Planes, Pains, and Sebaceous Cysts The Size Of Kuatos

Note to self: Mayonnaise is not a viable substitute for chamois cream, especially in warm climates.

Oh, another note to self: hey idiot, clean your bike Before you put it back in the travel case next time.

Seriously, the only reason I took my bike out of the travel case in-between my last two trips was to clean it. The problem is this: after a one-hundred mile mountain bike race or after the sixth day of a stage race,
I just don't feel like cleaning the damn thing. I mean, I don't even want to look at it. I do feel like dousing it with gasoline, lighting it on fire, and throwing it off a cliff. But that, I can do with my eyes closed. No visual necessary. I
I kind of want to keep my bike locked in that travel case, it's like a dog that I bought because of its fighting pedigree, a dog I trained to fight, taught to lust after the blood of other dogs, but now…now I've lost control of the animal and I worry that it will eat my face the first chance it gets. It's my fault the creature is dangerous and unpredictable, but it doesn't make me any less wary around it. I associate the bike only with pain and suffering, we've been through so much hell together this summer, it's no wonder I want to lock it away like a Pit Bull gone bad.

It's been a crazy couple months, I've gone from The High Cascades 100 out in Bend, Oregon, to the Breck Epic, a six day stage race in Colorado, and now I'm on my way to Brevard, North Carolina for the Pisgah Mountain Stage Race.

These events are called "races" but, for me, they are more like cycling tours. There is no better way to experience the trails a place has to offer than by riding them real, really fast with a big group of knuckleheads.

One problem with all this flying around and racing is the flying part; I hate flying. I am not a plane-talker for one thing. The second I sit down on the plane, I insert my ipod ear buds as a defensive measure. I may not listen to music at any point during the entire flight, but I want my neighbors to think I am. Or, more importantly, I don't want them to talk to me at all. Nothing good ever comes of talking to people on planes. On the way out to Oregon the girl next to me was a non-stop-plane-talker. She tried to engage me, but when I proved unresponsive, she turned to the old man across the aisle. At one point I tuned in just enough to hear that she was telling the poor, old dude about her Coke addiction. (That would be Coca Cola addiction.) The old dude was as wise as he was receptive to the incessant babbling of over-caffeinated girls on planes, he had this sparkling gem of wisdom to offer: "Yup, I used to drink a lot of soda, but now you know what I drink to stay hydrated these days? — water.

A-freakin'-mazing.

Another fun part of plane travel is the trying to get your bike on the plane as cheaply or as freely as possible. I have a list of ploys I attempt every time I hit the ticket counter.

Airline Employee: "Is this a bike?"
Me: "Um, not really, it's bike parts."
AE: "We still have to charge you for a bike."
Me: "Did I say bike? It's more like trade show supplies."
AE: "They're in a bike case."
ME: "Yes, but it's full of golf clubs…a surf board…a tuba…anything but a bike."
AE: "Uh huh, and it's over weight."
ME: "You're overweight."
AE: "What did you just say?"
Me: "I said, 'that's up for debate,' I read online that your weight limit for bike cases is 100 lbs." (waves hand in Jedi-mind-tricking motion).
AE: "What was that crap? Do you want me to call TSA and tell them I've got Osama Bin Kenobi over here?
Me: "No, but what if I told you I was…an organ donor…and astronaut…that I once saved a baby from drowning."
AE: " I would tell you that I am going to charge $150 for your bike case."
Me: "You're not gonna budge on the whole charging me for the bike case thing are ya?"
AE: "You're a quick one aren't ya hon."


And it's usually about ten minutes into the flight when I remember all the stuff I've forgotten to bring, silly, little stuff like a helmet. I forgot my helmet on the Oregon trip. Lucky for me I ran into Single Speed guru Dejay Birtch. At the time Dejay was in the process of growing one of the most magnificently large sebaceous cysts I have ever laid eyes on right on the back of his head. I called it his Kuato, like the little, slimy/hairy, all-knowing thing that came out of that guy's chest in Total Recall. It had grown to such proportions that I believe Dejay had procured a second helmet just in case he needed to put it on his secondary head, or Kuato. Maybe Dejay had the second helmet for some other reason, a reason I can't think of but, whatever the reason, he had a second helmet and I got to use it during the race and it was awesome, even if it had Kuato juice all over it.

Many lessons were learned out at the Breck Epic, lessons that will be applied at The Pisgah Mountain Stage Race. Lessons like: back off for the last couple stages and take it real easy…
so you have enough energy to clean you're bike before you put it back in its crate, uh, I mean case.


This article was originally published in the November 2010 issue of NEMBA Singletracks magazine. Go HERE to get yourself a NEMBA membership.

Thank Youz, Thank Youz Very Much

I cannot say definitively that this is the very last bit of Breckiness I have to get out of my system, but here goes.

Basically I just have a whole bunch of people to thank and say nice things about. I can't even guarantee that I will be a wise ass about any of it.

Tim Faia. Tim opened the door to Breckenridge and welcomed me inside with open arms. He checked in with me daily to make sure I had everything I required. It's funny, I've "known" Tim for many years, but only through blog stuff and team stuff — first with Independent Fabrication and more recently with the 29er Crew. It made for a relaxed and easy first meeting, we spoke like old friends. I can't thank Tim enough. I also have to say that his blog: "On Your Left" is a just about every post read for me. It is everything this blog is not: deep, heavy, poetic, honest...and succinct.

Tim hooked me up with his friend Monique Merrill for a place to stay my first couple nights in Breckenridge. He explained that she was "kind of running a bed and breakfast...but she didn't want any money." Huh? What? And she didn't. Immediately I picked up that Mona was really, really into her sports; the house was cluttered with in-line skates, full-face helmets, bikes, running shoes, and who knows what else. Then her friend Sue showed up and to "play" for the weekend. This involved multiple bike rides per day and trail runs in-between. My second night staying at Mona's house, I tagged along on a group ride, where I met another super-cool person, Jeffrey Bergeron or "Biff America" a guy that moved away from Brockton, Mass the year I was born. He still hasn't lost his Boston accent.

After the ride Mona invited everyone into her restaurant, Amazing Grace for beers and nachos. At one point (after helping myself to several beers, so dangerous for me) I went to the bathroom. Above the toilet hung a giant, glossy poster of a man and a woman in a kayak, crashing through some serious, gnarly white water. The woman had this crazy warrior face on, it was terrifying. I was like holy crap...that chic is BAD ASS! Then I realized that it was my host, Mona Merrill. Turns out she's this super human adventure racer and celebrated ski mountaineer.

Mona's Protein Power sandwich.

Second only to the "Turkey Berry" in the realm of culinary awesomeness.
And this from a dude who's had waffle fry nachos at Jake's Dixie Road House
and taco pizza at Flatbread.

Amazing Grace is sort of a hub in Breckenridge, all kinds of folks pass through, either on their way to do cool stuff or on their way back from having done cool stuff. It's a block off Main, off the beaten path, but the only place to be as far as I'm concerned. The Grace will take care of all your breakfast and lunch needs better than any other spot in that town.

Thanks Mona!


Tim Faia also introduced me to Tim from The Organic Mechanic (Mona would introduce me to Russ, another Organic Mechanic) a traveling band of top-notch wrenches working out of a solar powered trailer. These guys supported the race like you wouldn't believe. And, despite the fact they probably thought I was a dick, they took care of me at the request of Tim Faia. Check them out on Facebook and look for them at Cross races all over the country this fall/winter and for fucks sake, BUY THEM BEER!

In that department I also have to thank Kris and the guys from Breck Velo. I wandered in there looking to get a tubeless tire mounted. "Hi...my name's Thom, what kind of beer do you guys like? Um, I need a tire mounted..." I expected attitude like I'd get at any, and I mean any Boston shop, but what I got was invited behind the counter immediately. That's all it took. After that, they were my shop. Amazing what not being a dick to your customers will accomplish. Of course BEER also factored into the equation of friendliness here.


I'm starting to hear the "wrap it up" music here, so I'm going to do that pretty quick. But I can't forget to thank the loquacious juggernaut, the owner of the biggest dog I have ever seen, the promoter of the best high-alpine stage race I have ever done, Mike Mac. I help co-promote a dinky, little cross race once a year and it literally makes me ill. (Seriously, I ran a fever through the first edition and slept for two days afterward.) I have no freaking idea how Mike does what he does and less of an idea how he does it so damn well.

And the credits roll...

Jeff Carter, thank you for letting me crash at your place in Denver, for driving me up to Breck, and for kicking my ass on that Colorado Trail group ride the Friday before the race. Jeff doesn't have a blog to link to, he's too busy having a life...and babies.

OK, one more,
Sarai Snyder for getting my posts to Mountain Bike even though they were weird and silly.

Shoot, I could sit here an list off awesome people all day, people like Sarah, Montana, Dicky, Dougie, and Petey, but I have to go get some sleep. Worked an event for The Shop today and we're building up rapidly to another kids bike donation, um, this...Thursday? Oh crap!

Bye!

Look! A Unicorn!

I have no real time to write today, so please allow me to re-direct your rapt attention to other Breck Epic related media.

For instance:

The above depicted Peter Keiller's account of defying the advice of a cycling industry icon.

Or the below depicted Doug Jenne's very thorough, extensive, and coherent reports from Breckenridge.


Or how about Montana Miller's thrilling tale of finding a beach towel one-thousand miles away from and 13,000 feet above the ocean.


And if that hasn't left paraplegic with delight and drooling in your desk chair, then check out Sarah Uhl's unique observations over on Singletrack.


Of course if you aren't as Breck-Epic-Centric as the rest of us, you can go listen to Dicky as he sort of talks about the Breck Epic while he talks about some other stuff, like becoming a Geared-O Weird-O.


If you like-ah the video, Cyclingdirt's got all sorts of fast Cannondale-dude Alex Grant's helmet cam vidz up all over the place.

Well, I'm outta time and there's still a lot more Breck Epic stuff out there. A good place to find it all is right on the Breck Epic Facebook page.

I'm still waiting for Mountain Bike to publish yesterday's post, yes, the peeing in my pants one. They titled my last post "White Knuckling Wheeler Pass." Perhaps they'll title that one "Yellow-Chamois-ing The Gold Dust Loop." I'm not going to hold my breath though. And I'm probably not going to hold my breath waiting for a call from Mountain Bike editor David L'Heureux telling me if I have a job doing a Dave Barry (if he rode a bike and was weirder) type column for Mountain Bike.

P.S. - Sweet! I just got a call from Washington state. A dude named Andrew has my errant camera and a bunch of other crap that I thought I lost permanently at the High Cascades 100. I am, as Adam "Da Spyder" Snyder says: STYCHED!

Breck Epic Stage 6, Golden Showers on The Gold Dust Loop

This is the last of my Breck Epic Posts. Man, have I enjoyed not staying up writing the past few days, but now I suppose I have to come up with something to fill out the rest of the week. And what is it...Wednesday? Damn.

I thought they weren't going to publish my last post over there on Mountain Bike, but they did. I am almost positive they won't publish this one — it's basically all about peeing in your pants. Who knows, maybe they'll love it and put it in their print magazine. Everybody loves stories about other people peeing in their pants. Not as much as they love stories about other people pooping in their pants, poop beats pee, every time.


My Stinky Left Foot

Those who think the words "epic" and "brutal" are played out or cliched are probably just bitter because they haven't done anything epic or brutal lately. I think they should come out to Colorado to do the Breck Epic, I defy those haters to hike/ride over French gulch or Wheeler Pass and not use the words epic or brutal. I defy them.

Today was the "easy" stage. We rode out of the Ice Rink parking lot that has served as ground zero for the 2010 Breck Epic all week. As we rolled up the road during our not-so-neutral-as-per-usual start, I realized that I should have peed beforehand, but I was feeling good. I wondered if I was going to have an "I am totally going to pee myself" day. The kind of day where I'd be so concerned with losing time that I'd have no qualms about urinating in my bib shorts. There are many behind the scenes occurrences that are not discussed in professional cycling; peeing in your pants is one of them. Ya, during the Tour De France the riders take very civilized "natural breaks," where they pull over on the side of the road to take a leak, but there is nothing civilized about mountain biking. Nobody bats an eye when a rider attacks a competitor during a technical. No press conference apologies are necessary, no anti-I'm-a-big-fat-jerk ads have to be run. That, and we pee our pants. Well, let me speak for myself...I pee my pants. The thing is, when you're wearing lycra it's not so much like you're peeing your pants. The lycra doesn't hold all that much liquid, that's its nature. It's much more like you are peeing your shoe, more on that bit of wonderfulness in a second.

Back in the day when I was a Sport going on Expert racer, I had a discussion with my wicked fast friend Colin. He told me that the difference between a Sport racer and an Expert racer, aside from riding your bike for more than three hours a week and not eating nachos three meals a day (What, you've never had "breakfast nachos?" You haven't lived.) was this: Expert riders are willing to pee their pants to win...or at least place in the top eleven. Not too long after that discussion I was faced with that very situation: pee my pants or lose forty-five seconds to a minute not peeing my pants. It was a, pun unavoidable, watershed moment. At first it was incredible, such a huge relief, "Oh wow, this is great, the best feeling ever!" Having to pee really bad is the definition of negative reinforcement. It's not like peeing feels really good, it's that not-peeing feels so bad. You're just removing the horrible discomfort of not-peeing.

Anyway...

Then the pee began running down my leg, which wasn't so bad either. Then it started to pool...in my left shoe, and the shoe got heavy, "Ugh, this is not so great, this feels quite ooky." The pee-filled shoe feeling is not awesome, but it beats the feeling of a borderline exploding bladder any day. And that is all I'm going to say about pee and shoes for now. Oh wait, one more thing: don't forget to wash your shoe, and for the love of God, don't leave the thing in the car overnight in the middle of summer. Your wife will murder you...and me, for telling you that peeing in your shoes is a very-pro thing to do.

So yes, I peed my pants today and it was amazing. I even got to ride through a couple streams to rinse off some of the result, but then, immediately after letting 'er rip, I flatted. Again. I am a flat-machine. I can flat any tire at any pressure on any terrain. I could flat downhill tires riding over bubble wrap. Anyone need a tire-tester? I'm available. I was standing there on the side of trail wearing my bib-shorts-turned-ineffective-adult diapers feeling kind of like an idiot. If I had only waited a few more minutes I would have been able to pee on the side of trail like a normal person while fixing my fifth Breck Epic flat. That way I could have spent more time drinking beer at the finish line, instead of running off to get out of my stinky-pee pants before I got made fun of for being a chamois-wetter.

One of the rules of The Breck Epic was "Don't be poopy," but there was no rule about "not being pee-pee." That was a joke for all the six-year-olds in the audience, thank you. Thank you very much.

I hope you have found this race report about the final stage of the Breck Epic educational and informative. With any luck, I'll be back next year to ride these sweet trails and pee in my shoe some more. See you then.

Breck Epic Stage 5, Wheeler, King of The Queen Stages

This is another post that didn't make it up on the Mountain Bike site. Some of it is territory I have tread upon in the past, but it was apropos of what was going on. I am so glad I stayed up writing these every night during the race when I could have been sleeping for a couple hours before the 8:10 AM starts. But hey, I got in for free, so whatevah dyude.


Thursday, August 26, Course #5: The Wheeler Loop


There wasn't enough coffee in the world to wake me up this morning, and there wasn't enough sealant in my tire to stop the air from gushing out when I slammed a rock fifteen minutes into today's stage. Doesn't sound like an auspicious start does it? But it was really a great day despite the cement in my brain and the further abuse I suffered from the pointy rocks. Today we ascended Wheeler Pass, which towers over the ski resort of Breckenridge, solidly above tree line. As I coasted down Main St. in the cold at 6:30 AM, the moon hung, nearly full, what seemed like inches above the peak we would be climbing in just a short time. That sight reminded me that soon the sun would occupy that very same position in the sky and that I had forgotten to apply my 50 SPF sunblock, a mistake that could have proved deadly for someone as incredibly white as me.

Back to the flat thing for a second...

People always say "Oh, you got a flat, how unlucky." No. Flats don't happen because of bad luck; they happen because of bad riding, or bad tire choice. It reminds me of a quote from That 70's Show:

Eric: Bad things keep happening to me, like I have bad luck or something.

Red Forman: Son, you don't have bad luck. The reason bad things happen to you is because you're a dumbass.

Keeping your bike together until you reach the finish line is part of this game. I flatted three times this week due to inadequate tires, and once because I blindly rode into a rock — dumbass. That said, neutral support like they happen to have at this race is pretty sweet, those guys have helped me out repeatedly throughout the week, check out The Organic Mechanic on Facebook, they rule.

So after the flatting and the freaking out and the cursing and the infantile histrionics (oh, I didn't mention all that? OK, we won't talk about that bit then) we headed up Wheeler Pass, I do not possess the words to describe how beautiful this thing is, it kind of sums up what makes this race so awesome. I race bikes because I love the combination of fun and suffering. Hike-a-biking over high mountain passes like Wheeler and descending down the other side epitomizes that philosophy for me. The ascent was so hard (the suffering) and the descent was so insane (the fun, combined with a dash of terror). And this isn't the kind of descent where you can recover, it's every bit as exhausting as the climb. It's a hang on for dear life, white-knuckle, brake-pumping nightmare.

Which leads me to my next point...

I've talked about acclimating to altitude and western-style speed, but there's also the acclimation to heights. The Shenandoah Mt. 100 race in Virginia has a descent that is just as crazy as the one off Wheeler, the only difference is the SMT100 version doesn't have the abyss factor. If you over-cook a turn on Wheeler, you are going base jumping with your bike, and a bike doesn't work anywhere near as well as parachute when it comes to arresting your deadly plummet to the hard, hard ground below. A couple times on Wheeler I came around a corner sliding, and there it was, calling to me — the abyss. It gave me vertigo and caused my sphincter to clench up so tight I pulled a butt muscle.

Wheeler is 13,000 feet high. And speaking of high, depriving your brain of oxygen makes you act really, really funny. I came over the crest of Wheeler hike-a-biking with a guy named Adam from Michigan, there was a photographer up there, "We're having a speed walking competition, if you don't have one foot on the ground at any given time, you're DQ'ed." Man, I thought that was A-material up there in the clouds. When we got back on our bikes and began trying to navigate the traverse, I felt like I'd had a few too many Ranger IPA's, I was a total mess. If I ever need to prepare for riding singletrack at high-altitude again, I think I'll take a couple Percocet and go try to ride my local trails back in Massachusetts.

Tomorrow the fun to suffering ratio is supposedly skewed in the direction of fun. Each stage of The Breck Epic has been better than the last, so I can't hardly wait.

Putting the Brr and the epic in the Breck Epic

This is my stage 3 report from The Breck Epic. For whatever reason it didn't get posted on Mountain Bike. They did, however, post the one where I talk about EPO being a great idea. In this one I do imply that I want to shoot promoter Mike McCormack in the penis. Did I cross the line? You be the judge.

Tuesday, August 24, Course #3: The Guyot Loop

I just want to set the record straight. Despite all my whining and crying in my previous posts about the insane amount of climbing in this race and my total lack of compatibility with high-altitude...anything; this is an incredible race. But it is not a race to be trifled with. If you ever decide to do this thing, which I think you should, you need to come prepared. Which means you need to be ready for rain, cold, heat, (did I mention insane climbing?), and pointy rocks. I took lightly the warnings of locals and those in the know about the pointy rocks, "Ya whatever dude...we got rocks back east." Yes, but back east those rocks are hit at 8 MPH, not 25 MPH. There aren't as many rocks out here in Breckenridge, but when you're traveling at such a rate of speed that your eyeballs are being rattled out of your skull, you can't really see that one rock that is going to slice through your sidewall like a hot light saber through butter in the Death Star cafeteria. So run bigger, burlier tires than you might think or you'll end up like all the folks I saw on the side of the trail today, all flatted-out and demoralized.

There are huge fluctuations in temperature throughout the stages. Most morning's it is cold, like 40° cold, but then it jumps up to 70° or hotter. Today we ascended French Gulch, which brought us up to 12,000+ feet. It was either raining or we were in a cloud, either way, we were getting wet, and I was getting kookoo for Cocoa Puffs. I was part of the most gigantic hike-a-bike...I won't say "conga line" that I have ever seen. The view was spectacular but it was immensely painful. It was like looking upon a beautiful creature like a peacock, and exclaiming, "My God, that is the most gorgeous thing I have..." and — Thock! — it jabs its beak through your eyeball, blinding you and causing you horrible discomfort. And that was the most normal thought I had atop of French Gulch. When I first looked up to see the extent (or what I thought was the extent) of French Gulch and saw the riders hiking a quarter mile in front of me, I screamed "Jesus Christ! They might as well be walking on the moon." And then I started singing "Walking on The Moon" by The Police and telling my buddy Doug that Sting has plans to record a Reggaeton version of that song. He was appalled until I reminded him that I am either lying or wrong 100% of the time.

When I turned the next corner and saw what was the true extent (or what I hoped was the true extent) of French Gulch, I completely lost it, I threw both middle fingers up to the highest mountain valley I have ever seen, then turned around and started tramping back down the trail yelling "That's it, I am going to go buy a gun and shoot Mike McCormack (Breck Epic promoter) in the [expletive]...what's the waiting period on hand gun purchases in Colorado?" Just as we reached the peak, a creature emerged out of the mist. We started voicing our guesses as to what it was: "A Yeti!" "An Ewok!" "A Wookie!" "It's a unicorn selling lemonade!" But it was just a photographer. I waved my hand and told him "Don't be ridiculous, cameras don't function at this altitude." Then we descended away from the highest point on the course, the visibility was poor and I felt like I had just left the dentist's office after a root canal, jagged rocks emerged out of the mist like small, not-hairy gorillas (that were jagged).

And to reiterate the burly tire thing for a second...
I saw three dudes pulled over, fixing flats in the same spot on that descent. All three flats were probably caused by the same mean little rock. A bit more rotational weight on the climbs would be worth every second not spent fixing a flat on that wet, freezing, windswept peak, however picturesque and full of mythological or made-up creatures it might be.

At the end of the day, as I was descending down to the finish, I saw promoter, Mike McCormack (who I am not really going to shoot in the [expletive]), I blurted, probably unintelligibly, "That descent off that crazy peak was the best thing I have ever ridden!" I was talking about the rocky, technical, rip-roaring deal off of Georgia Gulch, but that statement could possibly have described no less than three different sections of the course. He was probably like "Wow...that guy is a moron, I can't believe he isn't riding an adult tricycle."

Allegedly we won't be attaining the same heights we did today on tomorrow's ride. Which is too bad, I was hoping to ask the Oompa Loompas where they get their hair-dye.

Breck Epic Pre-Blog, Too Hot For Rodale?

This was my Breck Epic Pre-Race post, for whatever reason it didn't go up, so here it is...BAM!

You ever seen that Arnold Schwarzenegger movie, Total Recall? You know the part where Arnold gets violently ejected from the underground mines or whatever and finds himself rolling down a hillside, gasping for breath in the oxygen-free atmosphere of Mars — his tongue is hanging out, lolling all around, and his eyes are all bugged way out of his head like they’re going to explode, but then luckily, the oxygen making machine turns on and converts the atmosphere just in time to save him? That’s how I feel right now, only there ain’t no oxygen making machine here in Breckenridge to save me. There are several beer making machines, and there is an Oxygen bar, but I don’t think either of those things will be of much help. I’m a lowly sea level dweller, and I’m here in Breckenridge for the Breck Epic, a six day mountain bike stage race covering 240 miles of rugged terrain with 37,000 feet of elevation gain. Like my buddy Jeff from Denver said to me, “It’s not actually that hard, it would be an easy race...at seal level.” Yes, and fighting Tyson in the eighties wouldn’t have been hard either, it would’ve been an easy fight...if you had a gun.

I’ve been here in Breckenridge for three days and each time I found myself forgetting my name after bending over to buckle my shoe, mouth-breathing audibly while brushing my teeth, or doubled-over at the top of the stairs, feeling like I was trying to suck an orange through a cocktail straw, I told myself that I was experiencing the worst of it, that it would only get better. But I was wrong. Tonight on the way back to the hotel I was wheezing like James Gandolfini jumping rope on top of Mt. Everest. And, for good measure, I made sure to acquire a mean sun burn today. I didn’t think I needed to apply sunblock...to eat lunch at an outdoor patio. At this rate, by the end of this event, I am going to look like a cross between a piece of luggage, an alligator, and Keith Richards. I’m screwed, I guess that’s what I’m trying to say, in so many lame analogies.

One defense mechanism I employ when entering a situation as hopeless as this, is ignorance. I know almost nothing about what I’ve gotten myself into here. Here’s how I see it: if someone told you that you were going to be killed by an axe murderer on a particular evening and there was nothing you could possibly do about it, would you really want to know the specific details — How tall is this axe-wielding-maniac? Does he have bad breath? How many times, exactly, will he hack and chop me? I don’t know, maybe you’d like to know those things, maybe you also like to pay homeless men to eat handfuls of mayonnaise with their mouths open while you sit and watch...hey, whatever floats your crazy train. Me, I’d prefer to lie in bed until I was — whack! — totally-freaking-decapitated. It would be less horrible that way, I think. I know this race is going to painful. I am sure the climbing is going to suck a maximum. I am positive that I will be more tired, hurt, bombed out, and depleted than I have ever been in my life...why stress myself out with the details?

Breck Epic Post #2

My second Breck Epic post is up over on Mountain Bike. I'm going to take a nap now.

Dude, I'm Semi-Legit Dude

In case you didn't show up to class last week, here's where we're at. I'm out at Breck Epic six day stage race in Colorado. I am probably going to die out here, so savor my final words. All my blogging power is going to be directed toward my race-blogs for Mountain Bike this week. The first one is up, check it out right HERE.

Briggidy Breck Yourself Before You Briggidy Wreck Yourself

Friday 8.20, Breckenridge

I got winded brushing my teeth today. And running up the stairs...forget about it, I end up doubled-over at the top, feeling like I'm trying to suck a fish eye tapioca ball out of my mango bubble tea with a regular size straw; not one of those bubble tea specific, gigantic diameter straws. I'm hoping this is the worst day, although it's hard to tell, I wasn't exactly pushing out it there on the little, neighborhood flume ride I did. I did manage to flat though, which has led me to begin re-thinking my wussy-ass tire selection. The rocks here may be few, but they are pointy bastards.

This was the kind of ride I had...I stopped to smell (and photograph) the flowers.

Monique Merrill's house is a crazy place: a place where people on their day off go for a two-and-a-half hour bike ride...then a forty-five minute run...then another hour-and-a-half ride later on. I'm going to feel like a massive wuss-bag if I don't make that 5:45 ride. If I'm going to do that, I should probably go deal with my tire-issues, stat!


Breckenridge is pretty sweet. Any place where you can ride out your door and hit trails of this quality is aces in my book. Ya I got The Fells in my backyard, but it's just not the same. I'd rather ride in places where you have a better chance of being mauled by a bear than man-raped by a man-raper.

After last night's frigid monsoon, I have opted to go in on a condo with Dicky, Doug, and Dieter from Misfit Psycles. My goal is to keep referring to Peter Keiller as "Dieter from Misfit Psycles" until he goes to Google himself one day and Google asks him:

did you mean: Dieter from Misfit Psycles

Things to Do in Denver When You're Dumb

Yesterday I arrived in Denver. The direct flight that left at a reasonable hour seemed incredibly tolerable relative to my layover laden flight(s) to Oregon a week or so back. I can't even complain about the airline trying to ream me for the bike case. Jetblue actually kinda rocks. $50 for a bike case AND a borderline over-size piece of checked luggage. It also doesn't hurt that I got to spend the flight watching Colbert and something on Discovery called "Two Weeks in Hell," a show documenting the awesome horribleness of Green Beret training. I thought it was fitting, a portent of what's to come during the next week or so for me. I'll think about those poor bastards trying to lug a one-wheeled cart through deep sand with stress fractures in their shins while I'm climbing laboriously, high above Breckenridge, in the cold rain, hatin' life. Only instead of being forced not to sleep afterward, I'll be drinking beer, eating pasta, and getting made fun of by Dicky all night.


I lived in Colorado back in the early nineties, I worked for Green Peace canvassing door to door. Often I would end up working a "turf" in Denver, it generally didn't go well. I was once shoved off a stoop, onto my ass, in the snow by a shirtless fat man, as he screamed "Green Peace! That's a fucked up outfit!" I then made light of his corpulence, which lead to him running barefoot across his snow-covered lawn, jumping in a beat up mini van and chasing me around the neighborhood for the rest of the night. It was the pre-cell phone era, so I had to hide cowering behind some bushes until my scheduled pick up time. I didn't make my quota that night.

But Denver's not really that bad after all, it's quite lovely in fact. I had a great time hanging with Jeff Carter and his wife Liz, eating and drinking in their North West Denver neighborhood. This morning we went to a weird little burrito joint called "Giant Burrito." Like all weird burrito joints, they had exercise equipment for sale over in the corner of a back room, and aesthetically abhorrent pottery for sale in another corner. Normal.


Jeff and I drove up over Loveland pass and all that other beautiful crap on the way up to Breckenridge to meet up for a ride with Jeff's buddy Mike, Dejay and his buddies Claire and Peter from Australia, and Doug. I have no idea what or where we rode, all I know is that there was no air there and flat ground felt like a 23% grade. And the descents were like a dream of flying. The trail head was off Tiger Rd. and it had something like the word "dredge" in the name. Oh, and we rode on the Colorado Trail for a bit. I'm gifted navigation-wise. After the ride we stopped for a snack in downtown Breckenridge, an hour later I had no idea how to get back to where we'd parked.


Tim Faia hooked me up with his friend Monique Merrill for a place to stay up in Breckenridge. I was completely baffled by her generosity, how she opened her home to a virtual stranger without asking for compensation. I told her what she was doing was amazing, "That's the way the world works" she said. Man, I wish it did, it would be a lot better place if so.


After today's ride I feel like tornado passed through my lungs, but in a good way. Tomorrow the elevation will probably hit me even harder. Don't know what the ride plan is, or if there even is one. My posse from today all departed for Denver or Boulder and they won't be back until Saturday. I expect Montana "I win single speed races riding a HUGE gear at elevation even though I'm from Pennsylvania" Miller is probably showing up at some point to put a pre-race hurt on me.

I'm going to break a cardinal Big Bikes rule and possibly blog through the weekend, at least Saturday. Allegedly I won a Blogger Grant to get into this thing, so I might be blogging for another major cycling media outlet (aside from Big Bikes) the rest of the trip. We'll see, I haven't heard any word on that business. Goin' with the flow.

My God...What Have I Done?

I head out to airport at 7Am tomorrow. Am I prepared? No. Have I thought this thing through? No again. All I know is that Tim Faia and Jeff Carter are saving my ass. I won't be sleeping on the cold ground, getting devoured by Wookies or Big Foots or whatever other carnivorous creatures run amok in that crazy, mountainous place.

I also know that Dicky, Doug, Dejay, and Dieter will all be there to share in the pain and the fun with me. Dieter? That would be Peter from Misfit Psycles. Dicky, Dejay, Doug, and...Peter just doesn't sound anywhere near as good.

I'll try to check in from road, I gotta get a high tech phone one of these days.

What The Hell Do I Know About Not-Partying or Anything Else?

For some insane reason I was up at 5:20 his morning. Allow me to reiterate that this is NOT normal for me. Alright, maybe it's normal, but it's definitely not planned and it's certainly not pleasant. I tried to look at the bright side and kid myself that I had begun my "waking up early training" for the Wilderness 101...and The High Cascades 100...and probably The Breck Epic. Ya, that's a whole lot of big, crazy, racing stuff, I have bitten off more than I can chew, both physically and financially. Expect a frantic fire sale sometime in the next couple weeks. Hopefully I'll still have some body organs left to sell on the black market to get me to SSWC10 NZ (Cough! Crack pipe dream — cough!). As unlikely as my trip to NZ might seem, the Oregon and Colorado trips are definites, the plane tickets have been bought, I gotta go. And of course the 101 is solid as well. My buddy Will C. will be picking me up Friday AM for the drive down to State College, PA whether I like it or not. I'm less nervous about this 101 than any previous edition...all two of the ones I've attended, ONE of which I wrote about. The back to back 6 hour races have given me the confidence that, for once, I might actually have the miles in my legs necessary to do this thing effectively. This will be my first geared edition, which gives me the confidence that I will be able to crush my Breck Epic blogger grant buddy, Montana Miller. He'll be on one of those ridiculous single speeds. Those things are wicked, wicked slow, who the hell would choose to Jazz-Funk one of those things (I'm not giving up my quest to retire and replace "rock this" or "rock that.") of his own free will? At the very least I hope not to have my fragile soul brutally squashed like it was in '07. Or, more importantly, not as brutally squashed as Dicky's soul was at the ORAMM this past weekend.

The massage I just had a couple hours ago down at Big Hands Massage seems to have worked out the issue I was having with the recurring sensations that felt like Ninjas jabbing hot shurikens into my scapula. If I'm not lying on the ground, rolling around on a miniature can of coke like I was in the Pats peak feed-zone two hours into the 101, I'll be ecstatic.

Just going to put it out there,
I still have no place to stay and no transportation in Bend or Breck. I smell nice and I am sometimes quite quiet and sedate in person.


This past weekend was a weekend for not riding a lot and going out to drink the beers with the peoples. Friday was a bust, I was way too cooked to go out, but Saturday night I ventured out to Charlie's Kitchen where I met up with some local, awesome cycling people, people like Adam Myerson and Leah Pappas-Barnes. There was even a brief, but very pleasant Matt and Mo sighting. We sat at a table, three feet from one another, but it was so loud, we had to text each other everything we had to say all night. Then we discussed our social-media campaign — Adam would tweet about it, Leah would post it to facebook, and then I would blog about it.


Our neighbors at the next table over may have only tipped a dollar on a $60 tab, but the dollar was in the form of an origami elephant, but we couldn't step to that. Wait...do paper airplanes count as origami? What about a sailor's hat? No? Damn.

Seth's shirt reads : "Shit Sandwich"

It was nice to pretend I had a life outside trying to race and trying to work and trying to write things besides this crap and trying to sleep, if only for a few hours.

The S.C.U.L. "battalion" navigates the "Harvard Constellation"

As we left the bar we saw a S.C.U.L. ride roll by, some of them on their tall bikes. I have been on a few S.C.U.L. rides in my time, none of them at all recently. There seemed to be a shift going on during the time I associated with them. At first the rides were like a raucous parades of incredibly-dangerous-to-ride-bikes that went from party to party, it was mayhem. On subsequent rides there was way more time spent doing "recon" at parties with drawn out, coded discussions ensuing and less time spent actually partying. These days it appears that they have effectively become LARPERS on bikes, with their own lingo and ranking structure. In fact, I think they prefer to be called "BLARPERS" (Bicycling Live Action Role Players). Who knows, maybe all that craziness was part of the deal all those years back too, I could have been too hopped up on PBR's to notice. But of course I'm just a "bandit" or a "CBU" (carbon-based unit), rolling around on my "civilian ship." What the hell do I know about not-partying or anything else?

The Big Ring Rumpus Report

Is not here, it is HERE of course.

In other news. Although no one has sent me anything for Doug's Big Box-o-Bike Porn, I have begun to fill it in earnest. It now contains a copy of Hell on Wheels, Some random free-ride video, and 24 Hour Solo. And it will soon contain Race Across The Sky (which I need to watch first). I'm hoping to get a semi-substantial amount of stuff in the box by next week so I can deliver it before Doug is back on the bike.

And in other news still. Montana "The Loose Hamster" Miller has overtaken me in the Breck Epic blogger grant poll. Come one internet buddies, let's show that dude what's up. Vote now!

I Get High With a Little Help My Friends

Not on drugs. Not like Flandis (not that the drugs he took got him high. A little Roid-Raging and throwing water bottles at reporters maybe; but not properly high). No, I'm gonna get high like elevation high, like 37,000 feet high, with a little (or a lot of), help from my friends. This is just my really convoluted way of saying thank you to people like VeloCB, Gewilli, Stevil, and assorted facebook friends for corralling people in the general direction of the Breck Epic Blogger Grant facebook page and in the specific direction of voting for me. As a result I have held the lead in the poll for several days now, but I'm not out of the woods yet. Guys like Fixie Dave "Sweet Jiggles" Nice and Montana "The Loose Hamster" Miller are steadily creeping up on Sarah "Ms. Tique" Uhl and me.

Fixie Dave is scary for two reasons: he has a nickname AND a porn name. He's got me beat there. He also has way more facebook friends than I do, and due to the voting format it is really going to come down to a battle of who has the most facebook friends, for that reason I am so glad I am not up against Gary Fisher or Adam Myerson in this contest.

Montana...shit, the dude's named after a state that is way bigger than my home state (although my parents did almost name me "Massachusetts Bradley Parsons." Luckily they sobered up before they did anything legally binding) and he lists "making grunting noises" under his "activities" on the facebooks. Did I mention that he drives a monster truck? None, I say, none of this should be misinterpreted as me making fun of him.


My mother always told me: "Don't make fun of men wielding swords (who are named after large states and drive monster trucks)...especially if they are riding viking cats." I took that advice to heart, but I was never sure if I'd get to apply it in any way. Thanks mom, I think you may have saved my life.

So I guess what I'm saying is this: if you haven't voted yet, please take the time to do so now. Only you and you, yup even you back there, can help me stay on top so I can "win" this thing and earn the distinct privilege of riding 240 miles with 37,000 of vertical over six days. Vote Here now. Thanks!

Oh ya, correction: the other day I was yammering on about how, if I do win a spot at this thing, I will get to blog for Outside Magazine or some other reputable-type publication. That was last year. This year the winners of the contest blog for Mountain Flyer, VeloNews (Singletrack.com), Bike Magazine and Rodale.

And in other news. I'm jealously watching the reports from the Transylvania Stage race. Doug Jenne is sitting in a not-so-distant second just in front of a third place Dicky in the Single-speed race (if only they were live-blogging so we could hear Dicky's smack-talk...), but what I find super-interesting is that Boston-guy, Alec Petro is leading the Masters race. Not only that, but the dude put up a prologue time that would have landed him in 9th place in the Open category, just a couple spots behind Mark Weir. Alec and I have had a few tangles over the past couple years, but recently they have tended to go his way more often than not. Damn I hope I can get to be as fast as him by the time I'm 46. Which is a great thought to have, seeing as I just celebrated my 36th birthday. I've got ten years to work this shit out, Ten years! Sweet. I feel young again.

Hey, if you'd like to do some homework for tomorrow's post, check out Doug "Hill Junkie" Jansen's post about his horribly broken ankle. No matter how crappy you might feel on the bike right now, Doug's situation will make you thankful that you are out there at all. So study up 'cause there's gonna be a quiz on this stuff. OK, not a quiz, but we are going to talk a little bit about how we can make things better for Dougy.

Something For The Weekend

An incredibly long day of riding calls for an incredibly large number of photos.

Free-form photo captioning (and not talking about Floyd Landis at all) begin:

In the above photo I'm driving out to school to drop off my final final of the semester. This was exciting to me, hence the stunt-driver, I'm Jason Statham in the Transporter one through three stance there. I'm easily excited, like a bi-polar Jack Russell in a manic phase.


After I delivered my final (I had a nightmare last night that I never actually did drop it and woke up in a panic) I drove over to MKR and C(don't know her middle initial) R's house to drop my car and cooler of beer off for later...

Then I hit the bike path, woo! Sick dude, I railed that thing on my cross bike. Not like THIS, but in my own way. (If you haven't watched the video linked back there — do it! Stevil linked to it earlier this week, but I just wanted to share the love in case you missed it. But don't miss it, go watch it, it's some real inspirational shit. Gorgeous.) I don't know a better place to drop this litle gem of bike path wisdom, or riding wisdom in general, so I'll drop it right here —

BARK AT SQUIRRELS, IT COULD SAVE YOUR LIFE

You see the little bastards skittering this way and that at the edge of road or path as you approach at twenty-plus miles per hour. They're nervous, they're making you nervous, you have no idea where they are going or go or what they are going to do. There is one way to make sure that they don't run directly into your front wheel — bark at them, like a schizophrenic, like a crazy person. They will move and you will potentially avoid an unenviable occurrence like this:

I still don't know why they don't make forks out of squirrels. Squirrels are obviously stronger than carbon fiber.

On the way home from Bedford, I stopped off in Lexington to check out the now open Ride Studio Cafe, a bicycle shop/cafe. In the above photo you can see one of their customers heading in to get a fitting for her new, custom Seven.


I got some great shots of the interior with my Go Pro Helmet Hero. I can't wait to get a new camera.


There's a Pete's Coffee in Lexington center. I always look forward to going there, I am a huge fan, but now that I can get Diesel Cafe quality coffee in Lexington center I'm afraid that Pete's will not be seeing too much of me. Sorry Pete. I milked my coffee with soy milk all the way from Lexington down to Arlington center. Nothing pisses off recumbent riders more than seeing a "Wedgie" rider rolling down the path no-handed, drinking an ice coffee. It's the kind of pissed-off that cats get when they see humans using their opposable thumbs. I once had a conversation with a cat that went like this:

Mittens: You know what I would do if I had opposable thumbs?

Me: (operating can opener, opening a can of cat food) I dunno...open all the cans of cat food in the house?

Mittens: No.

Me: What then Mittens? What would you do?

Mittens: I would take a gun and shoot you right in the face.

For some reason it was really unnerving.

When I got home from bike-path-raging, I took some recovery time on the porch.

A short while later Dan Barry showed up all a-rarin' to go after his three hour morning road ride.

Randy Jacobs' bike was coming apart like a meteor entering the Eaarth's atmosphere on the way to the meet up in Arlington center. We got his grips electrical-taped back on and we were rollin'.

We learned that riding up the front-side of the Turkey Hill water tower is stupid. On a single-speed it is insanely stupid. Won't do that again.

Then we climbed up Whipple Hill. I still think I climb better on the SS.

Fueling for this long, hot day was key. After Randy whupped our asses and then peeled off, Dan and I hit a convenience store for Cokes and Gatorade. Like that shot? Just be happy I didn't post...

This one.

All that riding was just a pre-ride before meeting up for a brutal beat-down ride with MKR and company.

"Hey Thom, follow us into the pain cave!"

A do-over session on this rock provided a rare respite amongst all the relentless hammering.

Keith cleans it.

And so does MKR.

Then Calhoun Roker's quickly-cobbled-together bike broke. In an email exchange earlier that day MKR had said:

Your date is your date, which means if you bring 'em to the prom,
you dance with them and make sure they get home

I don't know If Colin, er, I mean "Calhoun" was technically my date, but I decided I should make sure he got home anyway. At the very least I didn't want him to end up getting date-raped under the bleachers by some football player (prom metaphor...). Colin's problems involved bad chainline and bad chain. Just say NO to Shimano chains on singlspeeds. More on that in a future post.

I did a great job leading us out of the woods: "Ride this way" — CLACK! — "OOF! Ow...ow...ow."
I'm still icing my hand.


And long story not quite so totally unnecessarily long...
we ended up back at MKR and CR's house for beer and barbecue and talking about bikes and biking and some watching of some Cat-tro-batics.

Altogether a great way to celebrate the end of the school year.

I hope your weekend is as good as my Thursday was. My EFTA Weeping Willow report will be on your desk first thing Monday morning.

-t