffic. I passed her back at a light, then determined to beat her back to my sister's house I jumped in the draft of a DHL truck and moto-paced at 33MPH for the last couple miles, winning by a pug-nose.

Fast forward a week to the following monday, plenty of juice left in the legs after the truncated race sunday. Got out of Mannying at 4PM and B-lined for Noanet Woodlands in Dover, my old stomping grounds, the place where I struggled to learn the art of mountain biking. It was close to 100° out but I felt great, just went out and started hammering in the 33 X 18. 33 seems to be the magic number for me, as far as I know Surly is the only outfit to produce a 33t chainring. Somebody's been out there cutting new singletrack and it gets my stamp of approval, I like it a lot.

There are spots in Noanet and Hale that used to literally bring me to tears ( I was an emotional teenager with girl problems). Now I whup up on them like a grown man who's gone back in time to face the schoolyard bully who gave hime wedgies in fourth grade. It's a good feeling. The stream crossing with large rocks on either side which I used to be afraid to jump downhill I can now bunny hop uphill. Uphill scrambles that I couldn't clean with a granny gear and a 34t cog, I now nail with a 53" gear.

Good thing I got better at riding a bike because if I went back in time to face that schoolyard bully from fourth grade he would still wedgie this grown man's ass with no trouble at all.

Root 66 Channel 3

The Idiot

Tracing my trail of stupidity leading up to this race is going to be tough, so much to tell…where to begin. A telltale sign of my declining cognitive abilities was my attempt to google map directions to the race from teammate George’s house. I had clicked on the “avoid highways” button to get alternate directions over to his place in Brookline. I then punched in the race venue location to see if it was closer to his abode than mine. Here’s the email I sent a few seconds later:

“AAAH!
Dude, I was just looking at google maps.
I don;t know who put it in my head that this thing is 2 hours away, it's not,
it's closer to 3. We gotta bump up the departure time for your race.

Crap, we're looking at more like 7:15ish.
Let me know if you get this, I'll try to text you as well.

-t”

I followed that up a few minutes later with a retraction:

“I think instead of Pedialyte I was accidentally drank some
Pediatric Crack replacement juice
because I clicked the "avoid highways" button on google maps
to do something and then looked at the directions to the race
with that function still on.

Crackhead!

Sorry, we'll see just before 9.

-t”

Note my incredibly well structured sentence “I was accidentally drank”.
I sound like an LOL cat. “I can haz pedialyte?”.

That’s about when they should have taken the keys to my bike away and called me a cab to a weekend at the sleep study lab. But no, I went off to race in earnest.

My second act of awesomeness involved getting back late from dinner with my parents, then deciding it was still a good idea to swill an entire bottle of Pedialyte during the hour before going to bed. It was going to be a scorcher and I wanted to be prepared…to wake up at least five times during the night to piss. Sleep was non-existent.

On the way down to the race we were listening to my super-awesome “it’s gonna be really hot out” mix. I’d searched for anything relating to heat, summer, hotness, fever, burning, fire…you get it, in my itunes library. The fact that I thought this was a good idea at all is testament to my reduced mental capacity. We stop for gas and when we get back in the car the Beastie Boys are playing. I look at the ipod, it says Dragonforce “Through the Fire and Flames” is playing. I’m baffled, I think it’s some major malfunction with my ipod, I keep clicking through the tracks and The Beastie Boys keep playing “like Ma Bell I got the ill…” I’m about to lose my god damn mind. Finally Miriam looks at the stereo and points out that the CD player is on, not the auxiliary mode. The jack had come out, Greg Montello’s dance party mix was playing. Tech-mology.

We get to the race, I don’t drive the car into any tunnels which are actually just images painted on the side of a cliff face by The Road Runner and kill us all in a flaming wreck. I ride the course, I’m over-geared, I go back to the car and knock a tooth off in the back. Not literally, I’m not quite that dumb. I head out for another pre-ride with Matt O’Keefe, he’s a super nice guy, and a rider I respect a huge amount, so I was honored just to roll with the guy. He was talking about how he’s still trying to find his legs, and that he’d just keep going hard from the start at these races and wait ‘til they show up. I visualized a man (maybe Christopher Walken in The Deer Hunter) playing Russian Roulette with a gigantic revolver…loaded with ICBMs, I mean a really gigantic revolver. Eventually one’s going to find the chamber and we’re all dead. During the pre-ride I must have hit a nail or something on one of the wooden bridges because my front tire began to leak. I topped it off and rode around thinking the sealant had taken care of it and I was good to go.

My next act of awesomeness and brilliance went like this, I’d spent an hour the night before the race (when I should have been trying to sleep and peeing instead) building a bottle stand made out of a camera tripod and an old paint bucket. “What’s that?” Skip Brown asked me. “It’s a bottle stand, I made it last night” I replied. “You MADE it?” he laughed. Skip works for Seven Cycles, he helps make some of the finest frames in the world. When he “makes something” It’s Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court stuff, not a bucket bolted to a tripod. I felt like a chef on Hell’s Kitchen who’d just brought Gordon Ramsey a piece of Wonder Bread smooshed around a ball of peanut butter with a filthy hand “I made this Chef Ramsey!”. Profanity ensues.

Then I’m riding up to the feed zone with said Buckety Bottle stand thingy, I see Mo Bruno-Roy. I try to make a gesture like “Ya, I’m going to joust my competitors with this thing”…then one of the legs suddenly telescopes out, goes into my spokes, drags the rest of the apparatus in between the wheel and the frame, bucket slams into my legs, I go “Ow!”. Attempt at Will Ferrell style comedy transforms into Peter Sellers material quickly. After a trip back to the car to re-ziptie my brake housing on and check the truth of my wheel I was up at the start line watching air ooze out of my front tire through a huge gash, the sealant wasn’t up to the task. Too late to fix it, oh well, it was go time so we went.

What do I even do with this thing?

Here’s how it unraveled:

Another good start for a bad starter, up in the top five, then top three or four. Came down to the first big log hop, Harry Precourt had come around me with some big ringing action on the descent, he opted for the runaround line, I hopped, maybe the guy behind me didn’t hop so well, next thing I knew we had a gap. It was Carpenter the master of the hole shot, Foley, Ringquist, O’keefe, and a guy from Michigan with me. I was comfortable until we hit the super steep climb, I was off and running it. As I tried to close the gap back down on the off camber descent my tire started to roll off. It was only a matter of time. I took out my CO2 and threaded it on, I located my tube, I wanted to make this quick and get back in it.


I pulled off and went to it. It didn’t take but a few seconds to realize my greatest act of awesomeness was grabbing a 26” tube not a 29” tube. Still I tried to stretch the thing onto the rim like a tubular, the sealant making this as easy as boiling alive an Egyptian Hairless Cat (after you’d marinated it in olive oil). Minutes were going by fast as the riders from other fields rolled past. Eventually I got the tire on, using my left foot like Daniel Day Lewis to hold the ever-slipping bead on as I finished it off. Blasted one CO2 in, I was sloppy, wasting a lot of it. Second CO2 was my last chance, yet it still wasn’t enough to hyper-distend the wee tube into the larger tire cavity. Miriam came along with the offer of a pump, if only to just get my now ten minute behind ass back to the start, no dice, not enough purchase on the valve stem. I was walking. But first I was jumping in the river and hanging out there for a while before the hike home.

Michael Patrick went on to win, followed by Ringquist, and Foley. Michael’s been through some crazy stuff, battling brain cancer this past winter and it’s good to see him back on form. He’s coming back from a place most of us have never been and can’t even imagine. Seemed like a bunch of folks had issues with the heat, maybe my stupidity and negligence saved my ass from the ignominy of dropping out due to heat exhaustion. The upside is that in addition to a nice soak in the river Freye was racing in Canada and Oakes was DNF as well so I maintain my tenuous grasp on the points lead for a while longer.
A big ol’ ‘Nice work” to Linnea, Colin, George, and Miriam who all finished their races. I’m going to go get some sleep.

Photo Back Log and Explanations

Above: George and Greg on the Thursday AM Danish Pastry House ride last week. It was the first really amazing day of the year and a killer ride. Ripping it up through some of the technical stuff in The Fells at a good clip with some solid riders.

Colin and Gary during a breather.

Colin shares some stories from his recent motorcycle trip to Nicaragua and back.

Gary was a new addition to the ride. Here he rolls away after clearing a wicked rock garden, The guy's got skills. He's old school and XC and smooth as all hell.

After the ride I was determined not to drive to work even though I had to drag my race wheels in to mount up my tubeless tires for the weekend. This became insanely complicated as my fixed gear which is the only bike I can pull the B.O.B. trailer with was in bits and pieces. I realized that my adjustable wrench wasn't big enough to fit around the Truvativ BB tool, oops. No problem...just jam a quick release skewer into the hole behind the worm gear (the adjuster bit) and slam it on the cement floor until the whole deal blows apart all over the room. Now the jaws will spread as far apart as you like. Oh, but how do you get then to stay where you want them...vice grips. So with my chainline about 10mm off and running late I went outside with my loaded trailer...and go! No dice. The cotter pins were all wonky. My neighbors probably formed an even more solid opinion about my general weirdness as I sat on the ground smashing the cotter pins into place with a broken off piece of my stone steps.

Riding a 44 X 19 to work into a head wind pulling a trailer is no way to recover from racing. I only clipped one Cadillac with the outside of one of the wheels in traffic. The car was obviously too wide. On the way home I tried to shoot the gauntlet between two jersey barriers going over a foot bridge. This resulted in a near high speed collision with a chainlink fence. Hey, but I saved ten bucks in gas.

Root 66 Pat’s Peak

Apologies for any inconsistencies in the report here, this one’s a bit blurry.

Above Photo: Mental Alertness 100% (yes, that's my coffee mug on the hood). My Posse. 24 Hour Soloist on a Pugsley.

I was a little discombobulated (in a good way) the morning of the race. My nephew Noah, who is five was participating in his first bike race and my girlfriend Miriam, who is thirty-four was participating in her first mountain bike race. They were both on single speeds. Miriam with a way too steep 32 X 20 and Noah with who knows what gear and a coaster brake alone. He’d be going old school Repack style, smokin’ that thing out no doubt. I was three hours early for my race so I played team mechanic to my crew, airing up Noah’s tires on his Trek Jet 12” (I got him a new 16er, but he’s still not convinced that big wheels hold any significant performance advantage) , and making sure he was hydrated.



I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that a Mom did not set up the kid’s race course, I’ll go even farther and say that it’s quite possible that whoever set it up has never actually seen a child ride a bicycle, or quite possibly never met a child in little-person. It went straight up the ski hill for 80 yards, traversed to the right with only a piece of yellow tape separating the weaving urchins from oncoming race traffic just a few feet away, then most insane of all, descended down the lift line, across and un-rideable gully. Noah, like most of the kids started by running up the hill, got on his bike at the top, almost careened into an oncoming racer, got knocked off his pedals trying to ride his 12” wheeled bike down the rocky singletrack along the lift line, became essentially brakeless, zigging and zagging, and ultimately eating dirt twice, maybe three times. He ate it again running his bike down the grassy hill, but still opted to do another lap. At that point I had to go sort some mechanical stuff out for Miriam so my sister ran the next lap with Noah. Amazingly he lived and by the time I got back up there I found Noah beaming, stoked as all hell on his medal and new water bottle.



Miriam, being the super trooper that she is had decided to do the Sport race (this had nothing, I say nothing to do with the fact that it was three hours later than the beginner race and the girl loves her sleep). She hasn’t ridden the single speed very much so even during the uphill start she was totally bogged down. Twenty minutes later I was suited up and out on course pre-riding, I caught up to her walking the singletrack before the first really nasty steep climb, but she was smiling and laughing, red in the face and happy to be out there. She would finish her first lap in over an hour and opt to do another lap even though she’d be walking most of the uphill, her logic…she’d get to do the sweet downhill again so it would be worth it. Atta-a-boy girl.



Since I’ve spent the first part of this report yammering about other people’s races, I’ll spare you my own pre-race yammering for once and get right to it…times, splits, role call, wattage output figures, excuses, and all that. So I was warmed up for once, I’d done a full lap plus a hot quarter lap, twenty minutes before the start, then I hit the start hill HARD, about three or four times before lining up. There was a spot vacant behind Greg “I start like Wily Coyote on roller skates with a missile strapped to his back” Carpenter, I though that was the place to be if I was going to attempt something like a fast start. Then it turned out there was an out of place expert next to Greg, so he left, leaving me a spot on the front line. To some it may have looked like a spot was opened for the dork in the series leader’s jersey but that wasn’t really the case.

The Start: Andrew Freye. Me in the series leader's jersey (for now). Todd Wheelden.

Blam! Straight up the hill, I was holding the wheel of Carpenter, so far so good, came up through the feed and started around the lake in maybe sixth or so place, spinning it out and recovering. We hit the first section of singletrack, Aaron Oakes decided to take an alternate line after a conflict with a rock or root or something, he pulled off a nice save, tearing back onto the course behind me. Bizarrely enough, there I was sitting in an uphill paceline behind Adam Snyder, Andrew Freye, and Greg Carpenter. My internal dialogue was running wild, “O.K., you can do this, take it easy, you’re just warming up, stay on ‘em”. Freye’s a great rider, but early on seems to bobble a bit, it lulls me into complacency, I start thinking he might not have it that day…then he gaps me and everyone else with Snyder and that’s it. Here’s where things get blurry, I think it was first lap, maybe it was the second, I came by Carpenter on the steep portion of the first real climb, I said to him “just settle in, we got a good gap, settle in and cruise”. He caught and passed me on the downhill, showcasing his superior bike-handling skills, kind of terrifying really. I passed him back after a bobble and wouldn’t see him for a while.

Aaron Oakes caught me a little later, we rode together for a while, then he gapped me, never getting quite of sight, up there like a rabbit, but I wasn’t a grey hound, I was a two-legged Lhasa Apso, dragging my ass around in a cart. There was definitely some fading in there, my 32 X 18 gear creeping up on me, taking ownership of my aching legs. Will Letendre and Nate Ringquist gapped up to me, we would ride together for a while, Will upping the pace on the climbs, me going “Grrr…OK, this is how this bastard wins the Vermont 50…Argh”. Ringquist was just back there quietly and comfortably climbing away. Talk about strength to weight, the guy’s ass is the size of a walnut. He could zip tie a piece of inner tube onto his seatpost clamp and sit on it with no trouble at all.



Letendre’s achilles heal is the technical stuff, so I’d attack the singeltrack, gain some ground and make him work to close it down. After a lap or so of that game he began to weaken on the climbs. Can’t say the same of Ringquist, he was sitting and spinning, not going away. My legs started giving me cramp warnings, never totally locking up, but making me pedal funny and not attack at all, all I could do was drink and breath, and hope I didn’t seize catastrophically, blowing all my hard work. At one point we had really closed down on Oakes, he was on the false flat before the steepest climb going into the singletrack. The part where I was counting down the number of times I had to do the thing. “Wow, this sucks, this is the worst part of the race, I can’t believe I have to do this four more times, three more times, two more times…thank god this is my last frickin’ time up this sumbitch”. I was talking to myself more than usual during this race in general. Stuff like “Man, I should have gone with a 19 out back…naw the 18 is fine, this is great, I wouldn’t have it any other way, it’ll feel easier once I’m warmed up, once I’m breathing harder, ya, I’m gonna need a three bag ice bath after this one for sure…maybe if I ease back a little I’ll have enough energy to go see Indiana Jones tonight…pizza…beer….couch, couch, couch…snap out of it! The only card you need is the Ace of Spades, the ace of spades, OK, I’m back”.

Unlike most folks Oakes didn’t give it up once he had two guys bearing down on him, he turned it up to 11 and stayed away until the end…respect. Nathan gapped me going up the horrible final climb, but he was in sight, just ahead in the singeltrack, I knew I was a little bit faster through that stuff, so I started riding fast taking chances,“You know I’m born to lose, and gambling’s for fools”, then I overcooked a corner and laid it down (and how) . When I got back on the bike I crashed immediately, I had rolled my tire enough to get some debris jammed in the bead. I had to stop and hit it with the CO2 while a resurgent Greg Carpenter blew by like he was a French chick with three names on a downhill bike. That was the only spot I would lose luckily. Back on the bike I charged hard, trying to get back to Greg, not realizing how much time I’d lost to Ringquist, thinking I might see him again, wishing there was more trail to play with. I saw Greg up the access road grade before the final hole shot to the finish, I was wrestling my bike up the thing, he was doing the same, all over the machine, there was no chance in hell I was going to get him, then I blew, absolutely popped, cracked, detonated. It was all I could do to make it to the top of the climb so I could coast to the finish for sixth place.

My reaction at first was “Aw crap, no podium” then I got a grip. My goal for the season was just to make it onto the podium at one of these things and it turns out that I’ve spent more time on the thing (barely on it, but on it just the same) than off it. I’m happy to take a beating at the legs of guys like Freye, Oakes and Ringquist, I never thought I was in the same league as those dudes. My name’s Thom P. and shucks, I’m just happy to be here.

Thanks to everyone that came out this weekend, my Mom for the feeds, my cheering section comprised of my sister Julie, my Dad, my niece Lyla, my nephew Noah, Jalyn, Miriam, and other folks who I don’t even know, you all rock and I appreciate it.

Root 66 Coyote Hill Classic Day One:
Short Track and Hill Climb

Got Saturday off for this one so we loaded up the family truckster with Greg, Colin, and Linnea and set out for West Fairlee, VT semi early in the AM. We got to Tom Masterson’s Coyote Hill center with ample time to mess around. It was a schizophrenic day, hot and cold all at once with rain showers out of blue skies and swarms of black flies trying to devour us as we tried to register for the short track and hill climb events.

Dandelions make for a Tour De France like backdrop, in miniature.

Before the Short Track we were able to get out for a full lap of the XC course. Big climb from the start, screaming decent out of the hole shot, fast, loose sliding the rear wheel type corners, roots and more roots, fresh cut loaminess, stream crossings, bridges, rocks, steep drop offs, and more climbing. It was virtually bone dry this year so I began re-thinking the gear choice, I’d shown up with a 32 X 18, thinking that would be steep. It didn’t feel so steep in the singletrack and the climb was nicely graded and not so loose that I couldn’t get up it in a bigger gear. That night I would throw on the Surly 33t ring for that little jump up in gearing, not wanting to commit to dropping a tooth in the back. I’ve found that riding a light gear in tight singletrack is much like driving a car down a winding Vermont road in fifth gear when you should be in third, it’s like that Bad Religion album…No Control. It’s funny, on a geared bike you switch between two gears and it’s kinda like “meh”, on a single speed a one tooth difference is everything. We’re talking the difference between Graham Parsons and Alan Parsons here.

Lazlo Shaw rips the pump track while I struggle up the climb

No time to mess with the gearing before the Short Track though, got totally spun out, even up the climb I felt like I was on flat ground, I’d recover and breath through the very ‘Cross race like decent (but with a couple berms),down through the grassy field, I’d catch my breath just in time to start drooling and wagging my tongue out of my mouth again up the climb. Greg Carpenter went out Ryan Trebon fast, dropping everybody, it was kind of scary. The way I was riding I thought “man, he is going to lap me in about three minutes. Fortunately all the guys who tried to match the pace of that lil’ whipper snapper slowed down considerably as the not quite thirty minute race went on and super-fast roadie Josh Dillon flatted out somewhere. The last hold out was Jeff Whittingham who was doing pretty damn well (whether he thinks so or not). in a super-high intensity event for a guy that hasn’t raced his bike yet this year I probably went the exact same speed throughout but in the end managed to catch all but the totally out of sight Carpenter. Watch out for this kid, he can ride a bike like it’s his job, and someday soon that just might be the case.

Straightening a rotor with LED assistance. Jeff and Seneca. Tools of a neurotic Single Speeder.

Next up was the Hill Climb, I’d pre-ridden the course and had resigned myself to the fact that I would be going for a hike with my bike. It wasn’t a straight up climb either, it actually had two downhills in it, glad I didn’t try to rock the ‘Cross bike which had been my initial plan. I rode all but the final bit of the climb, walking not running it, knowing that I was not doing anywhere close to well. Whittingham and Mellen blew by as I was tacking up the second steepest pitch, gasping out, “this isn’t working”. Whittingham went on to win with Mellen in second and Dillon in third.

Root 66 Coyote Hill Classic Day Two:

Cross Country

We stayed over in Waitsfield at the Whittinghams with Whittibaby and Whittidog (no blog for the dog…yet, but it’s only a matter of time). They have an amazing spot over there, you literally cross a covered bridge to get to their house. Jeff and Jenn fixed us up with a big pasta dinner, chocolate cupcakes, and ice cream, just what any Euro-pro would eat the night before a big race. Sleep didn’t go well, but it rarely does, even spooning with Montello in the guest bed didn’t help any.
The coffee is always special at the Whittingham’s, three cups later I wasn’t feeling like I’d slept a mere six hours. Then it was down to The Green Cup for an amazing breakfast with extra toast. In Vermont toast is a delicacy, fresh local butter and artisan bread put the stuff over the top. The coffee ain’t shabby at that spot neither.

Colin needs to drink more coffee. The Whittinghams. Bronte, the horrible Beast.

This day was gorgeous, Tom Masterson’s place is what people dream about when they dream of Vermont. Red barns, green mountains, flowers everywhere, and singeltrack surrounding it like construction workers around a roach coach. We were there mega-early to cheer on IBC sport riders Alex, and George. Alex ended up second with George rounding out the top ten in his class and scoring himself some series points. The extra time allowed us to take another lap of the course, which was worth doing just because it was so damn fun to ride. It makes such a difference when you’re racing on trails built and maintained solely for the purpose of mountain biking, this stuff was just 100% fun.

Recent upgrades to The Rig, AKA "Bailey" or "Creamy Beige" have made it a bit lighter. A full compliment of Bontrager Race X Lite Parts have brought the weight down to 23.5Lbs. This was the first ride on 'em and they worked frickin' great.

Came up to the start line sweating and warmed up (so I thought), squeezed in next to Greg Carpenter hoping to get a lead out on a good start for once, Adam Snyder jumped in front of me which is where he should have been and where he would stay by a mile so that was fine by me. It actually came as a shock how crappily I started, even for me. I thought the uphill would help but it only helped me get dropped as I watched Paul Simoes take the hole shot. I dropped into the singeltrack out of the top ten behind Greg Montello and a wicked young dude who I don’t know yet, but who probably hates my guts, I’ll get to that in a second. Greg had told me that if I ended up behind him in the singetrack just to tell him to move, unfortunately there was this kid between us who he didn’t want to let by as well so I had to figure out a way to pass him before I could take Greg up on his generous offer. Eventually the issue had to be forced and after one too many bobbles I said “alright, you gotta ride faster or get out of the way” as at this point Montello was gapping him. Shortly thereafter I strong-armed past the kid and Montello let me go by. I took out some frustration on the singetrack, trying to kick it’s ass with my big knobbly wheels. After a little bit too much heavy breathing like a creepy crank caller I settled in behind the next group. Aside from one classic single-speeder trying to pedal through everything, clipping a crank on a rock going uphill, and flipping bony ass over coffee maker(tea kettles are for British Grans) I kept the bike upright.

Men in Black

Toward the end of the second lap I was feeling better and I started to catch glimpses of other riders in the singletrack. To give you an idea of how labor intensive this course is, I would try to check my watch to see what the gaps were but I couldn’t without dying so I just guess-timated it and thought I was closing. Where you could really get an idea of where you stood was through the slightly graded winding trails leading up to the field at the start/finish. At the close of the lap I could see Whittingham and Cavanaugh ahead, I paced myself gapping up to them, finally making contact just after the feedzone. I stood up on the steep, grassy climb, which seemed hotter every lap, got on top of the gear and came past those guys out onto the dirt road climb. I sat down and tried to spin up it like I do my water tower workouts, riding like it was the last thing I had to do all day, hammering up the last pitch fully pegged into the singletrack knowing that I would have a couple minutes of descending to recover.

Stretch Leg-Strong

Jenn Whittingham was doing bottle feeds and had thought we were a lap ahead so she had handed me my bottle of flat coke for the last lap going into lap three. At first I was nervous that I would cramp or have a sugar crash before the race ended but it turned out to be the best thing possible. I was suddenly wide awake and lucid, ready to shred the trails as hard as I possibly I could. Maybe I’ll race exclusively on coke from here on out. It’s also just plain awesome to get bottle hand ups and not have to carry all the extra weight of multiple bottles or a Camelbak, thanks Jenn W., you’re a life saver.

Linnea and Colin talk strategy. Alex grinding it out. The most placid part of the course.

Third lap was sweet, just riding fast as hell, taking chances, laying it out, mostly by my lonesome, occasionally passing lapped riders. Same place as the lap prior I saw two more riders in my class, Michael Mooradian and Aaron Oakes. About the same thing happened as lap three, caught them in the same spot, and attacked the same way up the climb, but went even harder knowing it was the last time I’d have to do it until next year. Once in the singletrack I went even nuttier, brakeless down to the next hard right-hander up the fire road. Here I ran into a lapped rider, gave him a bunch of warnings then made a bad pass while talking some smack. I felt bad, but that’s bike racing for ya, and after the race with hand shakes and pats on the back we were good.
I had no idea where I stood but kept drilling it regardless, looking for more prey. The only guy I ran into was Greg Carpenter who, after a great start and what looked to be a great ride was side-lined with a catastrophic flat. He would cross the line running like hell with his tire wrapped around his waste and his front rim bare. Like I said, watch out for this guy.
After I crossed the line, fully tapped out, ready to have a heart attack, I went over to the results tent to assess the damage only to find that I had somehow made the podium again , well behind Justin Lindine and Adam Snyder. Michael Mooradian would come across in fourth with Mike Joos coming in fifth having made up a whole bunch of time on people.

"What the hell did you just say, don't make me come down off this thing! ". Adam Snyder looking at the podium rookie going "god, what a douche you wait for the event photographer to say "arms up, not one of your friends...tool!". There we go.

Big thanks to Jeff and Jenn for everything, well dones to Colin, Linnea, George, Rachel, Alex (and an extra well done for the Margarita cupcakes, wow-wow-wee-wow), Miriam for getting me registered for The Vermont 50 because it fills up in two seconds these days and there was no way I’d be back in time to do it myself, and thanks to Andy for also registering me for The 50 due to a miscommunication…better to be registered twice than not at all. Hell of a weekend.

My Church

Some folks go to church, I go to the Water Tower in Arlington. What others describe as a "religious experience" I find as I descend down the inbound side of Route 2 in a thunderstorm with The Stooges "Gimme Danger" blaring in my ears. No drug, no delusion, no...nothing could make me feel that good.

     I didn't feel so good though as I finished my last repeat and dropped down Park Ave. to the bike path. My body was convulsing in shivers, my arms covered in goose bumps, knees a deep shade of purple, I was in serious trouble...if I wasn't ten minutes from home, a hot shower, and some take out hot and sour soup from East Asia I would have gone more than mildly hypothermic. As it was Miriam had to take my gloves off and remove all the various items from pockets while I stood there with my hands formed into useless white claws and my legs buckling. When you do stuff this painful and stupid in training, races seem like jumping in a ball pit at Burger King. 

Think riding a single speed is simple? Not for this guy. Don't know how many pieces of paper I have lying around with gear calculations scribbled on them, don't know how many hours I've spent replaying courses in my mind, pondering whether I would gear up or gear down next time. Having a freehub style system is key, messing around with freewheels is no fun for anyone. They cost more than cogs, they aren't as well sealed, and they seize on and often require brute force and hammers to get them off. If you're going to have one gear it better be the right one. 

The above photo is from the EFTA site. It's allegedly from The Horror at Harding Hill race in Sunapee, NH in 2006. It's not really, it's from 2002, it was taken by my 

(Ex)Uncle Paul Webb. That is 2002 Thom P. right there, all 172 or so pounds of him, about 20 more pounds than I carry today. To my left is Paul Simoes and a little behind him is another legend, Kenny Shardlow. Those guys kicked my ass so much back then it wasn't even funny. You know what is really funny? The bizarre "comments" underneath the photo, I think that site needs some sort of filter on it, yikes, be afraid. 

EFTA NECS #1 Glocester Grind, Glocester, RI
Just Ride Your Bike

The night before a race my preparation routine is incredibly meticulous. I like to go to an afternoon wedding ( like Stefan Scott’s for example) then proceed to double fist Stellas (yes, the other fist held a pint of ice water) at the open bar for four hours, and assemble a pre-race meal comprised of fried Trout cakes, fried fritters (which I thought were vegetarian, but contained pork), deviled eggs, fried veggie dumplings, and the lion’s share of a cheese plate. My stomach still isn’t speaking to me, actually it is…quite loudly, it sounds like Lewis Black with a megaphone, and that’s the problem. In the morning I picked up IBC teammates Jesse and Uri at IBC Newton. I had, in a rare moment of charismatic persuasiveness convinced them accompany me to this event. Action with very little thought behind it, that’s the stuff adventure is made of.

It was a beautiful day in Rhode Island, the recent spring rains bringing the green to the trees almost overnight. The venue was essentially at someone’s house, that’s New England Grass Roots racing for ya. Not much of a warm up was had, just headed out for a pre-ride of the first third of the course. Doug Peckham, the promoter of this event is (in)famous for his sadistic genius when it comes to course design. Design, don’t know if that’s the word, Doug’s courses are more Jackson Pollack than Rodchenko. If I were some Christian-whack-job-primitive on right wing radio I’d dub it something like “Belligerent Design”. Stay with me for a second here…if New England Mountain bike courses were western films Doug could change his name ever so slightly to “Peckham-Pah” and his courses would be “The Wild Bunch” to NORBA’s aseptic episodes of Gunsmoke.

Uri is happy and salty. Uninviting man-made pond. Jesse's wound and sick tan lines.

The first race I ever did on a single speed was Peckham’s “Richardson’s Saw Mill” race. My IF geared bike got stolen, my friend Kurt leant me his Voodo SS, I think it had a monstrous 32 X 18 (if that ) on it. It went well, like punching your fist through a windshield while jacked up on PCP, and the results were about as painful. Back then I was a crazy spinner, a big ring was something to smash on rocks and gash the back of your calf with, so when the trail bit it was as if a million muscle fibers cried out at once and were suddenly silenced. I spent the rest of the race bouncing off rocks like a human pinball and walking, finally getting lapped by the entire sport field as a lovely young lad taunted “They’re catching you!”. I completed one of two eleven mile laps and dropped out before my knees exploded like a small pig in a giant microwave oven. That was the first and last time I dropped out of a race for a non-catastrophic reason. If you call guaranteed knee reconstruction and the transplant and replacement of my lower back with that of a baboon “non-catastrophic”. It took all these years and race seasons to realize that Peckham’s races are the ideal Single Speed races. There are virtually no open areas where the roadies types can whup up on the mountain guys. Sure you can get cranking in the big ring and hit terminal velocity just in time to rail into a rock garden and knock your teeth out but that would be just plain silly. These are “Just Ride Your Bike” courses. If you can clean the majority of the tricky sections, stay upright, keep your bike intact (tall order), and survive ‘til the end you’ll do well.

Oh ya, I raced my bike, I might want to talk about that bit eventually. We lined up, the Elite field was on the small side, but had some strong guys in it. Matt O’keefe from CCB was there, one of the two fastest guys on the New England circuit, rumor was that he’s prepping for some big road race and that he’d been out for six hours the day before, the way he took off from the gun it seemed like a six hour ride was a light spin with openers for the guy. I took second wheel, sitting not too uncomfortably, wheezing anaerobically, trying to stay with Matt for as long as possible. Behind us were Colin Eggleton, Paul Simoes, and Michael Patrick (I apologize to the others, I just haven’t met you yet). Colin was a Pro at age 18, was top ten at Junior worlds, the kid could basically not ride a bike for three years, subsist on nothing but trans fat smoothies and Doritos, and still come out on any day and kick all sorts of ass. One of the most physically gifted mountain bikers I’ve ever known. Paul is a monster, this was his kind of course, he rides the unrideable, he swears at his bike like a prospector at his mule, he is preternaturally strong, able to wrestle a huge gear on his single speed. And Michael, he’s still getting up to speed after a long winter of Chemo-therapy and recovery, but even at partial-speed he is as dangerous as a Capybara at bay (if it had brass knuckles and a bolo knife).

Things were going alright then Matt used his superior ‘Cross skills and that thing under his helmet, in his head, that I guess I have but don’t often use which told him not to try to ride the first rock garden because it was virtually unrideable and getting knocked off and then running is way slower than preemptively dismounting and galloping through. I also managed to burp my tire pretty bad (tapping out a little pressure on the line after it was fine on the pre-ride, unwise). This burp lead to more burps, which lead to flatness and bottoming out the rim on rocks. So I stopped to hit the tire with some CO2, here Colin and Paul passed me, it took me a while to gap back up to Colin, I rode with him for a while, recovering from the catching back up, then he had a drivetrain issue which was too bad. Paul had really taken off and by the time I got a bead on him he had passed Matt, things were not looking so alright all of a sudden. Oddly enough, I caught Matt and passed him, the chickens of the previous day’s efforts coming home to roost. Then I saw, or rather heard Paul screaming bloody murder at his bike. He’d bent his chainring on a stone wall and was in the process of bashing it back in line with a rock. Now I was in the lead and I got that “I just threw a rock at a hornet’s nest feeling” and took off. Shortly thereafter I tripped a pedal on a rock just before a really complex rock garden (using the word “rock” four times in three sentences…totally unavoidable), the trip sent me into a front flip, and my hands weren’t fast enough to prevent my face from planting itself into the ground. The new pink helmet works I guess and it looks great doing it. After the flip I couldn’t get into my right pedal, I’d whack my foot on the side of it, trying to dislodge any foreign objects which might be gumming up the works. I’d eventually get in, only to dismount and find that I then couldn’t get in and my foot would keep flying out on the upstroke as I was climbing, wicked awesome. I didn’t realize until after the race that I had smashed one of the tension plates on my new XTR pedal, another wicked awesome for that.

Going into the last lap I heard the gap was solid, I came through the Start/Finish, reaching for a bottle I had left baking in the sun on a sideways tractor tire, knocking it into the middle portion. This caused me to dismount and fumble to retrieve it, good thing I had that gap. I imagine that I looked so disheveled and delirious that folks were going “is that guy really the leader? He’s a God damn mess”.

Brown-nosed from face-planting.

Last lap was a combination of riding semi-conservatively in the tech-sections for the sake of equipment-preservation (more ‘Cross than Trials skills coming into play) and absolutely hammering anything I could hammer. One thing I didn’t ride conservatively was the big log hop, I’d ridden it every lap but not as fast or smooth as this lap. I threaded the needle between the rocks approaching it brakeless at speed and glided over, wheel to wheel, landing in the rock garden on the opposite side, pedaling through the muddy corner beyond and grinning ear to ear. Man, this was a fun course. I managed to clean one tricky root section which had thwarted me the rest of the race, wheely-ing into a pool of muddy water and lunging up the rooty embankment on the other side, sliding sideways on the off camber slipperiness, and finding traction at the very last second to ride out of it.

Toward the end my internal soundtrack went off…track, Motorhead’s “Overkill” lapsing into Devo’s “Sloppy (I Saw My Baby Gettin’)”, apropos as I was getting pretty sloppy, although I wasn't missing the holes, making more and more mistakes as I went on. I brought Overkill back before it was too late though, and started turning the cranks over at a good clip. There was no real victory salute, just a subtle flash of either a “Hang loose, shaka-brah” or a sign of the horns type hand gesture (can’t remember which ) and a sigh of relief. Paul Simoes rolled across in second place to make this the second weekend in a row that Single Speeds occupied the two top spots on the podium, watch out now! Gotta love the EFTA awards ceremony too, no podium, no medals, no trophies, just a handshake, a “good job”, and a folded bill of a large denomination.

Next stop Coyote Hill.

Weird Wound.

Root 66 Brialee Ramblin' Rumble:
Movin' On Up

Woke up feeling like this was not my day. Had that “demon elves came with caulking guns full of cement, stuck them in my ears, and filled up my head during the night” feeling. You know what I’m talking about right? There was not enough coffee in the world to burn it off. So groggy and unmotivated, I slumped behind the wheel and drove down to Ashford, CT.

My fuzzy math skills had landed me there even earlier than I’d planned, which was already plenty early. The start was 11:45, not 11:15, I could do with making those kind of mistakes more often. I got a lap or so in before the race, the course was dope, very technical and gnarly, a real roadie killer, moo ha, ha, ha. I had opted to run a Camelbak…which I despise, totally sucks and throws me off, but I knew there would be few places to drink and I had no one feeding me bottles so it seemed like the best choice at the time.
About last place into the woods, maybe not that bad, but close anyway, I could still see all the leaders, this is a new experience for me, I’m still getting used to it. Moved up a few spots, partially due to checking and re-checking some of the early parts of the course for good lines. I could see Sean Cavanaugh up front putting the hurt on the geared guys, but I was out back ,struggling to get my cloudy head in the game. Gaps formed and I lost sight of the front of the race. A little while later I caught up to Alec Donahue and another guy. I had looked at the results from the Sterling Road Race the day prior, Alec had taken second in the Pro/1/2 race after riding in a break with Mark McCormack all day. The fact that he was slowing this dead beat down on the climbs was probably a result of that business.
Oops, gotta back up here. Before running into Alec I had happened upon Sean Cavanaugh as he was remedying a burped tire situation. He quickly gapped back up to me and then it was, as they say…”on”. There are certain riders you have a sort of psychological link with, something in your brain says “I can go as fast as this guy…no matter what”. Your brain forces your body to do so as it writhes and screams in pain. A problem arises when the other rider’s brain tells their body the same exact thing. The battle that ensued between Sean and I was akin to a fist fight where two men grab each other by the throat and proceed to trade unblocked punches directly the face…for nearly two hours.

Directions from the south scribbled out, directions from the north scrawled in, and the correct start time right there plain as day, not to be noticed until the ride home.

Don’t remember seeing anyone but lapped riders out there for a while after that. Due to the short length of the course (Dear Root 66 race organizers…five laps for the Pros next year) the lapped traffic became a major issue by the end. I apologize in particular to the Bikeman rider I passed just toward the end, I think I was a little snippy (Cough! Understatement, Cough!) with him. For anyone reading this who might have fallen victim to the rudeness of me or another rider in my class, please try to understand, if you’re riding in no man’s land, you have two guys battling it out behind you and another guy in their class has just passed you fifteen seconds prior, you are effectively between a father bear and his cubs…who he badly wants to eat.
What was going on ahead of us, I did not know, but I thought there were several dudes up there, my only concern was ditching Sean. However we are evenly (but differently) matched. I would get a gap through the mud and roots, that’s my bread and butter. He would rocket his rigid Niner up the steep, punchy climbs and kill my gaps. I would think that I could get him in the really rough stuff because he wasn’t running a suspension fork,but I couldn’t really, he would go just as fast as I. Somewhere in there I decided to enact “Operation Reckless Abandon” , I would ride like a brakeless nut, take huge risks, and ultimately rid myself of Sean, but it turned into something more like “Operation Wreck and Abandon” as I dove down over a wooden bridge and into an uphill turn at Godspeed (that’s really f-in’ fast), clipped a pedal or something and flew to the ground like goat hucked off a cliff by a Golden Eagle. I guess it looked bad enough that Sean thought he should stop and see of I was alright, that or he is just a class act all the way, or a combination of both. Took me a while to regain my composure and I actually lost sight of Sean for awhile, but I did see Foley ahead.
Fourth lap I dropped the Camelbak like a peeing toad and took off with renewed impetus after Foley and the monolithic Bethel Cycles rider beyond. I closed the gap back to Sean eventually and the battle was on once again. We passed a side-lined with a flat Andrew Freye and could see totallybad-ass junior Seamus Powell a ways up. Here I started thinking, “Ya see this is why you never give up, this is why you always go hard to the end, anything can happen”. After a miserable beginning to the day and the race I felt that I may be holding onto the series lead and possibly nabbing another podium spot.
I made a decisive move through the mud section, I think Sean bobbled, but I got a big ‘ol gap. Then I tried to power up the steep, stair-stepped climb and my right foot came out of my pedal. Gap…gone. I kept the lead until the last maybe 1/4 mile, giving it all. Sean came around and lead into the last singletrack section before the line. I tried to be all savvy and come around on the outside for the sprint but the combination of my ass already being resoundingly kicked and Sean’s .18 gear inch advantage (yes I calculated it and yes I am joking) he crossed the line half a bike length ahead of me…for the WIN! Yes, two guys who aren’t from Wisconsin who aren’t brothers one-twoed a Pro race on Single Speed 29ers. I hate text messagy acronym’s but I also generally don’t curse (too, too much) on the blog here but WTF?
I’m being serious when I say I wouldn’t even have been happier with the win. I went as hard as I could, I had nothing left, and I had damn good time doing it. Sometimes after a race you scrutinize the results, going “man, forty seconds to the next guy, oh, I shoulda, coulda…aw crap”. But I know there was nothing more I could do here and that’s a satisfying feeling. Big, HUGE ups to Sean for the win, it was a good field and he earned it, like he said after the race “It’s gonna be a fun season”.

The Beer Fairy left me a present for after the race, thank you Beer Fairy, whoever you are.

On a side note this might be a good time to go off on my “Finishing is winning” rant. It relates somewhat to my bit on Tim Johnson’s “lucky win” at ‘Cross Nationals but on the mountain biking front. The short of it is this: if you cross the finish line before another rider, you beat them. If you cross the finish line DFL and another rider was DNF…you beat them. Dropping out because “you’re not feelin’ it” is losing. Having a technical due to poor equipment choices is losing, flatting…losing, you get the picture. One of my favorite overheard quotes was at the Palmer ‘Cross race years ago. A junior was coming through the start/finish and whining to his dad about how he was going to drop out. His dad replied “The FIRST race you drop out of is the LAST race I pay for!”. Yeah guy.
Showing up to a race with sound equipment, picking good lines, not crashing, not flatting, not breaking your bike, it’s all part of this game. In road racing flatting or crashing can be bad luck, in mountain biking it usually isn’t, it’s bad bike-riding (or bad equipment to some extent). Would these excuses work in motorsports? No. If you show up to a Nascar event and forget to put gas in your car, don’t take a tire change, flat, then decide to turn right instead of left, you lose.
I just wanted to clarify for the roadies (or other folks that don’t get it) out there that come over to the dirt side and say things like “Yeah, I would have beaten that guy but a., b., or c. happened”. On the road you don’t hear a guy say “Yeah, I would have totally beaten that guy but he rode his bike up the hill faster…he got lucky!”.

I'm Hot For Time Trial

I don't know why I become obsessed with certain things, like bike racing in general or The Dover Wednesday Evening Time Trial
in particular, maybe after another cup of coffee I'll figure it out. Maybe not. This thing has been my fitness check for the past few years. I don't go Aero, I don't change up my bike significantly,
I want to know if I have become faster here, here, and here (pointing to my legs, lungs, and head like a three year old nodding "yes" while on the phone with their dad).
This month (it only occurs once per month) I headed down there with Linnea and Colin
we pretty much went TTT pace all the way down, which is a "great" way to warm up. I lined up in second to last position with the a very serious looking Aero guy behind me. I took off, fumbling with my right head phone, had to have my motivational music going, this time it was a mix of Ministry, Rammstein, and Van Halen. "Hot for Teacher" was doubled up because it is such an ideal TT tempo track, I guess that would be an ideal "TTTT". Last time I went with the Cro Mags and after this very scientifical test I have determined that Van Halen makes one ride faster than the Cro Mags. Next month I may experiment with Motorhead or Dragonforce.
Oh, before I forget, the above photo is from this guy he's really quite good. I would say "long story slightly less long here or something like that, but there is no real story here. So I guess I could say "long tangential, babbling rant made short" and tell you that I bettered last month's time by about twenty seconds, but was off last year's best time by seven seconds. And that is about as exciting as watching Golf ,or NASCAR , or Baseball, or the first week of The Tour De France, or...I shut up now.

One

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting and riding around on what was a perfectly awesome geared bike (which I hated) my new Rig is finally here and I am one stoked camper. No racing this weekend and I didn't end up heading to VT to ride the gaps with Whittingham
so plan B was to ride my new bike as much as possible. Couldn't work it out saturday so I put all my chips down on sunday, all in, I don't play poker so I really have no idea what I'm talking about here.

The Rig in it's just slightly altered from stock state. Threw on a Race X Lite stem and bar, the wheels from my 07 Rig with Bontrager Jones ACX's set up tubeless, weighs in at 24.7 Lbs, with a few more upgrades I should have it a wee bit lighter soon enough.

Sunday AM, woke up at 11:30, didn't know I could still sleep in like a hungover teenager, but I pulled it off (thanks to Miriam for the Tequila shots, ow). Drank a few buckets of coffee while throwing the disc brakes on Miriam's recently converted to single speed Stumpjumper and we were out the door. Six minutes later we were on the trails, it was a wet "morning" but the rain was holding off for a bit. The roots were slick and the moss covered rocks were bright green and as beautiful and deadly as a great white shark (if it got plastic surgery to look more like Rosario Dawson).

We played around for a couple hours, at one point we ran into an all star crew of riders including local pro Sara Bresnick-Zocchi, Michael Zocchi, and MTB Mind's Rich Blair, good to see some other folks out there. Then I got a call from my neighbor, IF racer guy Greg The Leg, I made a plan to meet him back at the house in half an hour. I called another fast mountain bike riding neighbor Colin Reuter and roped him into the ride as well.

Actually a shot from the sunnier Thursday AM ride. McQueen muscling his Rig up part of the NEMBA MTB loop.

I hadn't eaten anything before the first ride of the day, the plan was to have a big brunch and the time to digest it before the sequel later in the day, but no dice. Before Greg and Colin showed up I scarfed a piece of toast with a pound of jam on it and downed yet another cup of coffee. By the end of the 2.5 hour second ride my body was devouring itself. We went out and did some the best technical stuff in The Fells, heading all the way up to the northern tip and back down again. Technical issues were rampant. Colin front flatted, didn't have a tube, and as I stood there explaining to him how he would have to kind of knot my 29" tube into his 26" tire I realized that I had, in fact brought a 26" tube. Sheer brilliance.

So we were at the top of the Fells with no tubes and more pointy rocks in-between us and home than you can swing a cat at.
Greg's rear tire was leaking but with frequent stops to air it up he was alright. Then I went to hop a log, my foot unclipped, my glasses flew off my helmet, and I came down all cock-eyed, catastrophically burping my tire. Luckily the seal held and I was able to fill it up and ride on. Greg also had the seal plate on his White freewheel back off causing the body of the freewheel to jam between the hub and the frame, bizarre. I was able to pull it apart (dropping the pawls in the dirt and finding them in the process) and get it going again. Lastly Greg developed a gash in the sidewall of his old Hutchinson tire which became a not so slow leak.

We all hobbled home under our own power and I subsequently ate enough take out Chinese food to feed a family in the Gansu province for a week.

My first impression of the new Rig is 100% positive. Why I like it so much more than it's geared, identical counterpart The Paragon is unquantifiable for the most part. It's quiet, the freehub is silent, pushing the same gear as I would on a geared drivetrain feels easier and better. It's stiff as all hell but with the large contact patch of the 29" tires coupled with the suppleness of running tubeless at sub 30 psi makes for a smooth ride. I would sit here and try to convey how psyched I am on the new ride in type but I'd rather go get some sleep and dream about riding in the woods again.