The fact that I stayed up watching The World's Strongest Man Competition after the Tour coverage didn't help matters...

EFTA Bradbury Mt. Challenge

Miriam was supposed to come up and race this one but when her alarm went off she said she wasn’t feeling well, I told her “no baby, that’s how everyone feels at 5AM, don’t worry”. But she was actually quite ill and ultimately bagged it, so I went off the pick up Greg “The Leg” and head up to Maine for a race which has traditionally thwarted me in every way.

The weather looked dicey, kind of overcast, hot, humid, with a slight hint of rain, it had poured the night before in Somerville and according to Weather.com it had rained in Pownal as well…this course wet is an entirely different animal than when it’s dry. Root fields which when dry merely jar your spine and tear your triceps to shreds become bike-redirecting, slippery as greased ice, you’re on your ass before you know what hit you nightmares when they’re wet. Please let the course be dry.
We got there with time to spare, wasted all that time chatting with all the nice people we ran into, it was horrible. The turn out was huge, like never before, and this for a race that breaks bodies and crushes souls like no other. After doing a headcount of super-fast guys, realizing that it was nearly guaranteed that we’d be out of the money in Open-Elite class Greg and I decided to register for the single speed class and save fifteen bucks. We were all starting at the same time and doing the same miles so we’d know how we stacked up and we’d have more money to spend on beer at the end of the day.
It was a Lemans start, a short one but it still involved running, I really wasn’t taking it very seriously, paid no attention to where I lined up or put my bike, but when we took off about five seconds in I found myself sprinting with the top ten guys, problem was when I got to the pile of bikes I had no idea where mine was, a lot of people had laid down there bikes after me. Took a while but I found my Rig, got up to full ‘cross run pace and mounted. I think we rode for about 100 yards before the hole shot which was straight up a fresh cut, soft as hell hill, more ‘cross training, shouldered the bike and ran, actually ran up the hill, passing dudes by crashing and stomping my way through the brush on the side of the trail. I was forced to dismount repeatedly, either by the soft steepness of the trail or by other riders climbing in their granny gears and bobbling about like a two year old who just had a shot of tequila. This got a bit old, I was running a lot, I wasn’t losing too much ground to the geared guys, but I was getting beatdown, it was hard to recover and the running was adding up. Eventually a couple Bikeman riders came around me as I walked up a hill, I told them I had “run out of run”, it was to be a thirty mile race I wasn’t going to empty the tank running up these stupid hills.


At the rider meeting the promoter gave us the breakdown, he told us we were doing 17 miles on one side of the start finish area field, and 13 miles on the other…only me being the amazing brain scientist I am I totally forgot which side we were doing what on. I was hoping that we were doing the short mileage on this side, I was not having much fun, I wanted it to end. I was still in contact with the Bikemen, one of them had pre-ridden part of the course and he warned me of a scary, slippery rock wall which was looming ahead. Sure enough, we come screaming down this descent and have to bang a left turn…on a moss covered, off-camber rock face, two feet from a five foot stone wall with steep transition and potential for severe bodily harm below it. We all stuck it but it was terrifying still. Another scary moment came on a gravel road descent where we were going about 30mph but it felt like 40, suddenly a stream crossing popped up, large rock borders on either side and a four foot gap between, I lofted over, coming down all squirrelly, heart in my throat, not the type of thing I would if I thought about it for a nanosecond.
Finally we came out into some stuff where I could actually get on top of my gear and climb, here I got away from a couple of the Bikemen, with one more in my sites ahead. The other riders were taking circuitous routes around the…roots, I decided to put all my confidence in my WTB Nano-Raptors which I’d set up tubeless with Stan’s Sealant and rail straight over them and take the direct line up the hill. I was running well under 30psi so I’d feel my rear tire bottom out occasionally but experienced no leakage or flats. Shortly after that I came down through the start/finish and entered the other side of the course which was an improvement right off the bat, I got my spin on, letting , my legs recover a bit before it was back into the gnarly singletrack, only on this side there was virtually no running and it was nearly dead flat so the average speed was coming up, maybe bringing this race into the three hour range. The singletrack was technical and labyrinthine that you couldn’t tell how big gaps were, there were guys all around you, front and back, it was disorienting. I could still see the Bikeman boys creeping behind me and there was another one in front, I gapped up to him and waited for a bobble so I could run around him, instantly my pace increased, I had the singletrack to myself. There was a Maxxis rider up ahead, I was slowly closing on him but again it was hard to tell with all the noodling about we were doing. The we got into some crazy twisty turny tree-lined trails, I could hear someone bearing down on me, I caught glimpses of a blue kit…Skip Brown sporting the tight looking new Seven Cycles kit? Uh-oh. But it turned out to be Michael Patrick, seasoned Fisher Pro fresh off a 24th place at Mt. Snow, about the only guy in the race I wouldn’t feel bad getting passed by. He’d had technical issues early on and now he was just surging back with a vengeance. I tried to hold his wheel but it was nuts, he’s stronger than me and he can ride a bike better, oddly enough he was pulling away and I was nearly eating it on every corner. I did stay on him for about ten grueling, anaerobic minutes, we came around the Maxxis kid somewhere in there. I was hoping that Patrick would drag me back to Paul Simoes, monster big-gear pushing single speeder, technical master with the potty mouth of a sailor with Turrets syndrome, but there was a fireroad section through the feedzone and that was it for my bullet train back to Paul, I caught one glimpse of Michael after that and it was a forty second gap kind of glimpse.
Shortly after the feedzone my camelbak gave it’s last death gurgle, what time is it? Oh, if I’m on a three hour pace then this IS just like a ‘cross race, no water for forty minutes, put your head down and go buddy! The last portion of singletrack was killer, swooping, almost too tight for the 29er, but then I’d seesaw over some fresh cut washboard stuff and say “I love you big wheels”. At this point in the race my wheels would reply “We love you too man”. I knew we had to be getting close and I still hadn’t seen Paul, I did see Boobar and Patrick up the way, but I didn’t think the latter part of the course favored a single speeder trying to catch geared riders. My mouth was getting dry but I was hesitant to ask spectators if it was almost over but when I came out onto a fireroad near the three hour mark and saw some folks I blurted out “We gotta be about done right?”. “Ya, the finish lines 100 yards away”. Sweetness.
When I rolled across the line I saw Paul, not sure how long he was in but word was he snagged 4th overall, bad-ass. It took me nearly an hour to realize that he was in a separate class and that I had technically won my class but I knew who the better rider was and that’s what really counts at the end of the day. On an odd note, there was a rider at the finish who shouldn’t have been, a guy I’d passed on the first section of the course as he was climbing in his granny gear, after I passed him nobody except for Michael Patrick passed me, you know when you get passed later in a race when things have thinned out, you might not remember everyone you pass but you know when somebody passes you, it leaves a mark. He wasn’t in my class so I didn’t feel like it was my business to call attention to it. He did say at one point a woman told him he was going the wrong way…maybe that’s because he was going the wrong way and cutting the course? Whatever, some of the course was badly marked and if he didn’t realize what he did then it’s not cheating it’s simply a mistake, like accidentally falling into a syringe filled with someone else’s blood. I’m just making a joke, if he truly didn’t realize what happened then it’s fine, no worries.
So I’m feeling good going into the 101 next saturday, I know I’ve got at least 30 fast miles in me, now what to do about the other 71?

Mount Snow NORBA Nationals

Ah, I’m trying to get my head in a positive place before I write about this one but it doesn’t seem to be happening. I don’t want to whine and shoulda, coulda, woulda about it but I’m kinda bummed about how things went down Saturday to be honest. It’s my own damn fault, mistakes were made, results were not optimal. Wow, this post is a laugh riot so far, I’ll see if I can’t pull it out of this depressing nose dive.

Here, let me get all my excuses out of the way, I worked for 11 days straight, about 10 hours a day going into this, work has been hectic, really busy, I haven’t slept well during that entire period (that has more to do with staying up watching The Tour than anything else), I didn’t have the right tires or gear for the course, and I barely slept at all the night before the race. What’s this? It’s the smallest violin in the world and it’s on it’s tiny cell phone calling you a Waahm-bulance.
The problem is despite all that things started off well enough, better than ever really, Travis Brown, Carl Decker, and Adam Craig weren’t on the line, Gunnar Shogren wasn’t even there, it was anybody’s race, I though it could be mine, I’m not usually in that position. There was a guy on the line, with a shiny new Trek 69er and the full on Trek Factory rider kit, all red and white and scary…I just associate that get up with Eatough , Bishop, and Helmick, the bad dudes that show up to the 100 milers. From the gun, Trek guy went, I jumped on his wheel and followed him up the climb, I felt great, we hit the first decent back to the start finish, the couple riders that had slipped round before the hole shot fell apart the first time they hit a wet root and I shot passed them.
By the time we came through the start finish Richard Fries was shouting that Dusty Labarr had a huge lead (that would be the Trek guy), as we came up the grind leading back to the woods, me and another rider caught and passed Dusty. The first technical climb had been turned into a massive run up from hell by the rain, so I ran and ran some more (my hamstrings just tried to nod in agreement but they seized up again instead). Shortly thereafter the other rider cracked and Tim Haitz came up to me, we passed the floundering rider then Tim started to gap me. At some point John Foley (who had never raced a single speed before but fast guys are fast guys regardless) gapped up as well, we came past Tim on the decent with a flat, he ultimately dropped out as a result. John was having technical problems with his single-lator but he was riding strong anyway. We started the second lap together with what looked like a huge gap on the field.
We came through the feed zone which sucked for single speeders by the way, much too steep to safely take a hand off the bar to grab a bottle. I wasn’t that topped off, I hadn’t even finished my first bottle then I ejected my second bottle in the singletrack just past the feed, I didn’t notice until I went to take a drink before heading back into the woods. Eh, 45 minutes without a bottle, just like a cross race…except you get to drink after a cross race, you don’t have to do another lap. I think John had already gapped me by this time but he was in sight, only I started to fade in the latter part of the second lap, that’s when the eventual winner Nathan Wyatt came by me, I followed him into the decent…he SMOKED me, the kid’s from Asheville, NC and apparently they’ve got something going on down there because those dudes can ride. The course was extra slow, the decent was a mud bog split up by roots, ruts, and rocks, but fun, but fun.
Last lap Dusty caught me just about where Nathan got me the lap before, toward the end of the lap I was drawing him back but then I fell apart on the decent right in front of Tal and Darcy my IBC teammates. Darcy overheard me muttering “God! I’m a f-n mess” as I tried to remount and fall two more times before I was out of their sight. Somewhere in there I bashed a rib pretty good and now it’s bugging the crap out of me…but only when I breath.

The Little Kid's Podium for me. But man I have long arms, I look like a damn Gibbon or something.

In the end it was a good battle and a top notch beat down, left me wanting to go back next year with a better plan and a smaller gear, 32 X 20 on the 29er was way too stiff for this beast of a race.



Niece Lyla shows me what a gameface really looks like, yikes!

Dover Wednesday Night TT

No racing for me this weekend, big wedding, had to get in touch with my inner belligerent moron along with some good old friends. I did have a hankering for some competition later in the week so I conned Uri into hitting the Dover Wednesday night Time Trial with me. Oddly enough “The Dover Wednesday Night Time Trial” is held in Dracut on Thursday morning at 4AM and they don’t time you, they (the homeless gentlemen gathered under an overpass) stomp and spew profanity seemingly oblivious to your presence, then when you come to the finish line (it’s more like a pile of broken glass in a puddle of urine) the “timers” huck broken bottles and human feces at you while spouting further profanity.


Sorry, not too much to say about the actual Dover TT, we showed up, it was Honduras humid and car with all the windows up in the Disneyworld parking lot hot out. Uri had his new TT set up and a skin suit, I had my human wind sock position in full effect, I don’t do this to get good at Time Trialing I do it to get faster on the mountain bike. I’m hoping I can convince the dudes that run this thing to list me as:
Thom Parsons – Wicked Frickin’ Non-Aero

OK, I’m watching The Tour and Al Trautwig just said he’d like to see a guy on a solo breakaway put his bike into “some SUPER GEAR” and send the peloton into panic. Maybe I should show up to the next Dover TT with my SUPER GEAR…like an 93 X 11, I could borrow one of the guys from the Icelandic World’s Strongest Man Competition to help me get it turning over. Al Trautwig is an ASS.
What else can I say about a TT? I think I summed it up quoting Homer Simpson to Uri at the start “When the race starts, go really REALLY fast”. I don’t know what’s with me and the caps tonight. I went out, passed a few guys, didn’t feel like I was going too, too good until I came up the hills on the latter part of the course in my 53 X 17, not normal. Uri and I rode back to the shop, he in his 53 X 12 or 11 and me in my 39 X 19, practicing the insane spin for my next 100 miler on the SS. That is some exhausting stuff.
The punchline is that by the time I began heading home from IBC Newton I hadn’t eaten for about five hours aside from an Accel Gel before the start…I bonked hard, it was all I could do not to stop at the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts, or the second nearest one three blocks later for a Butternut donut. In that situation you can’t stop, you must drag your whupped ass home and begin the feeding frenzy within sight of your couch.
The big story of the night was really Uri coming in with an 18:43 not knowing the course (it has a couple tricky turns), that beat my old best time by a couple seconds, with some practice he’ll be cracking 18 minutes easy.

July 4th North Shore Ride

“You have prosthetic wings You drive a surveillance van
You're always doing seven things
You write the code for brain implants
There are no papers on you
The law doesn't cover what you do
You and your think tank entourage
Are all counterculture demigods

You're so technical, you go hacking around the world
You're so technical, baby, Are you a boy or a girl? “


-The Magnetic Fields – Technical (You’re So)



The North Shore of Massachusetts is by far my favorite place to ride, period. The combination of low stakes, relentless, technical, hairy moves, and fast, winding singletrack combines to make for a riding experience I just haven’t found anywhere else. So when I got an actually day off which wasn’t a race day I b-lined it up to South Hamilton to meet up with Andy Sanidas
kick ass rider and human Google Map of the trail systems in that area.

Chris MCQueen picked me up at just around 9AM, it was a beautiful summer day, I was hurting after a late night at The Independent and a less than adequate night’s sleep, since Fitchburg I’ve been waking up between 5 and 7AM regardless of when I go to bed, it’s starting to bug me out.
We left from Andy’s place, spinning on the road over to Gordon College to meet up with a couple of his posse, turned out it was Glen and Tim, two brothers I’d met through ‘cross. They rock the Annie’s mac and cheese kits, very cool. I don’t pay attention to trail names so I can’t tell you where we went aside from The Ancient Line Trail, but it was all good stuff, never a boring moment, one bobble would lead to at least two more before you’d have to stop and let your internal “Flow-Meter” bar move back up to 100%.
Chris went down in a corner early, drawing first blood.

Tim took a flyer up this rock scramble, didn’t quite make it, went tumbling, but walked away.


Glen had about the same outcome.

Something I do miss about gears is picking apart technical ascents, I got torqued out well before I even got to this spot. I had the most bizarre crash of the day. A stick lodged in my rear wheel and instead of stopping to deal with it or reaching down with my hand to pull it out I opted to try to nudge it out with my left foot. My foot got caught by the wheel and was pulled into the space between the tire and the chainstay, bringing the bike to a skidding stop. Once stopped I was in a most awkward position, it was very slow motion, "oh no, I am going to...fall...over...now...aah!".
I was surprised at how well the 29er ate up the twitchy, slow speed, technical stuff, it doesn’t get anymore intricate and befuddling than this terrain , I can now say beyond a reasonable doubt that I am 100% sold on the 29 inch wheel thing, like going from skiing to snowboarding or black and white to color T.V..
I have no idea how long we rode for but it was just enough, my legs were hurting something fierce after doing hills the day before on the road bike, I was pretty dehydrated, and feeling some hunger pangs.
That’s it for me, Godzilla Vs. Space Godzilla is on and Evil Space Godzilla is totally getting up in Little Godzilla’s grill, it’s pretty tense.

Fitchburg Longsjo Classic
Day Four –The Crit

“Round and round
What comes around goes around
I'll tell you why”

-Ratt


“I don’t like crits, crits are boring, crits scare me, they’re dangerous, blah, blah, blah…what was I talking about? I like cheese, Swiss cheese is my favorite cheese, that’s some good cheese…oh look, a squirrel, squirrels are an incredibly underrated animal, they’re gifted acrobats, like monkeys but we take them for granted…squirrels, amazing little guys…cheese”.

-Thom P.

I was dreading this thing, this crit thing, the field was down to under 100 guys after the road race but still, that’s a whole lot of guys, a lot of guys to take you out and put you on the ground with a broken collarbone or wrist. I’m a sally, a cupcake, maybe I should take up golf or knitting, or both, I could knit myself a golf bag, a silly hat, and a pair of goofy pants, they would probably all be made out of wool, not good for summer golfing, I’d have to winter golf exclusively or my legs would get way too hot.
I got to Fitchburg center, found the IBC posse, we talked strategy. C Todd and Mike would try to animate the race while Andrew sat back to baby sit me, he had to make sure I didn’t eat the crayons or try to stick a fork in a light socket. We lined up, I actually got a call up, so I’m up there with the other top ten guys, at the front of 100 dudes, it would have been funny to time my migration to the back of the pack, it happened before we even hit the second corner, spit out like an anchovy that a two year old kid got tricked into eating. I really didn’t know what the hell I was doing, diving into the inside line because it was open, powering out, wasting tons of energy, then going to the outside on the slight grade through the start finish and trying to move up in the open, into the headwind. I was pinned for the first few laps, mouth agape, like a ‘cross race, only I wasn’t getting anywhere.
I’d think I was doing alright then I’d turn around to find I was “tail-gunning” once again. Then I’d see Andrew and he’d help me get back on and move up some. The speed of the race increased exponentially as it went on, eventually I found myself on John Laupheimer’s wheel. I’d been experimenting with different lines and positions in the pack to no avail, all I had to do was follow john for a couple laps to get it, he was smooth and efficient, I realized that I’d just been throwing energy away on every other lap. Coming up the finishing straight on the final lap, John stood up and hammered away, I was so cooked I couldn’t even hold his wheel, I just followed him to the line because it seemed like a safe way to get home.
I saw one crash, heard another but nothing too nutty and about halfway through I really started to enjoy myself. The feeling of vertigo I got, this head-swimming feeling as I cornered elbow to elbow with all these riders at 20+ mph was pretty cool. I might actually like crits, who knew?
Big thanks to all the IBC 4’s for looking out for me and teaching me quite a few things, it was a great experience, something I may have to try again next year.

Fitchburg Longsjo Classic
Day Three – The Road Race

“Laughin' At the Notion of a Signal Light
Knew We'd Gone Too Far
No One Knew What Happened But It Seemed Alright
We Quickly Jumped in the Car
All Through My Head It's Happenin' Over Again

King of the Road Says You Move Too Slow!”

-Fu Manchu



7:20 AM, I was up an hour and a half before the time I’d set my alarm for, I guess I’m so used to being up at the ass crack of dawn (I think I work the word “ass” into just about every post) that waking up at 7:20 constitutes sleeping in. I was running late so I was maybe going a bit heavy on the gas pedal and maybe I was rocking out a little bit too much to the Stooges and not paying attention to the fact that I was drifting up over 80 on Rt. 2 on a Saturday morning. I ended up blowing by a cop while going about 85 mph, instinctively took my foot off the gas and adjusted the rear view to watch him tear out into traffic with his lights on…but he never did, bizarre, I generally don’t have much luck when it comes to these things.

“Son, all these bad things don't happen to you because you have bad luck; they happen to you because you're a dumbass.”
– Red, That 70’s Show

It was a gorgeous day, not too hot and a bit windy, got to the base of Wachusett with ample time to warm up with the rest of the IBC team. The start was on a downhill so I immediately got shelled to the back, I wasn’t able to move up at all until the first couple rollers on 31, and even then I would drift back. I tried riding the center line, didn’t work too well, then I went back over to the right and rode the gutter, there I was able to move up and brake less on the small climbs leading up to Princeton center. Word started spreading that there was a two man break ahead, whaa? Could it be Racine I wondered? The pressure was definitely not on at the front, nobody wanted to work or organize a chase. This was fine by me, I just wanted to get to the base of Wachusett and sort things out there. I knew I wouldn’t best Racine head to head.
Gaps would open after the Princeton climb, some selection was being made but guys were still coming back all down the decent by the Wachusett parking lot. My teammate C Todd clocked a top speed of 64 mph…nutty. The gap to the breakaway kept increasing and our pace was not, somewhere in there we did catch one of the riders. Our third time up the Princeton climb I decided to get up front and see what was going on, the riders in front of me weren’t cooperating so I went “all mountain biker” and rode up onto a slanted curb, over a pile of gravel, and through someone’s front lawn…illegal? I don’t know. It got me to the front, I assessed the situation, Racine was gone and it seemed no one besides me knew what we were dealing with. “oh ya, the kid on the ‘cross bike? We’ll bring him back”. Right, and by the time this race is over monkeys will fly out of my butt and negotiate a lasting peace accord in the Middle East.
Last lap we were flying down 31, selection happened on the Princeton climb, but again it started coming back after the feed zone,
but I had two IBC wheels, C Todd and Kevin Young, Kevin pointed out two of the GC guys to watch. Jerry Hughes was also there, I hadn’t preridden the climb to the top of Wachusett and I realized as we approached it that I had no idea how long it should take. Jerry used to come out and do the TT there so I picked his brain. He said it should take about six minutes, this was super helpful because a few moments after that I was suffering and struggling so terribly I needed to know about when it would come to an end.
Things blew up when we hit that climb, I instantly got dropped but knew guys would go out too hard and I’d be able to reel them in. My high end is not so great right now so I had to keep it in check, I pushed a pretty big gear, never really using my 25, just the 23, mashing away, trying to fake it with brute force. Pretty soon it was down to about twenty riders up the road, I picked off a few before the final steep ramp to the line and then put in my 19 and mashed like a single speeder, torquing my bars back and forth passing five guys right in the last 100 meters to finish 9th on the day and move from 15th to 9th overall.
Racine had come in four minutes earlier, seizing the day and the overall lead with an insurmountable gap going into the criterium the next day. I thought it was funny when I looked over at the dude before the Circuit race and he’s wearing full-fingered gloves and mountain shoes, I didn’t note that he was also on a ‘cross bike with a hodge podge of parts and Continental Gator Skin, Kevlar reinforced, heavy ass, commuter tires. Craziness.

Thanks to all the IBC crew (particularly Hannah, she filled 50 frickin’ water bottles with a Brita the night before) who came out and supported us during this race.

Fitchburg Longsjo Classic
Day Two - The Circuit Race

Another awesome early start, 5:15, so glad the next two days of racing start after noon. Coffee was had, rice and eggs and a small amount of oatmeal were eaten, I then proceeded to do some silly yoga-type contortions which seem to help my rickety-ass back and wait for IBC teammate C Todd to pick me up. We made it to Fitchburg without any run ins with the law and took a lap of the course, at warm up pace it didn’t seem so bad, I knew this would change after a few laps at full speed.
Me and the other IBC crew lined up in good position behind the junior field which was leaving two minutes ahead of us. I guess I had some nerves going on because I peed twice before the start (that and I have the bladder of a tree shrew), the second trip cost me my semi-decent position in the field as they moved up the line without me. My old pal Jerry Hughes dragging my bike along with him, probably costing him a spot or twelve, big ups to him for looking after my clapped out rig and not dropping her on the ground.
As we rolled out I got shot to the back as expected, I knew I had to move up but dudes were sketchy and all agro, it wasn’t going to be easy. The chicane after the start was most nightmarish the first lap sitting toward the back of those 120 riders, then everyone tried to move up on the slight grade around the corner, problem was if everyone moved up there’d be no one behind them, it was kind of mayhem, I decided all I had to do was survive.
The first time down John Fitch Highway I realized this might be a tall order as we clattered along en mass at forty plus miles per hour, the sound of carbon rims thudding over manhole covers, the pack suddenly splitting as we came flying up on a traffic island. If someone had slapped a heart rate monitor on me I’m sure my heart rate would have been significantly higher during this section than on the uphill bit.
I was finally able to move up the first time up the climb and each time after that, I even spent some time riding in the top ten, sometimes in the wind just to avoid backsliding. I had a nice introduction to pack riding by some large CCB rider who brushed/bumped up against me as he tried to pass. Like I needed to be made more nervous.
By the last couple laps I was maintaining my position toward the front a lot better, I thought this boded well for the final ascent up the finishing climb…no such dice. I got totally swamped going into the turn, I tried to shoot up the right side like I had done the other laps but got shut down and blocked. I clawed my way past as many guys as possible to finish an unremarkable 38th place, luckily we were all given the same time so my “GC hopes” are still intact. My teammate Mike Troisi pulled off 7th place and John Laupheimer 20th and both of these guys are racing well below their age class, they are a couple of bad dudes.

After the race Miriam and I went in search of a good diner breakfast, me being the guy thought we should drive around aimlessly until we happened upon a place, Miriam thought we should ask a local (it’s what Rachel Ray would do). The first local we asked was wearing a shirt with a mathematical equation on the front, it had a picture of a beer with the word “beer” on it, a plus sign, an image of a pair of breasts, an equals sign, and an image of a smiley face. He was really fixated on how many overpasses we had to pass under on our way to the diner. The second local we asked had a severely deformed earlobe and was visibly inebriated (it was 10AM). He told us there was a place down the way “The 50/50” which had a “diner atmosphere” but that there was another spot in the center that was nicer “it’s got waitresses and tables and everything”. We chose the former hoping that it wasn’t one of those diners where you sit on milk crates while rejects from the helper monkey college hurl handfuls of home fries and scrambled eggs at your open mouth. We found the 50/50, it was great, highly recommend it.

Miriam wanted to get a ride in so I dropped her in Harvard with a map of the first five miles of her route (she ended up back where she started in forty five minutes). I proceeded to THE swimming hole for a little recovery swim.

The day before it had been guarded by a giant Tom Turkey who came right for me, the only thing standing between me and finding out what it’s like to get pecked by a huge bird was my Cannondale. Apparently the sentries had changed overnight and now there was a family of Canada Geese with a belligerent papa goose hissing at me, I took the high road because I know what a goose wound looks like (a pie plate sized bruise, ya see they can’t actually bite a piece of you off, they just clamp down and pull as hard as they can) I didn’t want to know what one feels like. Can’t be worse than riding up Mt . Wachusett at the end of a forty six mile race, I guess I’ll know more about that tomorrow.

Fitchburg Longsjo Classic Day One
The Time Trial

“standing on the board
board is on the wheels
wheels are on the ground
zoomin round and round”

-The Go! Team

I’m not an early riser, I am genetically predisposed to suffer physical pain when forced to awake prior to 8AM so waking up at 6AM for a 9:30 start is not exactly my cup of tea. And I got lucky, I had one of the latest Cat 4 start times. My attitude leading up to what is probably my 5th road race was laid back…up until tuesday night when I watched the Tour De Suisse Time Trial, which appeared fairly technical, a few guys had to jam on the brakes to avoid slamming into curbs. The plan was not to pre-ride or even pre-look-at the TT course, after having nightmares about technical tt courses I chose to at least check it out after I picked up my race packet wednesday night. We drove it in the dark with a light rain coming down, I really don’t know how helpful this was but I got the idea and I knew I wouldn’t die on some hairpin turn into an alley way.

Didn’t feel too great in the AM, the nine day work week had bitten me in the ass and I never did get a chance to catch up on that elusive sleep, but we (Miriam and I) grabbed our ice coffees and bagels and started motoring out to Fitchburg. I was sweating the warm up so I had M drop me somewhere down on scenic Route 12 so I could ride the rest of the way in. It was already hot and balmy out, with the wind whipping (mostly in the right direction) and thunder storms looming. I spun up to the start ramp about a half hour before my time looking to get an idea of how one deals with the whole start ramp thing. Is it like a ski lift? The first time you try to get off you end up sliding on your ass or just riding the chair back down again? I hoped not. Here I ran into my old buddy Jerry Hughes, I asked him why no one was up on the ramp. He informed me that a guy had just ridden off the side and knocked himself out cold. Until they got whatever issues they were having sorted out they were going to start people just up the road a bit to compensate for the added momentum the ramp would have given them. Yikes. I was happy that I wouldn’t have to deal with the ramp on this day, leave that for a later date.

While warming up I ran into another mountain biker, Tim Halliday, a super fast youngin’, he asked me how it went, thinking I’d already gone, I told him I was merely warming up. “Oh, you just look so tired”. Thanks. That’s what happens when you’re in your near-mid-thirties and you sleep for five hours the night before a race…whippersnapper.
As per usual I arrived at the line when I was supposed to go not a second sooner, I went, middle ring to start, I was really taking all this talk I’d heard of taking it slow from the start seriously. I saw my 30 second man just ahead, but the grade was steep enough that he was not really so “just ahead” at all. I did reel him in pretty shortly then went to work on minute man, got him, and minute and a half man. I was almost made it up to my two minute man but we hit the downhill to the finish section and he and his proper TT bike were able to hold me off by a few seconds. I felt like I was able to drill it to the end but when I finished I didn’t feel like I worked the hill hard enough. By my count I came in under twenty minutes which I was surprised at, and given the estimates by folks that had preridden it I knew it wasn’t so bad.
Post race M and I headed down to South Natick to visit my niece and nephew, when I checked my messages I heard from my friend Greg that I’d ridden to 15th place, I guess I’m pretty happy with that. Now what? I really don’t know, try not to die navigating the circuit race with 139 other Cat 4s, hopefully they ride better than this guy right here.

“get all your loser heads up
ok
try to pick up the junk
ok

Yay.”

-The Go! Team

Housatonic Hills Report

Waking up is hard to do, especially when it's two days in a row of arising pre-dawn, feeling like your eyes are bleeding and you got put to bed with a shovel to the face. I picked up Hannah and Stephanie at 5:20 in Arlington and we struck out for Southington, CT, we made it there in no time, it helped that all the sane people were still asleep not out clogging up the highways at 6Am on a sunday. I always wonder who those people are, the ones that are actually out at that hour, they're not fishermen, those guys are already out in their boats, on their fourth beer. Are they serial killers out looking for a good spot to dump a body? Who knows, but being up driving around at that hour on the weekend without a bicycle on your roof is highly suspect.
The venue was gorgeous, the day was lovely, (this is where David Lynch would pan from an idealic scene of a white picket fenced yard to a subterranean nest of insects swarming beneath it all).
We had arrived so early I felt this overwhelming sense that I had all the time in the world so I went off to warm up by riding straight up the finishing climb. I didn't have a watch and no one I asked knew the 4 Men start time so I went back up registration and asked them, "ya between 9:20 and 9:30...ya you proably want to get down there now". When I got down there my group was on the line, I situated myself in the back to the outside as Cat 3 racer Greg Martin had instructed me to do because "when there's a crash you'll have somewhere to go". Awesome.
I guess I should have prefaced this story by telling you that I don't road race, I've done it a couple times in the past but it's still all new to me and I don't know what the hell I'm doing out there. The inexplicable slow downs, the yelling, the whining, the detonations of over pressurized tires, this stuff is all weird to a mountain biker. Also I don't really know the rules, I knew one rule...the yellow line rule, can't cross the yellow line, right? I thought if I rode the yellow line no one would pass me on the left and I could prevent my slide to the back of the pack, not right. Apparently the yellow line rule is for nancy boys who play jazz flute. So I hovered at the back, trying not to die too much, then I discovered the gutter, roadies aren't afraid of crossing a yellow line around a blind corner on a backroad with monster trucks blazing down it in the opposite direction but they ARE afraid of riding within two feet of a curb, some grass, or the occasional stick. When we hit the first climbs I was able to move right up along the right side, by the time we had finished all the significant climbs the first lap I was in the front group (remember the foreshadowing with the bustling insects?). As we went through the feed zone I flatted, maybe shooting the gutter with XXX lite tubes isn't such a great idea after all, or maybe I should run Stan's sealant in my road tires. The wheel change took a bit, and by a bit I mean that I whipped out my copy of The Icelandic Sagas and had nearly finished it when the Wheel truck pulled up."Let's see here, ten speed, how many speeds does this wheel have? 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9...nope. Hmmm, how about his one? 1,2,3..." AAAH! Then dude insisted upon doing the wheel change, eventually I did wrestle it away from him and get going. This was no Todd Downs SRAM race support 18 second job, I lost over two minutes, my race was over, it was time to go a training ride in the beautiful Connecticut hills. Not before I put my head down and hammered away for a while trying to catch back on, all into a headwind, alone, as the the thermostat kept rocketing upwards. Eventually I realized I wasn't going to make it back on my own so I sat up and waited for two guys who turned out to be a breakaway from the 50-55's. I wasn't sure what the rules say regarding mixing with other categories but they seemed to think that it would be alright if I sat on and didn't work. Sounded good to me. Still, they were hauling ass on the flats, the climbs were actually easier for me, go figure.
I did the rest of the first lap with those mean old bastards then we got caught by the break from the 45's, it was maybe a half dozen guys. I wouldn't be at all surprised if my recollection of these events was severely flawed. My memory of it all is similar to flashes of consciousness had while sleeping on a long train ride. It might not have been the 45's, it might have been the junior women or the kid's fun race for all I know. I tried to stay with each passing group but I had shelled myself trying to get back, before long I was in no man's land, still riding hard, running out of water, licking my lips, thinking about coke machines and lime rickies. I saw a group approaching behind, I sat up completely and spun my legs to prepare myself to jump on. It was the Autobus of the 3's, the pace was tolerable, and after sitting in for a bit I was able to pull through. Greg Martin from IF was the bus driver, singing and encouraging decimated riders to hop on and hitch a ride home, good guy. Inevitably things got aggresive toward the end with a CCB rider who wasn't taking pulls at all jumping away on the downhills, we'd bring him back, he'd go again. At that point I decided I was just going to beat that guy, that would be my victory.
I was having such a pleasant time chatting with Greg and chasing down CCB boy that I didn't notice we were almost home, just that 1.8 mile climb to ther finish in the 85 degree heat and we were done, woo-frickin'-hoo. Who went first up the climb? Pink and blue, you know who, a couple guys went for it as well, I just stayed on this 18 year old Cat 3 guy who I knew was the strongest of the bunch. In no time we dropped everyone else and hammmered to the top.

Once across the line I grabbed a couple cold waters, then I looked around, it appeared that the entire 4 field was in, I felt like such a LOSER. It wasn't until the next day that I saw that I was in reality 50th place out of 82 finishers. I have no idea how I passed that many 4s, they must have been ducking into the bushes as I came past. Things didn't go as planned but it was a nice day on the bike, oh well.
Afterward I went to return the neutral support wheel and get mine back, it was nowhere to be found, I sat around for over an hour trying to find out what happened. It turned out the wheel I had belonged to a rider who got hurt and had gone off to the hospital, I didn't have the heart to keep it until my wheel was located and mailed to me. After giving the officials all my info and resigning myself to the fact that I would probably never see my very new American Classic rear wheel, Ultegra cassette, and brand new Michelin R2 again I nearly walked over it. It had been tossed in the middle of a field behind what had been shortly before a large crowd of spectators. The official I'd been dealing with was super apologetic, I told him this was really pretty minor stuff, what counted was the fact that their race was well run, safe, and supported, unlike some other races which were held that weekend (hmm, don't know who I might be slagging there cough!Mike Norton-cough!).
All in all, good day, great race, and later on I was able to defy inertia and sleep deprivation to make my way to Shay's for beers on the patio and a bit of trivia at Charlie's. That is as Adrian Fletcher would say (quoting Black Flag) the way to "Rise Above". Did that sentence make any sense? I don't care, that's it for me.

NORBA Root 66 Holiday Farm

My mountain bike has been gathering dust since I wiped off the Tennesee mud from The Cohutta, I literally have not ridden it since I hobbled in from that hundred-miler after laying it down at 30+ MPH, that was nearly two months ago. The Dalton Holiday Farm race is one of the best events around and I was damned if I was going to miss it even if my shoulder was not a 100% (I wrecked my shoulder and badly tore my right Lat in the crash). Either my head was going to explode from boredom and frustration or I would go out there and race and my shoulder would explode leaving me back at square one of the recovery process.

People who always weigh out every decision carefully (and while sober), consult GPS systems on road trips, and wait half an hour after they eat before swimming seldom find themselves in an adventurous situation. I know all my favorite novels and films depict events that went really, really well, came off without a hitch, and everyone lives happily ever after, that’s what makes a great story.

The morning began with me leaving late to because I was in a debilitated state due to five hours of sleep, then I blew my Google Maps directions, which caused me take half an hour navigating a 9 minute drive, the punchline was me blazing by IBC Teammate Rebecca who I was attempting to pick up as she stood on the curb with her bike and all her gear as she looked on in bemusement. Then as we were within 15 minutes of the venue we took a wrong turn (we actually took the right turn then “untook it”) and overshot our destination by forty minutes roundtrip. This I blame on a state I like to call “Temporary Pee-Blindness”, me and my navigator were both so overcome by the need to pee that we couldn’t think or see straight, this had something to do with none of the many gas stations having bathrooms and the one that did being staffed by a malevolent , sad, little woman who’s only pleasure in life is looking up from her Danielle Steele novel just long enough to deny travelers the use of the station’s bathrooms. If Darfur were inhabited solely by contemptible creatures like this woman I would be sending checks The Janjaweed militia weekly.


Eventually we did make it to Holiday Farm with about twenty minutes to spare, registered, warmed up by running back to the car to pin numbers on bikes, and went to staging. I registered for the Semi-Pro/Pro race only because it was the longest event that day and I knew after month of road riding I’d be lacking that anaerobic snap I would need to hang from the gun in a short race, I would have to fall back on aerobic base, just riding my own pace and trying not to crack and fall apart, hopefully reeling some guys in by the end. There were a whole lot of guys doing the Open Pro race including one of my favorite single speeders Paul Simoes, this guy is force, he pushes a huge gear, climbs really well, and his technical and descending skills are truly terrifying, I was glad to see him on the line.
As is my style I was last into the woods, if I wanted to fight over it I could have maybe been second, but who wants to fight for second to DFL? If you’re that close you just have to embrace your lastness. I hadn’t pre-ridden the course but after doing the last year’s race and the 24 hours of Adrenalin I was pretty familiar with many of the sections and any surprises were welcome, the trail system out there is sweet. One reason why I had such high regard for this race was the monster climb which was featured in the other events I’d done at Holiday Farm. Word was it was out, this was true, I lamented this, but it turned out there was plenty of climbing, it was just more interesting varied stuff, not just a fire road grind, I definitely wasn’t begging for more climbing by the end of this thing.
First lap I was thinking “I can’t do this, my legs are crap, I can’t believe I came all the way out here just to drop out, this was not my plan, this sucks, aaah!”. No warm up was not working for me, by the second lap I felt better, third lap better still, and fourth lap I knew I could pedal home. It also didn’t help that I started the race with my saddle two inches too low, my thought was that during the month or so my bike was hanging around the shop some(short)one took it for a test ride, not marking my saddle height or even trying to put it back where it was like it was a coffee shop cruiser not a meticulously dialed-in race machine. Grounds for murder if you ask me. So I spent much of the first lap messing with my seatpost, I was relaxed enough about this event that I wasn’t sweating it, and when I finally got the height where it was supposed to be my legs felt a hell of a lot better.
Maybe second lap I started catching dudes, I passed a couple of the truly fast guys sidelined with technicals, one came back, Andrew Freye who I have never had the opportunity to ride with (he’s way faster than me from the gun and the rest of the time), he scared me a little on the descents but I stuck with him, thinking he would ultimately drop me, he didn’t, and after he stopped to play with a loose quick release I rode on and never saw him again. I kept on catching people, I came upon John Rowe who gave chase up the climbs, closing down gaps I’d create in the twisty stuff, I thought he’d get me in the end as well, but again I was able to get away. Last lap I went down a couple times, both in soft mud, I was running the Stan’s Crow 29er with it’s sublimated image of tread patter, like the painted on grill marks of a Burger King burger, they may be getting retired. Ha! Re-tired, get it? With jokes like that told in a loud, obnoxious voice, a $300 pair of jeans, some contrived stubble, and the ability to fall down on stage a lot I’d be the next Dane Cook.

Going into the last grind of the last lap I saw the tell-tale sign of another single-speeder ahead, the low cadence standing and rocking climbing style, could it be Paul? It was, I steadily tractor beamed up to him, he was pushing to stay away, he didn’t want to get got, I realized that I was running out of trail and if I didn’t pass and gap him by the top of the climb he would dust me in the technical stuff. I put in a brutal effort to accomplish this and didn’t look back, going as hard and fast as I could while trying not to die.
Astonishingly enough I landed 6th out of 14 finishing Semi-Pro/Pros, I was shocked and pleased and I won Five bucks, and you know I only do this for the cheddar.
Big ups to the rest of the IBC posse, Rebecca, Hannah, and Rachel(who podiumed in Expert class!) for getting the better of this grueling slog of a race.
I’ve said this before but every race should be held by a body of water like the icy stream which runs through Holiday Farm, cooling your feet, knees, lower back, and washing the grime off before getting back in the car is so key. I might even say it’s mint.
Since my shoulder didn’t blow up looks like I’ll be up at Putney in a couple weeks,
I feel like sally for not getting out there sooner, I also just found out that I’m doing Fitchburg and Housatonic Hills, yikes.

Rants and Stark Raving Rants

I haven't been racing my bike, I have begun training again, on the road exclusively...and commuting, always commuting. Obviously I haven't been blogging, I am remiss, it's just that aside from racing my bike my life is extraordinarily, profoundly, uninteresting.
Today I was riding along to work, just spinning, making no efforts, I'm sitting at a light and this, how you say? Jack...Ass comes barreling through the light on his mountain bike, veers and zig-zags through cross-traffic and hammers away. Eventually I spin up to him, we hit a hill and I gently pass him, he decides to cross two lanes of traffic and swerve onto the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. I thought, "O.k. he must be making a left turn". Nope, he appeared a couple minutes later at another light, blazing down the sidewalk, hurtling into the street against traffic, against the light, against all laws of man, and common sense, and self-preservation. Idiot. Each time I sat at a light listening to my Neil Young, "keep me mellow no matter what during my morning commute" music I would witness this prick threading the needle through the intersection like a rookie messenger, like a crackhead on a little girl's Huffy, no style, but this guy is forty years old at least. I was almost to work, I had forgotten all about Einstein on wheels, and then at the junction of Centre St. and Rt. 9 he comes by on the sidewalk, defying death like Robbie Knievel, shooting across the off and on ramps for 9 in a place where no one is expecting to see him. And that was it, I bellowed "Dude, you are a F-ing kucklehead!", and pedaled away. That'll teach me to be on the road during peak commuting hours.

I'll preface my next rant by saying that I drive a Volvo, I am not tough, I have a big mouth on the bike, but I will run/ride to the hills when it comes to a physical confrontation. We're riding up to Concord the other day and a this post-Middle-Aged Geoffrey decides to swerve his Swedish Safety wagon at our pace-line in an aggresive manner while honking his horn. As we approached the rotary in Concord center I came along side him, tapped on his window, and said loudly "When you act like a tough guy while driving a Volvo it looks like you're trying to be deeply ironic". And he went home and beat his wife an kids while I chuckled through the rest of my ride.
While I'm at it, Recumbents, they shouldn't be sold at bike shops, they should be sold at furniture stores, they have as much to do with bicycles as Rollerblades do. Don't get me wrong, Recumbents are a great way for handicapped people to enjoy cycling, I might even get one when I'm say, I don't know, seventy-eight, or sooner if I decide suddenly to entirely give up on fun. If I waved to Recumbenters while out on rides then I'd have to wave to joggers, dog walkers, and guys with shopping carts full of recycyclable bottles. They call conventional bicycles "Wedgies", a conventional bicycle seat does not give you a Wedgie if your ass isn't the size of a First Class airline seat. Maybe it's just that I wish their short shorts were longer than their long long unkempt beards.

Cadence computers, people with $300 hybrids that top out at 8 MPH on the bike path always want cadence computers. In perfect world one would get to ask then one question before they were allowed to do such a pointless thing. "What is cadence?", the dictionary wouldn't help them out "A modulation or inflection of the voice" how does that help you out while cycling? How about asking them what's a good cadence? 5?
9? 10,000? What does it even mean? If they can't answer they don't need it and even if they could they probably still don't.
This is what happens when I don't race my bike and then decide to sit down at the keyboard, badness...nothing but badness, pray that I get back racing soon, it will be better for all of us.

Cohutta 100

Copper Hill, TN
April 21st 2007

The weather chased us (me and Christopher McQueen) out of Boston, we passed a line of yellow school buses carrying Boston Marathoners to Hopkinton on Monday morning, watching flags pinned in a westward direction the whole way. We didn’t envy them.
What we didn’t know was that the rain and 50 mile per hour winds would follow us allthe way through Virginia, the winds wouldn’t back down until they had ripped Chris’ Independent Crown Jewel halfway from the roof, leaving it’s left front fork dropout oprhaned in the Thule rack clamp.
We were crossing the Susquehanna north of Baltimore, there was a high wind warning sign for a normal day, what hit us was probably hurricane force. McQueen observed calmly “Dude my bike’s off”. I looked through the sunroof and saw no bike at all, a semi-truck was beeping at us, I thought it had either gone under the eighteen wheels of the truck or blown off the bridge entirely. We pulled off to the side once over the bridge and assessed the
situation…not good. McQueen immediately put in a call to International Bicycle Center back in Boston to get a fork Fedexed down to his mom’s house in Cornelia, GA. Long, sordid tale short, he was never able to ride his bike during the entire trip, this after buying a take-off fork at a shop in Athens, using the leg of an Ultimate Stand as a make-shift slide-hammer to force the crown race on, seriously long, frustrating story.



We stayed over Monday night in Jefferson, NC at McQueen’s Mah-ma’s (Gramma) house, the wind roared all night long, shaking the house, it sounded like Niagra Falls was right next door. After the quiet country road in front of Mahma's had turned into a four lane high speed jobby, she had taken to the habit of doing a loop through her yard to get pointed nose out to traffic...we felt this was a good idea as well.

In the morning we pushed on through to Another McQueen family member’s house, Chris’ Mom’s in Cornelia, GA, a nice little town north of Athens.

Wednesday I got out for a ride just down the way from where were staying, just a quick mountain ride around Lake Russell, some flowy non-technical singletrack. I was really trying to work out any bugs with my new ride before I raced it 100 miles on Saturday, it was a good thing too, I made quite a few adjustments.
That evening after some record shopping in Athens we went over to Chris’ sister and brother in law’s, had a few beers, had a little listening part for the new Nick Cave Grinderman album. Bro in law Colin also played D.J., treating our ears to some obscure Athens Indie Rock, now I need to go “Record” shopping yet again.

Got a late start Thursday then tried to traverse the state via back road against Colin’s advice to stay on the interstate and circumvent the Georgian Interior on our way to Chattanooga to check out the Lookout Mountain stage of the Tour De GA.
We didn’t make it, unless your idea of making is it is showing up just in time to get stuck helping the volunteers take down the “Finish” sign and seeing no racing whatsoever. Lookout Mt. Was beautiful though, hope to make it up there next year. Tried to work out the broken fork issue at a shop in Chattanooga , again to no avail. The only positive points of the day were getting a ride in up on Raccoon Mt. Outside Chattanooga

and going to Waffle House for the first time. Chris hooked up some official Waffle House music which allowed the wait staff to demonstrate that North East Coasters don’t have the market on sarcasm cornered. “Oh I ain’t heard this song in sooo long…I could listen to this all day!” They were relieved when he followed it up with Gladys Knight and The Pips.


Friday we were set to redeem ourselves, striking out toward Brasstown Bald early. On the way we stopped in a town which was entirely Swiss themed, pretty odd. Chris explained to me that the Civil War…excuse me “War of Northern Aggression” had NOTHING to do with slavery…0, it in fact had everything to do with the desire of all Southerners to covert the American south into a giant Sound of Music theme park, of course they lost and had to settle for Graceland and Dollywood, that’s my understanding anyway.


We arrived at the entrance to Brasstown in good time, hopped on our bikes, me on my on my single speed Mt. Bike and Chris on my Canondale road bike. I knew that it was and incredibly silly thing for me to be grinding up the 17-20% grades of Brasstown when I had a 100 mile Mt. Bike race the very next day with 14,000 feet of climbing.
I never said I was Rocket Surgeon. We weren’t allowed to walk either, the rabid fans were getting their game ready by cheering on all the poor bastards weaving to the top of this spire of a hill. On the way up I stopped a Port-A-Potty, it was on an incline so as I exited the door whipped shut, cutting my left leg open…oh the humanity!
Keep reading and you’ll learn why in retrospect it seems pretty funny that I even took time to document this “wound”. I suppose if we were going to make just one stage of the Tour this was the one to make, damn good stuff, really exciting to watch.


Our departure from Brasstown was delayed by a medical emergency, someone had a coronary while ascending. I don’t think it was a racer, although I never did confirm that. Anyway people didn’t deal with it well, I’d heard southerners were a nicer lot than their northern counterparts, not in this case, folks were pretty put out by this inconsiderate bastard who went and had a heart attack on their busy vacation day. One of the main offenders was from Jersey, but there were a whole bunch of guys drawling their complaints at the Jack-Booted EMTs.
After the stage we made the jump up to Copperhill, it was quick and easy to get there but not so quick and easy finding the motel…alright, it’s taken me the better part of a week to get this far with this report so I’m going to skip over the details of our logistical issues the night before the race and get down to business.


4 hours of sleep + 4AM wake up = asking myself why the hell I do this crap. Later in the day as I was rolling down a sun-soaked ridge line looking out over a green Tennessee valley I knew why, but as I stared at my swollen eyelids through swollen eyelids in the mirror well before first light I was a little stumped. At the start it was cold, way colder than I had imagined it would be, the weather report said it was going to hit 80º, it took it’s damn time doing so, my knees were purple for the first three hours of the race. It wasn’t a bad start for the single speeders, we took off up a decently graded road climb, I was able to make (the back of) the front group of fifty or so, we went into a downhill, kind of terrifying the sound of all those knobbies buzzing down the road.
Wasn’t too long before we entered the woods and hit some tight singletrack where whatever position you were in entering you were going to be in on the other side, no passing to speak of. The only way to get by another rider was to ask politely and hope he’d eventually let you come around him. It was a nice way to wake up, gently spinning down these flowy trails, I wasn’t looking to pass anyone, I was content to warm up and breath in the Tennessee morning air.
My bottle ejected on a decent, dumping most of it’s sticky red contents in the dust, causing me to stop at the first aid station, something I don’t normally do but I was taking a relaxed attitude toward this race anyway so I wasn’t sweating the lost seconds. After the first ten miles or so of singletrack we got spit out onto the dirt and gravel roads which would comprise the majority of this race. Definitely not the most interesting race course ever but a nice way to start the season, get some miles in one’s legs, enjoy some scenery, and meet some nice folks. This race was more social than usual for me as well, I chatted up a whole bunch of people, basically anyone I came across who wasn’t listening to an ipod (LUCKY!) or responding to my questions monosyllabically. You’d be amazed how ten minutes of small talk here or there with several different people makes the day fly by. It was also nice to some familiar faces like Dejay Birtch, always a nice guy to run into on the trail.
About 18 miles into the race me and four other guys were descending a gravel road going around 35 miles per hour, ahead there were some marshals telling us to turn right onto a paved road, I was in the lead and decided to take the corner fairly fast. I’m not completely sure what happened here but I think a scattering of gravel onto the pavement caused my front tire to wash out. Whatever it was I went down hard and fast in an awkward lowside crash, I skidded a good ways on my shoulder and helmet, a great feeling, you should try it at least once, I managed to shear the skin off my right hip, a lot of my leg and right arm, a bit of my face, and my left hand. I peeled myself off the ground dripping blood all over my white socks, this took me right back the summer of ’81 when I crashed my Columbia “Apache” on a gravel covered paved road, of course I was helmet-free and took the whole crash in the face, it required 72 stitches to close me back up and my white adidas shell toes (I wore them because David Letterman did and because they were hand-me-downs, this was well before the Beastie Boys and Run DMC) were never the same again. The first thing I asked the Marshals was “how’s my face”, a woman wiped it off with a wet towel and told me it was alright. The next thing I asked was if someone with a cotton shirt could wipe my glasses, gotta have your priorities. This might have seemed kind of crazy as I trailed blood from the crash site over to the group of horrified onlookers. I kept saying “don’t let this be it, man don’t let this be it”. After a few minutes I realized that was relatively OK to ride problem was my bike didn’t seem to be, my front brake caliper was locked like a pit bull’s jaws on my disc rotor. I checked to see if a ferrule had slipped out or something, it took a second to determine that my bars had actually gone around 360º and the housing was wrapped around my stem and steerer, a quick flip of the bars and I was “all set”. As I rode off I was pretty sure that I was going to have to drop out at the next aid station, the flesh wounds were gushing nicely on their way to clotting and becoming encrusted in dust but my right side was shutting down and every time I tried to stand and pull on the bars something went “POP!”.


As I caught up to people who had seen me go down I was told that they thought I was going home in an ambulance, the sliding on my head across the entire road was dramatic I guess. I came upon this dude who looked me over then offered me an 800 milligram Motrin horse pill, he told me to wait half an hour before bagging it and that if at that point the Motrin wasn’t cutting it he had some acid (that’s a joke for those of you from the mid-west and Scandinavia). The Motrin did kick in, wow, after that I was rockin’, hardly even gritting my teeth in agony.
Funny thing, aside from the massive loss of skin and all this was not a particularly hard race for me, I just pedaled my bike as efficiently as I could, ate a lot of bananas and PB & J, and what ever else they had to offer at the aid stations, and survived. I arrived at the fifteen mile to go mark with plenty of juice to attack the last stretch of singletrack with a fury, picking up a few spots. I did relinquish one spot on the final paved approach to the line but didn’t feel too bad about it. Man, that last bit of singletrack was fun, mostly downhill, bermy, and fast, just the way to bookend a long day of grinding hilly dirt roads.

I checked in with my posse afterward, Jeff and Andy put in a couple solid performances, Harvey Minton killed it, and Chris McQueen didn’t race but had a good road ride with some gun-toting locals. I don’t actually have an analogy for how much the post race shower sucked, but it was no worse than the application of the Hydrogen Peroxide or the 17 hour completely comfort-free car ride home. I love the feel of peeling my Dickies off the skin of my leg, feels like…again no analogy available.
In summary, Cohutta as a race gets two thumbs up (one of the thumbs is missing a knuckle but we’ll count it like a dangling chad), Tennesse is a great place to visit and we’re already talking about next year’s trip. Thanks to Chris McQueen and his family for hooking up fine accommodations , thanks to Chris as well for chauffering Jeff and most of the way back to Boston like a Bakersfield Trucker.
The next race report may be a while coming, after the flesh healed it became apparent that I’d suffered and acute tear in my rotator cuff, as soon as I can pick up a glass off a table I’ll be back on the bike, argh. Thanks for reading.