Chris Strout: In the Gutter

I take myself way too seriously

2012-01-30T07:19:00.000-06:00

While other folks like him and him were out having one sort of fun this weekend ... I was sort of doing the opposite.

Not that my weekend wasn't fun. But I long ago decided that I take myself way too seriously to ever seriously consider heading to Fontana in January. Seriously. My idea of fun is just ... more serious, I guess.

So instead, I spent all day Saturday at REI, at an excellent presentation by the head honcho of this outfit, learning about trails. I've been through a few other trail seminars put on by these folks and others, but if you've ever met Woody, then you know Saturday's presentation was, well, different. In a most excellent way. Woody literally invented some of the trail features we take for granted, here in the mountains and even around the world, and it's not like him to pull punches when he has an opinion. It was a great refresher, a whole lot of photographs, and a serious helping of trail theory. If you're going to skip riding on a 50-degree day in January, you might as well make it worthwhile ...

Sunday was a bit more serious. It's been a long time since I got out for a long ride, what with travel, exploding derailleurs, and family commitments, so Sunday I skipped the trail work day and headed up instead. I felt a little guilty, but I also know I'll have my fair share of turning dirt this year ... besides, a guy's got to ride sometime, right?

I took my time on the Legends Loop -- not that I was lollygagging, but with soft-ish conditions up high and a distinct lack of motivation whenever the gravel turned up, I wasn't rushing things either. It was fun -- I took the Siren out long for the first time in a while, and was pretty psyched to enjoy a newfound confidence in the technical sections despite the noted lack of squish. In fact, I rather enjoyed it -- the shorter wheelbase and tighter pivot of the Siren made some of the switchbacks on Pilot more navigable than what I've gotten used to on the Spearfish.

It was good to get the volume, I wasn't totally smashed, and by the end of Laurel Creek I was enjoying myself a lot more than I had at the beginning of 1206. My head still isn't quite in the game, and returning home to an incredible battle of wills was kind of tough -- I need to train to race, but it's getting less and less fair to Kim as she deals with the increasing willpower and assertion that comes with a 3-year-old. Thankfully both kids were down and out by 7, and we're starting to see hope for sleeping through the night. That said, waking at 5:30 this morning to two screaming Mimis was a bit of overkill ...

Seriously.

This one's for Dicky

2012-01-20T07:25:00.002-06:00

Godspeed, my friend. Not many folks can lay claim to 14 years (and 3 weeks) as a messenger. Hell, Kevin Bacon only lasted a couple of months.

By the way, pants are overrated.

Best-kept "secrets"

2012-01-17T09:59:00.000-06:00

When I first started riding, I remember hearing about Tsali, the trail system outside of Bryson City, North Carolina, nestled just this side of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park on the shores of Fontana Lake. "For a hot minute," as they say around here, Tsali (and with a bit of a stretch, Asheville and the Pisgah National Forest) was mentioned in the same breath as Moab, Big Bear/Canaan and Whistler as must-do mountain bike destinations.

But then something happened. Or rather, multiple somethings. This was a bit more than a decade ago, and while places like Moab and Whistler, along with upstarts like Park City and Tahoe, heavily invested in their summertime "active tourism" infrastructure to bolster their struggling economies, Western North Carolina lagged behind. To be fair, as much as I like Tsali, it's fairly limited in its trail geography. And downtown Bryson City is no Moab. But with not so much imagination, the French Broad River basin, including Asheville, Hendersonville, Brevard and even extended to include Tsali and Boone, sure could have done more with itself, rivaling a place like Whistler as a "I-must-go-there-before-I-die" Mecca for mountain biking.

Instead, the area has languished in relative obscurity. It became a "secret" destination. Now, those "in the know," know what's what. Some of the best riders in the country -- and the world -- sing this area's praises. The Pisgah Ranger District is one of the most visited Districts in the U.S. Forest Service system. The DuPont tract was recently named North Carolina's first-ever State Recreation Forest. Heck, I even remember the first time I heard of Pisgah, following along on Ronsta's blog as he posted a photo of himself, chest-deep with his bike held above his head, fording South Mills River in what I now know is Turkeypen.

But locals here are funny. Mountain folk aren't given to easily part with their secret stash of singletrack. City and county governments have been slow to embrace the lifestyle. It's been less than a decade since the factories closed, and it's taken this long for them to realize the economic potential of active tourism -- and even slower to embrace each other for truly regional planning. (In fact, I would argue they're still behind the 8-ball in a lot of ways -- if you're Asheville and Buncombe County, it's too easy to rest on the influx of blue-hair tourism dollars that accompany being the location of the most massive private home in the country.) The riding is not always visitor-friendly, and can be pretty "epic" in the overused form of the word. And long-time locals here, not of the mountain biking variety, can be loathe to hoards of stinky, baggy-clad, sometimes bearded nature-lovers taking up space in "their" towns.

Thankfully, things are changing. While the name Transylvania County may conjure up images of caped, fang-tooth monsters lurking in every wooded cove, it is instead home to literally hundreds of waterfalls and the charming city of Brevard, gateway to the Pisgah National Forest. The powers-that-be saw fit to do an economic impact study a short while back, and what they found was pretty incredible: Active tourism far exceeded their expectations, and was a key driver in their economy. This built on and gave urgency to a number of projects that were already underway, and moved City and County leaders to focus their energies on attracting even more dollars, with advertisements in mountain-bike-focused magazines like BIKE.

In fact, BIKE chose to base their 2012 "Bible of Bike Tests" in and around Brevard. Over the course of two packed-agenda weeks last autumn, a crew of wreckers hit the trails at DuPont, Pisgah and Beech Mountain (Boone), riding this year's whips in back-to-back runs on some of the most fun trails we have. Admittedly, even Ridgeline will get "boring" after the 15th time in a row, so they also headed deep into the Forest for a session on Farlow Gap; which, afterward, one of the testers said to me that night at dinner with a reverent tone, "is really world-class, mate."

That issue has now hit the newstands, and last Friday the County held a "coming out" party of sorts. By all accounts, mountain biking was represented -- but mountain bikers weren't the only ones excited by the exposure. The very next day, this past Saturday, was also the first volunteer day on the Bracken Mountain Trail -- which, when completed, will literally link downtown Brevard with "Big Pisgah" on a ribbon of widetrack that will be anything but a "paved" multi-use path. I was there on the work crew, with its diversity of volunteers (mountain bikers, hikers, others), and am more excited than ever to do a big loop, now that I've seen the views and what an awesome trail layout it's going to be.

In fact, after the work day, I headed over to the Fish Hatchery to ride the other side of the mountain, and discovered another "secret" gem: Forest Road 475C, which will link the City with the Forest, was one of the most breathtaking rides I've done in a long, long time. At one point, just 15 minutes up from the Hatchery, you hit a bend that offers an incredible view of John Rock on one side and Looking Glass Rock on the other, with the Forest spread out around you, rising to the peak at Pilot Rock above Farlow. Forty or so minutes later, I topped out in an almost Alpine setting, alone for all the world just below Catpen Gap, in a clearing with an old fire pit and a goat-trail connection to the Art Loeb. The ride was double-track, but was double-track a la Pisgah ... which, if you know what I mean, is worth every ounce of sweat you've got.

I'm proud to call this area my home. I'm excited that the Southeast arm of IMBA, known as SORBA, is working hard in the region to push forward a pro-mountain biking agenda with local and national land managers. I'm doing my part on behalf of Cane Creek, SORBA and myself to work with local politicians and business owners to realize the potential of the resources we have at hand. I'm psyched that our little part of the Appalachians is once again being recognized for what it is: One of the best places in the world to ride a mountain bike. We have our challenges ahead of us, to be sure, and opportunities will be hard to come by in some respects. But we also have a new/old group of leaders putting in the work and rebuilding bridges that have been burned, a renewed sense of purpose, and momentum. It's no secret anymore, we've paddled out and grabbed the wave, and now it's time to stand up and start ripping.

It's gonna' be an awesome ride.

Happy birthday Tinkerbell!

2012-01-09T10:13:00.000-06:00

Dear Kate:

Today is a special day. Today is one of those days that you want to remember forever. Today is one of those days that fill your heart with so much love, you feel like you're going to burst. Today is one of those days that makes being a parent the single best thing in the whole wide world.

See, today is Tinkerbell's birthday.

Now, I know that in about 10 or 11 years, you'll probably be a little embarrassed by this. I hope that 15 or 20 years after that, though, you'll instead appreciate it, and maybe pass along an experience like this to your children. My Grandpa and my Dad did for me once -- Santa left ashy footprints through the living room on Christmas morning, a single moment that will live with me for the rest of my life.

And today -- TODAY! -- is another one of those moments.

It all started a little more than a week ago, right after we got back from the holidays. You've been on quite the "Peter Pan" kick lately -- I'm not a bit surprised, considering that we started reading you Peter and Wendy before you were even born. Somehow, though, your love of all things Peter and Wendy and John and Michael became a fascination with Tinkerbell's birthday, which you insisted was 10 days away. We were getting you ready for bed, and we pulled out the calendar to make sure we knew exactly when it was, setting the date in our minds. We even checked it a few more times, as 10 days became 8, then one week, then just 5 days away.

In the meantime, your brother started day care with you, you prepared to move up to the next class, and we shared the difficult anniversary of your Nana's passing. I kind of forgot about Tink's birthday, but thankfully, your Mom came to the rescue!

While I tackled plumbing projects and nipped out for a quick hike with Mr. Stephen, you and your Mom pulled out an aging gluten-free cookie dough mix and started baking. Only instead of making cookies according to the recipe (your Mom's "following" of recipes is, of course, legendary in the family), Mom pulled out the big, heart-shaped pan that I think was a wedding gift from your Aunt Kari and turned the delicious batter into a massive cookie cake fit for a Fairy. I was lucky enough to get to taste-test a bit before you baked it, and got to see you with batter all over your face from licking off the mixers.

By the time I got home from my hike, the cake was out of the oven and ready for decoration. And you and Mom went all out! You put on every funny candle we have from various birthday cakes, hearts and chickens and tractors and soccer balls, and Mom even spelled out "Happy Birthday Tink!" in green frosting!

We got ready for your dinner -- yummy leftover pizza -- and made sure you ate your pizza and at least a few green beans. We talked about how Tinkerbell is really small, no bigger than your fist, but sometimes -- like in the play we saw -- she becomes big so we can see her. And then we lit the candles!

We dimmed the lights, and it was time to sing! Brother, who was in the bouncy chair behind you, even joined in!

Even better, since we knew Tinkerbell wouldn't get to eat her cake until we were all fast asleep, we got to eat a little bit ourselves. Your green soul patch was pretty cute, and it was a lot of fun to teach you about how chocolate chip cookies go so well with a little milk ...

Once we were done, we cut a little piece to leave for Tink. She's afraid of "big people," of course, and we talked about how she would fly all the way to the house and would be so excited to eat her cake. You insisted -- insisted! -- that we use the Ronald McDonald "Happy Birthday" plate, and your Mom even had to get up from the table to hand wash it. Then we got it all ready, we talked about how Tinkerbell's bed is in her room in Peter's house in Neverland, and it was time for us all to go to sleep.

And then, sometime in the night, Tinkerbell arrived and enjoyed her delicious cake! We were all a little sleepy on this Monday morning, but I was sure not to go into the dining room too early, and saved the big surprise for you. Finally it was time for breakfast, and we turned on the lights and Wow! Tink had been here!

Your face lit up, your eyes sparkled and you smiled a big, beautiful smile. You did that funny thing you do when you get over-excited, where you tense up and kind of shake a little, and talk in this funny deep voice you have in the back of your throat, and you ran from the table to the kitchen and back telling us all that Tinkerbell had been there. Then I drew you in for an even closer look, and we checked out my place mat and the tablecloth, and the few crumbs left on the plate, and what's this? Is this snow all the way from Neverland? No? Why, it's Pixie dust! Tinkerbell left behind a trail of Pixie dust!

And that's the story of Tinkerbell's birthday. We cleaned up the table, ate our breakfast, and you went off to your first day in your new day care class. I think we even marked the day in the calendar so we'd remember it next year. It was a wonderful afternoon and evening leading to a dramatic morning, and your Mom pulled out all the stops to make it happen. And like I said, I know some day this story may be a little embarrassing to you, but I also hope someday you realize that moments like this are special forever, because they are so fleeting, like a trail of powdered-sugar Pixie dust left in the night by a Fairy enjoying her birthday cake.

Love,

DAD

Milestones

2012-01-06T07:41:00.000-06:00

Hi Mom --

Wow. It's kind of hard to believe. Tomorrow will be a year. This week has been kind of tough -- Monday was our first day back at work, which coincided with the same date a year ago -- the day I flew back to Chicago. These past few days have been pretty busy with work and other stuff, which has been good; I haven't dwelt too much on what happened last year. Except at night, when it's kind of hard not to.

Daniel started day care yesterday -- I wish you could have seen him. All dressed up in a shirt and a tiny vest that was a gift from Kevin and Jennifer, he looked every bit the little man. He's a happy kid, all smiles and gurgles now. You'd really like him -- he doesn't cry much, only when he's hungry, and spends most of his time smiling, hanging out, or his favorite: snuggling. There's a picture of you holding Kate from the first time you saw her, and I just see you in my mind's eye in the same way with Daniel on your shoulder.

And Kate! Oh my goodness. She is quite the little lady (or "big girl" if you ask her). She was so excited for Daniel to go with her to day care, and next week she starts a new class with her favorite teacher. She definitely has her moments, but she's a great kid, and is so much fun to be around. She smart -- we're going to have our hands full with her. And oh my gosh does she look just like you.

She's fascinated with Peter Pan, and keeps asking me to go to Neverland with her. She's frightened of Captain Hook, but she loves Peter, Wendy, John and Michael, and we listen to the Disney soundtrack every chance we get. It's so cute, when she asks me to hear "Lost Boys jumping on the bed" -- her code for "You Can Fly!" since she saw Wendy, John and Michael jump on the bed in pictures in her book. Or "Awagonza," which is the Indian song. And it was such a relief to me the other day when she announced that "Wendy, John and Michael have a Nana, and I have a Nana too!" I had been sort of afraid she'd somehow associate her Nana with the dog in the story!

We talk about you quite a bit, you know. Sometimes Kate isn't quite sure what to make of it when we talk about Nana in heaven, but other times she asks questions and we have a good conversation about you. For a long while she was really interested in where certain things around the house came from -- who gave us what sort of thing. You came up a lot then -- the easel from last Christmas is a big part of Kate's life, and Kim and I are kind of surprised at some of the other toys that have had staying power. You always did know how to pick 'em.

Kim and I are doing well, and Kim started back at work yesterday. You'd be so proud of her -- she handled a bunch of transition at work this year very well, and isn't it crazy that she's sort of following in your career footsteps? That's one thing that's been quite a void for us both professionally -- we miss being able to pick up the phone and call you when personnel things get difficult. I know I could use the help from time to time.

We've settled in pretty well here in North Carolina, and it was good to see everyone for Christmas this year. It still bothers me that you weren't able to visit us in our new house -- I know you'd really like it. I guess I just want you to have seen for yourself how much it suits us. Waking up in the morning with the sun breaking over the mountains, or watching the sunset on the ridgeline, or exploring through our backyard forest -- it's really where we want to be, and the kids are going to love it growing up. I wish you could have seen for yourself, Kate's golden hair flying out behind her as she glides through the air on her swing that takes her "higher!" It's one of those moments you capture in your head, forever.

I have a feeling tonight will be difficult -- I remember picking Kim and Kate up from the airport a year ago today, going to get dinner, talking on the phone to Amy for a bit, then as we ate dinner the nurse who came rushing in. Dad and everyone had gone home for a shower and change of clothes, and it was just Kim and me. For all the world, I thought the nurse was coming in for the other family that was there with us in the waiting room; I'm not sure I'll ever get over hearing her say "Strout family. I need the Strout family." in that urgent-but-not-shouting voice that nurses somehow master. It was right about 9 o'clock, and when she told me what was going on, I knew. I just knew. I'm thankful everyone was able to make it back to the hospital quickly and we were together in the following difficult hours, but I also believe it happened that way for a reason, and it was meant to be me there for you, like you had been for me so many times before. I'm thankful for that too.

Well, in case I haven't said it, you know how much we miss you. Your presence is with us always, we know that, but I know I would love just one more chance to see you smile, pick on Dad for something or other, or hear you say, "Well, Miss Kate!" in that way you always did. I've been writing on my blog a fair bit about you, and the stuff I've been going through -- I hope it brings some measure of comfort not only to everyone who knew you, but to other friends who are going through loss themselves. I know you always wanted us to help others, and I hope I'm doing so. Thanks for always providing such a good example of that.

Miss you.

Love,

ME

K is for Cookie!

2011-12-28T08:41:00.000-06:00

My brother and I were given to flights of fancy growing up: One time, he calmly explained to my Mom how he got a ride home from school in a police car, with help from a very nice officer, after being chased by guys on horses dressed as cowboys; while I was very late to school one day after spending a bit too much time talking with the animals on the way, a sort-of pint sized Dr. Doolittle. Kim and I have been lucky so far, though, as Kate leans much more to the literal -- we can usually tell when it's a story, as she's ready to run away with Dora and Diego, or when Captain Hook's pirates are about.

That all changed last night, when -- about 14-1/2 hours into a white-knuckle 16-hour drive, Kate told us about the cookie.

We had just gotten done with dinner, our only prolonged stop of the trip. Until then, we had hit rest stops and gas stations, quick in-and-outs, and Kate had been nursing a McDonald's cheeseburger from somewhere near Indianapolis. By Knoxville, though, we needed a break - Daniel had been screaming for what seemed like hours, Kim was contorted backwards on her seat trying to soothe him, Kate was getting loopy on only a 1-hour nap, and I had just finished a 2-1/2 hour stretch that included a long section of freezing fog with driving sleet and rain through the Cumberland Mountains.

So we stopped for a meal, grabbing a bite at a halfway-decent BBQ place attached to a gas station. Kate had been so good throughout the drive that I treated her to a bit of soft-serve frozen yogurt -- in pink, her favorite flavor. We took our time, making multiple trips to the potty, refilling the car, feeding Daniel, and just generally relaxing before our last big push home. We had 130 or so miles to go, some of it on very narrow, winding, wet roadway, and I wanted to make it all without stopping.

We pull out of the parking lot and climb back up onto I-75. By now it was pitch black outside, and though the rain had passed, it was still misting and wet. Daniel starts fussing, so Kim turns in her seat to calm him down. She looks at Kate.

"Kate, what is that in your hand?"

"It's a cookie!" she says.

"A cookie? How did you get a cookie?"

"From the store."

I interrupt. "What store? Did you take it from the gas station?" Pause for a second while we try to figure it out. "Is there a wrapper on the cookie? Where did you get it?" Panic rising.

"I got it from the store. The lady gave it to me."

Panic gives way to fear: Instead of petty larceny, our daughter may have accepted food from a complete stranger, and could eat it at any time. My stomach drops. "Kate, does it have a wrapper on it? Give Mommy the cookie." My mind is racing through all the possibilities.

"No!"

Kim tries to help. "Kate, give Mommy the cookie."

"No!"

"Kate, don't make me stop the car. If I have to stop the car, I will be very upset. Please give Mommy the cookie."

"No!"

At this point, I'm freaking out. I don't like the obstinence, but I'm more scared than anything. Our voices rise. "We are pulling over at the next exit if you don't give us the cookie, and that will make us very angry. Give us the cookie."

"No!"

"OK, that's it. We're pulling over."

The car goes silent. "Don't think we're not mad," Kim says. "Daddy is just looking for a safe place to stop. You are in trouble, and there will be consequences."

It's dark. I move over into the right lane as we approach a remote exit on the outskirts of town. I slide in behind a semi and ease onto the ramp. We cross through the intersection and I pull to the shoulder. I stop, turn off my lights, and practically jump out of the car. I whip open her door, half expecting to find that she had gobbled it up. "Give Mommy the cookie. Now." There was no room for negotiation in my voice.

With a pout on her lip, Kate hands Kim the cookie. We look at it in the dimness of the dome light. We're confused, and it takes a moment to process. One beat. Two. Then, "What the hell?"

It's a bun. Or rather, a part of a bun. From a McDonald's cheesburger. That must have fallen into her car seat. Hours ago.

But to an imaginative 3-year-old Cookie Monster, it's a treat she got from the store.

And the nice lady gave it to her.

In her purple pajamas -- which she lived in for much of the trip -- Kate looked every bit like a cute, blonde Cookie Monster!

Freeze frame

2011-12-20T08:55:00.000-06:00

Kim asked me the other day, what image I have in my mind when I think of Mom. And you know, it's funny -- when I try to picture my Mom, I can only picture Kate.

I think there are two reasons: First, my Mom hated to have her picture taken. So although we certainly have plenty of memories captured on film, there is no one, single enduring image for me that says "Mom" -- at least, not from the past few years. And second, as Kate grows up, she is beginning to look just like her.

My Mom's aunt says Kate is this generation's "Montgomery child" -- the one that looks (and acts?!) most like the Montgomery family. And you know, it's uncanny -- photos of my grandfather, my mother, me, Kate: at any given age, but for the quality of the print, they might as well be photos of the same person.

I didn't notice it so much at first. Life had been trucking along for a while, and some of my emotions had calmed down, when I took Kate to see Peter Pan a few weeks back. Afterward, we went out for a treat, and as she swung 'round and 'round on the soda fountain stool, I snapped her photo. And when I got home and looked at it again, I froze. Because there was my Mom, smiling back at me.

We had the fortunate opportunity to celebrate my parents' 40th wedding anniversary with them at Christmas in 2009. In preparing for that special night, we put together a slide show from their lives, set to music, starting with a few childhood photos and moving quickly into their late teens, when they first met. One picture in particular stands out for me: Mom in an orange-ish blouse and 1968 hairdo, her whole face lit up in a smile. It's one of the nicest photos we have of her, and to me, one of the prettiest.

And the photo I took here, in 2011, perfectly matched the one of my Mom, snapped 43 years earlier.

In a bittersweet turn of events, we updated that slideshow for Mom's memorial service. The images and music that were such a source of joy just one year before were instead a poignant reminder of what we were now facing. As the family gathered in Chicago last January, struggling with our loss, we began to go through photos to find a few more of my Mom that could be shared.

And wouldn't you know? The very last photo we have of her, taken one year ago this Christmas Eve, is a photo of her and Kate, together. One Montgomery generation and the next. I know that photo will never mean quite as much to Kate as it does to me, but I also know that it will always be special, and we will talk about it for years to come. And as those years pass, I know too that I am blessed, because my images of my Mom will never fade.

All I have to do is look at her granddaughter.

Avoiding spontaneous combustion

2011-12-19T10:30:00.000-06:00

I'm not really sure which came first; this ...

... or this: A Bicyclists' House Built for Two. If you haven't seen it yet, check out the WSJ article on Sue Butler's new house -- holy cow. I'm not a big fan of modern architecture, but this ... well, it's just stunning. And their bike room! Wow. Be sure to click on the link for the slideshow of photos -- the last one in particular grabbed my imagination, took hold, and wouldn't let go -- at exactly the same time Kim and the kids were getting ready to leave. Inspiration, meet opportunity.

Having a usable basement is a novelty to me. For most of our marriage, Kim and I have shared downwards of 850 square feet on one level, dining room doubling as bike room and all that. Before that, I grew up with my Dad's workshop in our garage, and though he had a fantastic table saw setup and a set of shelves that reached to the sky (that made excellent pirate ship rigging to fuel a young boy's fantasies), working out there from November to March was excruciating, as your knees ached from the concrete and your fingers froze from the breeze that blew under the back door.

Since finding a basement with a house on top last autumn, we've been steadily moving in and finding the optimal arrangement; it didn't take long for me to set aside a bit of a self-contained area for bikes, bench and stand -- not to mention wheel storage -- but it's taken longer to set up the rest of the space. It's quite perfect, maintaining a steady 67 degrees or so with very little moisture, but there was a bunch of stuff left over from the previous owner that's taken us a while to find new homes for. In the meantime, I grabbed some fixtures from work that I was able to install to hang our bikes against the wall -- not my favorite arrangement, what with all the hydraulics we've got going on, and -- to be blunt -- my laziness at needing to lift anything above my head.

At any rate, Kim's dad helped us quite a bit when he was here a few weeks back, and got some left-over cabinetry installed that has created an instant "craft space" for Kim. Of course, with her out of town, it also made for a perfect wood-working bench!

I still don't have a good saw, so that was step one the day Kim left. I borrowed a power saw from my boss, but I also picked up a hand-saw and a small miter box from Harbor Freight, before heading to Lowe's to pick out my materials. As much as I understand bicycles, I have no clue when it comes to wood -- I wandered the aisles seeking inspiration, with only a vague idea in the back of my head of what this would look like. As any good homeowner knows, this is a bit like wandering a grocery store when you're hungry: Even with the best intentions, you're bound to end up spending more than you planned, and leaving with a cart full of supplies that could equip a small army.

I did sort-of have a budget -- Kim had left me a bit of cash. This money was supposed to last me the full 2 weeks until I saw her again ... it was a generous allowance, but it was intended to cover expenses, a hair cut, and maybe one night out to dinner. Instead, in a move I perfected in my teens, I hit the register and the amount I had in my hand nearly exactly matched the amount that showed up on the screen ... With 12 days until I saw her again.

Undeterred, I got the supplies home and started making preparations. Again, there was no planning here -- I had a vague idea of what I wanted, and had downloaded some plans from the interwebs, but except for the last time I watched This Old House, I hadn't even thought about woodworking since I was about 14. But I started cutting, sanding and staining, staying up well into the night to get the first few steps complete.

Thankfully, my dad had taught me well when it came to staining; for cutting, notsomuch. Or rather, blame the student -- I just don't have the patience I should, and rather than try to set up the power saw better, I found myself chopping away with a hacksaw. When I woke up the next morning, I could barely move my right arm ...

... and then, in a turn that came to define this project, I made it more complex. As I drove to Pisgah that Saturday morning, I suddenly had a vision of what could be done with it -- and because I had no clue what that meant, I decided then and there to go for it. Little did I know ...

I spent that first weekend working and riding, conveniently ignoring the household projects I was supposed to be doing, and not working out in the yard like I meant to. But I was possessed, obsessed -- I would conquer this project, and be done with it before Christmas!

I got the first frame done, and simultaneously moved the second frame forward. I was learning as I went, which was a good thing -- the first frame took me four days; the second took me two hours. It was getting more simple but more complex by the hour, and I posted regular updates to Facebook while still staying cryptic about the final outcome. I was also getting pretty sleep-deprived and high on Minwax fumes -- those first few days I didn't sleep more than 6 hours a night as the project consumed me.

But then, in a classic Chris move, by Tuesday my adrenaline had worn off and my focus was waning. I had to get this thing done -- the basement was an absolute mess -- but I also had other things on my mind. Chief among them was riding: We caught a break in the weather, and all of a sudden had blue skies and a run of 60-degree days -- the week before Christmas!

I got out on a couple of lunch rides, and Wednesday night hit Bent Creek with Greg and Thursday headed to the Sycamore ride for Bennett's Gap. Nothing was getting done in the basement, but I was getting inspired -- Carlos built a new rack in the back of the shop that gave me a new idea ... and of course, it also made things more complex ...

Anyway, as we headed up 477 that night, Dan and I cruising along with Chad not far behind, I heard a loud "POP!" that I thought was a rock hitting my bottom bracket. Thankfully Dan was a bit more astute and asked about my spokes -- sure enough, I had broken one mid-shaft, and ripped open my thumb getting it to bend around another nearby. There was no rub, though, so down the singletrack it was!

That wheel is kind of a hybrid; it's a NOS Cane Creek hub laced to a standard rim, with adapters in the spoke holes. It's been troublesome since it was built, as we had to fake the spoke lengths and it didn't come out quite right. So instead of spending Friday closing out sales for the year, I spent the day tearing down and completely rebuilding my equipment ...

Just what I needed -- manual projects at home, manual projects at work. What's worse, this weekend was slated to be the end of my season -- I've stretched it since February, and need a solid break. So here I was, Friday at lunch time, rebuilding a wheel for what might be my last two rides of the year before an extended break during which I will clean, fix and maintain bike stuff in a more leisurely fashion ...

After work, I realized I needed just a couple more pieces of wood and a whole lot more screws, seeing as how the project had taken on a life of its own. But remember that allowance that was already spent? Yeah -- imagine me, in a steady rain, with my ass sticking out of the open passenger-side door of my car, scrounging around in the center console trying to count out several dollars' worth of quarters, dimes and nickels so that I could buy more lumber. It was pathetic, but I was determined ...

The rain we got Friday broke the string of warmth and turned Saturday morning into a frozen mess. I might have ridden, but my mojo had come back -- I realized I had just a few more hours left in the basement, and the project would be complete! So instead of heading for Pisgah, I headed down the stairs.

First, I cut. Everything. Then, I sanded. And I sustained my first injury of the project.

Thankfully, it was just a flesh wound, no blood, no harm. Then, I cleaned up a bit -- this was the pile of sawdust that I didn't inhale.

Then, I stained, and left the wood to dry.

After that, I headed to REI to help Stephen wrap gifts on behalf of Trips for Kids-WNC. Thank goodness his lovely wife is good a wrapping -- as bad as I am at woodworking, I'm even worse when it comes to gifts!

As we hung out near the front door, Stephen -- who is experienced with wood -- scared the hell out of me. "You know, you can cause combustion when you sand, right?" Wait, what?! I knew the stain was toxic, and had taken steps to ensure adequate ventilation, but still -- I was staining and sanding in the same general area, which though there is a window nearby, is also close to several electrical outlets. A friend of mine just experienced a house fire that destroyed her ex-husband's home, and I was already paranoid from hearing about it -- holy crap! That's the last thing I need is to burn everything down!

However, he assured me it would be alright, and that I "should" be fine. I was still a little nervous as I drove back that night ...

... I got home, and it was on -- final assembly! Behold, The Bike Rack!

All told, it's 11 ft. long, in two equal sections, and can hold upward of 10 bikes. It turned out pretty well, and as I put on the finishing touches and finalized the installation at 10:30 Saturday night, I thought to myself, "Self, if you had a beer right now, you'd drink it." Only, I'm allergic to beer, and I don't drink, so instead I made myself pineapple fish tacos and a big mess of refried beans. You only live once, right?

The next morning was even colder, and I totally wussed out -- yes, I had rebuilt that wheel in order to ride Pisgah on the weekend, but I also had neglected all the household stuff I was supposed to do while Kim and the kids were away. Sunday was my last weekend day before the holidays, so it was my last chance to make amends!

I started out in the yard, and knocked out our 150 cubic feet of a leaf pile that had been sitting there for weeks, completely neglected. Our yard has lots of hiding spots, and those leaves will make decent mulch for some of the out-of-sight areas ...

See? You don't even notice them! Ha ha -- this area was already cleared, but I had to take a photo of the beautiful greenery we have here in the mountains, even this late into December. It was a perfect 50-degree day, and after clearing the leaves, I grabbed my Monster Rake and headed for the back forest -- there was trail to be built! I raked for 3 hours, defining the right-of-way and making it more fun for the kids to start playing in there while I go back and IMBA-fy the tread. And the self-discovery continued: I'm a much better trail builder than woodworker, and with a palette like our back yard to work with, that trail is killer! I've said it before, but it's worth repeating: If our kids do decide to ride or run trail, they're going to be a force to be reckoned with!

But that's a post for another day. After another afternoon of moral support while Stephen and Rhonda wrapped, an evening of pathetic bromance cinema and finally getting the dishes cleaned up, I'm ready to see my family again -- the project is done!

Misdiagnosis > Mistreatment

2011-12-15T15:07:00.002-06:00

Hello. My name is Chris, and I can’t eat wheat.

Most of you who know me, know that the palm of my right hand has always been an embarrassing mess of scabs, dry skin and blisters, and that I’m scratching it pretty much constantly. It’s been that way since I was 13: nearly 26 years of painful burning, bloody cuts, swelling and peeling. What you hopefully don’t know (only a couple of people do) is that my palm isn’t the only place on my body where this happens. Waking up in the middle of the night because your fingernails have just scratched apart some very sensitive skin is never a pleasant experience; to me, it was a way of life.

Until now.

Thanks to a few years of half-hearted attempts to fix it, a strong suspicion that it was a food allergy (despite an allergist telling me it was not), and something finally clicking when a friend of mine went public with his celiac disease, I finally FINALLY figured out what was going on: I am gluten intolerant.

The symptoms
The “aha!” moment came nearly 2 years ago, when a fellow bike racer/Facebook Friend of mine started blogging about his celiac disease. He finally went wheat-free that January, and his whole life changed. I said to myself, “Self, could it be that easy?” … and sure enough it was. I started researching celiac disease and gluten intolerance, and I’ll be damned if things just didn’t start fitting together.

In addition to what I now know is Dermatitis Herpetiformis (DH), I’ve also suffered from depression for all of my life. Not just your average, run-of-the-mill blues, mind you, but full-on Depression with a capital “D.” I’ve also had off-and-on digestive track issues, gastric reflux/GERD and a host of other small stuff that I just figured was life, making itself known.

Misdiagnosis = Mistreatment
Every so often, something would get bad enough that I’d need to see a doctor about it. My DH went completely untreated until I got good health insurance in Kim’s and my third year of marriage; I finally went to see a dermatologist in Chicago, who spent less than 2 minutes with me after I waited 4 hours in his office. He gave me a diagnosis and a prescription for a topical steroid, the first of my “treat the symptoms, not the cause” experiences.

The good doctors in Berwyn put me on Prilosec. The MDs gave me antidepressants. The allergist/immunologist tried to give me oral steroids and almost had me in some sort of clinical trial that I think may have included brain scans. One doctor changed my topical steroid to one that doesn’t cause as much liver damage and skin discoloration … gee, thanks.

But none of them, not one, got it right.

Peeling back the layers
I have to say a big thank you to our family at this point, especially Kim’s side. Once I buckled down and tried to figure this thing out, I went through a bunch of different phases, cutting out dairy, shellfish, chocolate, all sorts of things. Family gatherings, with their crazy mix of delicious desserts and overabundance of snacks, became an exercise in futility – one holiday, I wouldn’t drink milk; the next I wouldn’t eat crab dip. This month it was one thing; the next it was another. I couldn’t keep up, and I’m sure they couldn’t either. But in the end, nothing worked.

I’m sure it was annoying, but as it turns out I was peeling back the layers. Switching in soy milk for dairy? Made it worse – I react strongly to soy-based products, which often contain gluten. Crab dip? It wasn’t the seafood I was reacting to, it was the Wheat Thins I was eating it on. (Although iodine can exacerbate DH in a big way.) Chocolate? How about brownies made with flour.

Every single thing I tried was related in some way, but instead of being the underlying root cause, they were just a surface layer. Now that it’s become clear, I can see where we made assumptions even as we tried to figure it out. And like the doctors who never quite got it right, we made it partway without ever really putting it together.

Making sense of it all
As I do more research into gluten intolerance, everything is starting to make sense. Itchy hand? Check. Depression? Check. Gut problems? Check. Those weird spots I get on my arms? Oh yeah, those too. My annoying habit of talking too much? Well, maybe not …

I made the cut in mid-February 2010, after a particularly long weekend of sweets and wheat. I awoke on Monday with what I now call a gluten hangover, and I was at rock bottom. I laid there in my hotel room, and the very first thought that sprang to my mind was that I didn’t feel like racing my bike, ever again. I knew then that something had to change.

The very next day, I removed gluten from my diet. Completely. Gone. I began anew.

And oh my god, it is wonderful.

Just like … starting over
They say it takes 6-12 months to really begin to see a difference when you go gluten free. I say hogwash: I knew it was right within a week. My hand cleared up. (The other parts of me did too.) My mood improved and my tendency toward moodiness went away. My digestion issues got better. Literally almost overnight, I was a new person. More even keel. Happier. And a whole lot less itchy.

It is amazing.

The Aftermath
So it’s been almost 2 full years now, and things really are better. I can tell when I get hit right away now, but I also recognize the pattern: the itchy palm gives way to a serious gut-check gives way to a bit of Depression, the severity of which is in direct correlation to the outbreak on my hand. In between accidental ingestions, though, it’s incredible, and I’ve made it through some pretty rough times in the past 2 years without the moodiness that I would have expected. Yes, I have to be careful, and yes, accidents do happen (thanks to gluten hidden in a whole host of things you might not expect), but in the meantime places like Wal-Mart and Meijer have bolstered their gluten free offerings, and our off-brand grocery store here is a wealth of delicious surprises. The holiday season is always tough – who knew that Harry & David Moose Tracks popcorn has gluten? – but after 2 years, we know what to watch for and can work around it much more easily.

An unexpected but fun sidebar to all this is the positive changes in my diet: Because I can’t fall back on standard fare, I find that we’re much more adventurous in our food choices. Sure, a night of Mexican is pretty straightforward, but Italian restaurants present a whole new set of options I may never have considered before, and even Chinese or Thai has become an adventure in “what-can-I-eat” guessing. Most ice creams are still on the table, and Kim has gotten really good at gluten free cooking and baking – for Kate’s birthday, she supplemented the Rice Krispies Treats we served our guests with a special gluten free batch for me. (Yes, regular Rice Krispies have gluten; they now offer a GF version.) It was the first time I’d had them in decades, and it was wonderful!

Furthermore, I find that it’s easier to control my weight – I raced about 5 to 10 lbs. heavier this year, but I was also producing more power and recovered better. And rather than the more extreme 15-lb. fluctuations I’ve experienced in the past, my body weight has stayed within a very narrow 4-5-lb. range for more than a year now. I’m not sure if that’s because I can’t snack on traditional bread products and sweets or if being GF keeps it more even-keel … regardless, it’s working for me!

Since I first discovered this, going GF has become a bit of a fad; all I know is that it’s been incredible for me, and I hope the gains in GF availability hold. My completely unscientific opinion is that more folks are gluten intolerant than we think, and the best explanation for this I’ve heard is that we’ve engineered our way here: Over the past 30 years, the proteins in wheat have been refined to the point that our body can no longer tolerate them; our evolution hasn’t caught up with our science. I just hope neither of my kids have it, but thankfully if they do, we know the signs! In the meantime, consider the potential wellness benefits if folks who are intolerant or allergic finally figure it out: This impacts mental health, digestive problems, skin care, even potentially bones and joints and other medical maladies. What if my Mom’s lymphoma was the result of a lifetime of her body rejecting the very food that nourished it?

Regardless, that’s all speculation. All I know is that it has worked for me, and has begun to work for many of my friends who have tried it. Even if it’s a lifestyle choice and not a medical one, there are benefits to be realized. And I’m looking forward to my next 26 years being happier and healthier than my last.
Because my name is Chris, and I’m gluten free.

Big D

2011-12-09T09:55:00.004-06:00

I'm pretty delinquent on this one ... Little D has become Big D! He's at 9 weeks, 2 days, and according to the docs, it's all systems go. Twelve and a half pounds and growing!

We've got smiles and a whole lotta' spitup, and this morning was a pretty epic blowout that almost had me late for work. All in all, though, he's pretty chill -- even more laid back than his sister was -- he's a snuggler!

Daniel and his sister are getting their first taste of Chicago winter this evening, while I get to postpone my reminder for a few more days. I know the families are excited to see them, and Daniel will get to meet some cousins, aunts and uncles for the first time!

Frozen

2011-12-06T09:11:00.005-06:00

I've been trying to put my finger on something for a while now, but the idea wouldn't quite fully form in my head. Finally, this weekend, I think I figured it out, one of the things that's been bothering me the most since my Mom died: In one certain way, time has sort of frozen.

I don't mean this in a despondent way -- what I don't mean is that life has stood still, or that we haven't picked up the pieces and moved forward, at least a little. But what's been bugging me since last Christmas is that I know Kate will never get another gift from Nana, and that Daniel will never get one at all.

That's heartbreaking enough -- I can only imagine what my Mom was planning for Kate's Sweet Sixteen -- but I realized this weekend as we celebrated Kate's birthday that it goes one step further: All the gifts Kate has from my Mom are frozen at two years old, and the association Kate makes between those things and her Nana is tenuous at best. That's what I couldn't quite fully grasp, and what led to some tears on Sunday evening.

This isn't materialistic in any way. Though the gift matters, what's more important is the experience that we have with the gifts, and the understanding of who gave them to us and what it means to the giver. This has always been kind of a big deal in my family -- gift-opening occasions were scripted; every box and envelope had a story to go with it. Heck, some years we even had a certain order we needed to follow! This went for very lean years, when just a handful of gifts were given at a birthday or appeared under the tree at Christmas; and also for better years, when my Mom sometimes single-handedly accounted for the profit margin of Amazon.com. Every gift had a story.

It was bittersweet to celebrate Kate's birthday this weekend. The photo above sort of captures it best: A very close family friend gave this rolly bag to Kate. She's always wanted one of her own, and our friend's daughter has a similar one; Kate fell in love instantly, and immediately set about to fill every single pocket with books and small items that mean something special to her. If you look closely, in the left outer pocket is a small sock monkey keychain; in one unforgettable moment, she looked at the pocket on the opposite side and muttered "hmm ... just. a. second" before disappearing in her room and coming back with a Princess magic wand that she used to fill the last available spot. "There," she said, in the perfect innocent joy that only a three-year-old can feel.

We are grateful to our friend for this gift that means so much to Kate -- she even insisted on bringing it to the Holiday Parade the next day. But I also have to admit, it breaks my heart into a thousand pieces: I had always assumed that my Mom would give Kate her first rolly bag. I don't know that it was ever a conscious thought, but that's just the way my Mom was -- she would find fun toys and knick-knacky things that might not last a season, but then she always managed to find that One Thing -- or sometimes two or three One Things -- that inspired. She'd always call us: "Well, I found this Thing. I'm not sure she'll like it, and it might be too old for her; what do you think?" Honestly, it didn't matter if we agreed or not -- Mom already ordered it, probably had it in hand, and was going to give it to Kate, no matter what. And it was always a hit.

We don't get to do that any longer. And over the next few years, the special gifts from Mom that mean so much right now will begin to fade into the background. The silly little farmhouse that makes noise when you push a ball through -- Kim and I were sure it would be a flop at Kate's first birthday; instead, here it is two years later, still getting almost daily use. The Fisher Price animal toysets. The Little People car garage. Daniel will inherit some of these -- if Kate lets him -- but in six or seven years, they'll have both outgrown most of them, and our fifth- and second-graders will have moved on.

For sure, there are a couple of things that Kate will have forever. The quilts my Mom made -- one for Kate, one for her dolls. (That, in a moment that overwhelmed me, she shared with her brother when he was first born.) The art easel that was probably a bit of a stretch last Christmas for a two-year-old, but that she has grown into and is a fixture in our front room. And the copy of Winken, Blinken and Nod that Mom gave to Kate, with a note in the front, after her heart was broken when we moved to North Carolina.

Kate is currently fascinated with how she got things. "Who gave me this present?" she asks with everything. "Where did this come from?" she says. And we're happy to share with her the love of her Grandma and Grandpa, her Grandpa, her aunts and uncles, her cousins, our friends. And especially her Nana, whom we talk about regularly, reminding her how much Nana loved her. But, sadly, it's also become noticeable that the memories have faded -- she likes the idea of Christmas, but her memory only extends as far back as last Easter. She doesn't really remember her birthday party last Thanksgiving, or Christmas Eve with my family, the last times she shared with her Nana. I try hard not to project my sadness on her when she asks about the easel -- she does not weep for that which she does not know, or understand -- but it's tough to talk to her without crying for what might have been. What should have been.

Our little girl is growing up, becoming a little lady. Over time, gifts will track the years, and special presents from her Grandparents, and our families, and our friends will hold their own meaning for her. But today, right now, I can only imagine what my Mom would have said when we sent her the photo of Kate, in her party dress, with her new rolly bag. "Oh, Miss Kate!" she'd say. "You are getting to be such a Big Girl!"

What a journey ...

2011-12-02T07:15:00.003-06:00

... and it's only just begun.

Three years ago right now, I was flying down the Kennedy trying to get to work and back in time to get Kim to the hospital. Straight out of a movie, I even got pulled over by a Skokie police officer.

"Sir, where are you going in such a hurry?"

"My wife's in labor."

It's a wonder he believed me.

Happy birthday to my beautiful daughter, we're so blessed to have you in our lives!

Singletrack therapy

2011-11-28T08:45:00.004-06:00

This weekend was our first-ever Thanksgiving not with family, and obviously the first without Mom. It was T-giving weekend last year when things started to get really bad, though we had a birthday party for Kate that Sunday -- the last "good" day we had as an extended family, wonderful to have that memory. Needless to say, though, 2011 just felt weird -- not only were we not in Chicago, it was in the mid-60s every day and mostly sunny. And when things feel weird, well -- there's only one way to cope ... from one end of Pisgah to the other ...

Wednesday

The weekend started early, with Nolan pinging me Wednesday morning asking about an afternoon ride. I didn't want to jinx it, but I was secretly hoping, and as it turned out, I was able to sneak out a bit early ...

From Fisherman's: 1206 > 5000 > Spencer Gap > Spencer Branch > NER > Fletcher Creek > lower Spencer > Reservoir Road > 5000 > 1206.

This was the first time Nolan had been on lower Spencer, and I was just happy to ride. I'm not a big fan of that section -- seems like every time I ride it, I begin riding like a small child and find myself lying on the side of the trail, up to my waist in muck. This time went alright, with just one small dab on the descent from Trace, and a few down low.

Thursday

Each of us had a couple of hours in the morning before Thanksgiving celebrations, so I met up with Nolan and Greg for another tour of Mills River. I rode solo up from Fisherman's, they dropped down from BC Gap, and we headed out Spencer Gap together. Good thing, too -- I was having a really, really hard time that morning, and being able to get lost in the woods kept my mind off things.

From Fisherman's: 1206 > 5000 (solo), then > Spencer Gap > Spencer Branch > NER > Middle Fork > Fletcher Creek > Reservoir Road > Lower Trace > Wash Creek > then (solo) 5000 > 1206.

Oh, and it was cold. Numbingly cold. Like, 29 degrees at Fisherman's cold. Thankfully it was warmer up high, and the breeze felt nice -- though the mis-step into Fletcher Creek didn't.

We celebrated Thanksgiving with a coworker of Kim's, and it was nice. Bittersweet. They have a big-ish family, and their college-aged sons brought friends -- it was nice to get lost in a crowd, and fun to watch Kate be all grown up with strangers. My goodness, she's getting to be a big girl.

Friday

Greg and I agreed we wanted to sleep in; we didn't want to be cold. And I wanted to hit Bennett at some point.

From the Ranger Station: 276 > 477 > Buckhorn Gap Tr > Clawhammer Road > Black > Club Gap > 477 > Bennett > 477 > 276 > North Slope

That was the first time I've dropped Black Mtn Trail/Rich Mountain down Club Gap (not going over Buckwheat) -- it was a blast. Oh, did I mention that Greg was on his singlespeed? Dang. And I wasn't wearing any warmers -- it was awesome.

Saturday

By this point, I was clearly coming down with the sickness, but with another 60-plus-degree day on tap, I figured I could stick it out for one more. Greg suggested Squirrel, and we agreed on another midday start -- noon meant Fisherman's, 1 p.m. meant Yellow Gap. Wouldn't you know, we got to climb ...

From Fisherman's: 1206 > 5015 > Bradley - Laurel > Squirrel Gap > SMR > 476 > 1206

This was the first time I've ridden down from Horse Cove to Wolf Ford since it was machined. I've ridden up it a few times now, but have always avoided the down -- before the work, it was kind of stupid, with nasty mud bogs and sketchy narrowtrack. Now, though, it was fun -- from end to end, Squirrel is more rideable but it's not easy -- you have to pay attention or you will find yourself in some big trouble. I did wish for some grippier rubber on the way down, you can fly through that section if you can stick the landing ...

Along the way, Greg and I got to talking about 'cross, and I realized that I could have been in Coralville, and have been on several occasions. But deep down, I also knew the truth: I'd rather be out exploring Pisgah than freezing my butt off in a one-hour race, covered in mud and muck in some field in Iowa. It'll probably come around again, but for right now, this is what I'll focus on, thankyouverymuch ...

Sunday

Sunday was completely up in the air. I wasn't going to go, as by now the entire family had succumbed to illness. Kim couldn't speak, Daniel was coughing in a scary way, and I was burning up -- only Kate, who was a day or two ahead of us (having already been sick), was doing OK. But it was again in the mid-60s, and Kim kicked me out of the house at midday for just a couple of hours.

From the Hatchery: 475 > Davidson > Cove Creek > 225 > Daniel Ridge > 475 > 471 > 471D > Butter Gap > Cat Gap

I took it slow, I took it easy, but I nailed it. I never pushed myself on the pedal sections, so it took longer than I expected, but I also hit the downhills better than I ever have -- only four dabs on the *entire* ride. I think that's some sort of record for me.

All in all, a good way to kind of forget about things, while still remembering -- there's something about recalling the good times, while you're pedaling through the woods all alone, that makes it all seem OK. Not easy, but at least not as painful.

Mixed

2011-11-21T13:37:00.003-06:00

I'm feeling a bit of mixed emotions about this weekend, with regards to bicycles and the like.

See, the weekend before Thanksgiving is the UCI cyclocross race in Hendersonville -- the course is just 15 minutes (by bike) from my house, and it's a who's-who of bicycling, drawing a host of SE 'crossers and folks like B-Matter and A-Myerson, not to mention B-Berden the Belgian. Cane Creek always has a tent there, and it was 2 years ago this weekend when I sealed the deal on our move to Western North Carolina.

But this year, I wasn't there.

Not that I would have been racing (more on that in a future post). But it's always a good time getting out there with a Liberty Bicycles cowbell - even if you do work for the competition.

Instead, I spent Saturday as a volunteer, attending the semi-annual Board of Directors meeting for SORBA -- the Southern Off-Road Bicycle Association, the Southeast region's IMBA affiliate. Earlier this year I was asked to serve on a regional advisory council, so although I get to sit through self-described "butt-numbing" meetings, I don't get to vote on anything. I'm not complaining though -- getting to be on the front line for policy work and getting to help translate that to turning shovels and eventually to better trail is pretty awesome.

Besides, not only did I get to share a wacky car ride with Pisgah Area SORBA Prez Karen Into and Chip from Upstate SORBA, we also got to work out the kinks of sitting all day in hard-back chairs on the fantastic trails of Chicopee Woods outside of Gainesville, GA. So Saturday was a win.

It's Sunday, though, that has me a bit torn. See, I could have headed over to Jackson Park. I could have cheered for the racers; I could have helped out with the Trips For Kids-WNC used gear sale. Instead, I opted for a bit of selfishness -- I got out for a ride.

Things have been kind of crazy the last few weeks since Daniel was born. October was pretty laid back, and I managed a few rides building up to Double Dare. Since then, though, it's been a bit of a madhouse: my family visited at the same time I was laid low by a stomach bug, and then with just a few days off, Kim's parents drove in and her college roomate (and two kids!) made the trip on their way East for Thanksgiving. Yes, I've ridden, but I haven't really felt good now for three weeks, and I just needed to get out.

So I did. I shirked. And on the one hand, it makes me sad. On the other, the ride was so fantastic, and the weather so perfect, and the groups of people I saw on the trails whom I knew were so plentiful, that I'm happy I went. It's been a while since I put together a solid technical ride with good fitness, and it felt awesome to push hard up the hills and bomb the rocks on the way down. So I feel a bit guilty, but I also feel refreshed and recharged, and hungry to be riding again. I think I have a few bits of housework to get through too, but with only a few plans this week and some friends in town and an extra day off work, it should all work out in the end ...

Gettin' in the Wood

2011-11-16T08:17:00.007-06:00

After yesterday's titillating post, I decided to keep it clean today; you know, since the Internet is a family medium. There's a lot of questionable content out there masquerading as "art," and I was determined not to partake.

But then my father-in-law broke federal commerce rules by transporting power tools across state lines without a permit. Aided an abetted by my dad, he even smuggled in some soft-core stuff tucked inside the case, smelling strongly of two-stroke oil.

This one is for the ladies ...

It took me a minute to realize that this guy is doing everything wrong: No safety equipment, not wearing work boots, holding the saw with one hand, blade pointed at his leg ... I was worried Kim's dad had brought us some crazy snuff reading, until I looked closer.

Check out the bona fides on this guy:
Wow, you just can't go wrong with that. Only, I guess you can, as this inscription on the very first page tells us: "John would have preferred to title this booklet, 'Gettin' in the Wood,' because that is really what it is all about!"
As I learned from Farrah "Beauty" Fawcett this past weekend, it really is all about "Gettin' in the Wood." "Trees are great," she said. I'm sure she'd approve of the subtitles that pepper this little gem.
To be sure, I was reading it for the articles. But the illustrations aren't bad either ...
I was really getting into it, until I came across this -- like all good soft-core material, this one tries hard to pass as "art" as well ...
Damn. Totally ruined the mood for me. I had to put the book down. Besides, I wanted to check out my new tool:
And as stoked as I am to finally own a chain saw, I think Kate summed it up best: "I like it. It's orange."

I'll let her mother talk to her about the book.

Back side

2011-11-15T07:53:00.005-06:00

I'm on the back side to the road to health, finally. Lemme tell you: Bad water runs deep. Just sayin.'

Did a quick road ride on Saturday before my date with Kate, just a quick run up Laurel Park to Jump Off Rock and back. It's been a long time since I was up there, and it was a much-needed reminder: one hour, 1,000 ft. elevation gain, one of the best views in the area. My old one-hour route to the Muur de Tower Road just doesn't hold a candle ...

Sunday was a fun Laurel > Pilot > Slate Connector with Nolan, Stephen and Justin from UNCA. I was definitely not feeling completely altogether, but it was still great to get out there ... last time I was that high, Greg and I were chasing darkness in freezing temperatures ...

And Dicky, just so you don't think all I did was ride this weekend, there was a little of this as well -- it's been a long time since I saw Cannonball Run, and I gotta' say, it's aged almost as well as you have ...

Finding Neverland

2011-11-14T08:04:00.006-06:00

Some days you just know will be special. A new apron and books. Jewelry and a pretty dress. Tap-tap shoes and sunglasses. A treat and a trip to the soda fountain for "chocolate." Traditions handed down that will never be broken.

"As you look at Wendy, you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a common grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and every spring cleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly. When Margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be Peter's mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless."

Long road to ruin

2011-11-09T13:33:00.002-06:00

I'm starting the road back to health. It's been a week now, and things aren't quite where they should be -- and darn it all, I'm missing some prime riding.

You gotta' love when you show up to your doctor's office and he walks in with a huge scar on his chin. "What happened?" I ask. "Mountain biking," he says. Awesome. Too bad it was only Bent Creek that got him ...

Game over

2011-11-04T11:31:00.002-05:00

Wow. Just need to say it: So glad the season is over. Nine months of solid racing, and two days later, the bottom drops out. Literally. But that's probably more information than you need to know.

I'm finally feeling "normal" today, Friday, a little more than 72 hours after I crawled out of bed and made myself at home on the bathroom floor. OK, that's a little melodramatic, but you get the idea. My dad arrived Monday night, and we enjoyed a bit of Papa's & Beer on Tuesday evening -- by Wednesday morning, things were NOT RIGHT. I'm still not sure it's not just a tough of the flu that's been going around the office, but it also could be a bit of something from the lettuce or even from Laurel Creek on Saturday afternoon. Regardless, at least now I can keep food in my system for more than an hour, which is a good thing.

In the meantime, life has marched forward. I struggled through a planning session yesterday before going home and sleeping it off, and today have another one scheduled for this afternoon. Things are getting done -- but it remains to be seen how much energy I've got to following through just now. I'm definitely glad I don't have a SWANK entry burning a hole in my pocket -- that would just *not* be a good idea.

But what of that planning? Next year is pretty murky, with increased responsibilities and likely more travel, but also some earned (read: free) entries and some big plans ... not to mention some serious family time on the horizon! I'm sure I'll get myself out into Pisgah every once in a while ... care to join me?

Checkpoints

2011-11-01T09:24:00.000-05:00

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150518743238327.463797.811368326&type=1&l=43764a7c8d

Snippets

2011-10-31T10:28:00.002-05:00

I've gotten maybe 10 hours of sleep since Saturday morning while racing my bike for 24 hours through Pisgah this weekend. Thankfully the coffee is kicking in, and it means I'm having flashbacks as I sit here dazed on a Monday morning ...

I remember being cold and hungry at the start. So cold and hungry that I couldn't comprehend the passport and put it into action on the map. It took us almost 15 minutes to figure out a route.

I remember climbing out of Cove Creek in a bunch of traffic, with Dicky and his partner passing us just before the road. And then riding with them to 276 talking about Swedish thriller films with lesbian soft-core porn scenes.

Hating Greg for suggesting Black> Turkeypen Gap -- a week ago. By the end of the race, I will have crossed Clawhammer and Black summits four times in three weeks.

Being overcome with a weird moment of grieving high up on Turkeypen Gap. All of a sudden I started thinking about my Mom, and I seriously contemplated dropping out of the race right then.

Getting schooled by the Princess and his sidekick Hamburglar across TPG.

Thanking my lucky stars that Greg pays attention when he looks at a passport. I almost rode right by a checkpoint that would have cost us 15-20 minutes to go back to later.

Making our way up Laurel, racing darkness, and seeing Dicky coming down with a slashed sidewall and dashed hopes.

Just barely reaching the checkpoint without lights.

Freezing.

Choking down pickled eggs. And failing.

Freezing.

Losing all feeling in my hands. My face was already numb.

Freezing.

Losing all feeling in my toes.

Freezing.

The sound of 30mph+ sustained winds blowing through the TV tower atop Pisgah.

The view from up there.

Freezing.

The sound of the wind on the ridges, and the feel in the gap.

The smell of vinegar.

Taking off my gloves for less than a minute as we got ready to head over to Pilot Rock, and feeling the blood pull back from my right pinky and ring fingers. Feeling fear that I wouldn't be able to brake properly.

Heading down Pilot, walking most of the switchbacks. Coming across people we knew going up and praying Greg wouldn't stop to chat for too long. Feeling relative warmth the lower we got.

Cleaning the rock garden for only the second time ever. In the dark, with a light on my head! The rest of the race could be a wash, at least I did it!

The incredible tailwind on 1206.

The cowbells in Cove Creek.

Rolling to the finish and having Eric tell us we were in the lead. Unbelievable!

... and that's just Day 1! ...

Not for the faint of heart

2011-10-31T07:48:00.002-05:00

Let's see if I can get this right ...

Saturday: Strategy and Survival, 6+2+0.5 checkpoints

Cove Creek (mandatory start) > 225 > 475B > 276 > 477 > Club Gap (CP) > Black > Turkeypen Gap Trail (Trailhead CP and Wagon Road Gap CP) > SMR > Mullinax (CP) > Squirrel (out & back to Laurel Gap CP) > Laurel Creek > Bradley Creek > 5015 > 1206 > Laurel Mtn > Turkey Spring Gap (mandatory CP, special test, lights on) > Laurel Mtn Gnome Trail - Mt. Pisgah summit (out & back hike [in bike shoes], optional special test +2CP) > Pilot > 1206 > 276 > 475B > 225 > Cove Creek (mandatory finish) > Special test participation (+0.5CP)

Sunday: The Power of Perseverance, all 10 checkpoints!

(Lights on, mandatory TT start) 809 > 475 > 471 (pick up passports) > 471D > Butter Gap (CP) > Long Branch (CP) > Halfway Road > 475 > 5003 > 140A > 140 > Sumney Cove (CP) > 140 > 5031 > 140A > Farlow Gap (mandatory CP, special test) > Daniel Ridge (CP) > 225A > 225 > 475B > 276 > Pink Beds (CP at Barnett Branch) > South Mills River (out & back to CP at Wolf Ford) > Buckhorn Gap > Black (out & back to CP at shelter) > Black (CP at Pressley Gap) > Maxwell > Clawhammer > 477 > Bennett > Coontree (CP) > 276 > 477 > Davidson > 809 > FINISH!

All this was good for a solid 2nd place, with huge props to Adam and Mark for pulling out the win with a last-minute 10k run to pull off 11 CPs yesterday. Greg and I did all we could ... and at least I can walk today! (ha ha)

Big thanks to Eric and Pisgah Productions for another fantastic Double Dare! Can't wait to do it all again at PMBAR 2012! (or maybe P36 anyone?)

Photos and stories to come ...

Skeered

2011-10-27T10:15:00.002-05:00

(with a nod to creepyfriendly): A wise man once told me that you don't know scared until you're bombing Trace Ridge, in October, at night ... and your front brake gives out.

Feeling weird

2011-10-26T08:04:00.002-05:00

Weird feelings this week. Sort of ... I don't know. A lot of stuff running through my head, but a lot of stuff that needs to be done before I'm able to sort it all out via a blog entry or two.

Daniel is becoming more active each day, Kate is still adorable, and I'll be spending 30 hours in the woods this weekend. I shouldn't be this whacked. Not truly overwhelmed, but feeling close to it. Crazy part is, I've got the race stuff dialed without a second thought -- good thing, because everything else seems to be taking three times the effort.

One cool thing: Kim and I caught The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo the other night. The Swedish version, with subtitles. Disturbing, but utterly engrossing -- we were sucked in and couldn't get out. Fantastic score. I just hope Hollywood doesn't botch it up.

Oh, and last weekend was another fantastic couple of days in Pisgah. Greg suggested Turkeypen Gap Trail, which always equals at least 4 hours on the bike, especially when connected from Buckhorn Gap. They've done some work on the approach to the parking lot, installing 2x4s where some logs used to be -- for the first time, I was cleaning the drops, only to get hung up 30 feet from the end on an easy but square-edged, new piece of wood that sent me sprawling into the woods. Why is it always the simple move that gets you? Sunday was a fun trip around Bennett from Coontree arranged by Jamie of SM100 fame. Great views and good times showing a random Boilermaker around.

Ten (Eleven) to go

2011-10-19T08:05:00.002-05:00

Life has this funny way of moving ahead, doesn't it?

As I was clawing my way up Clawhammer on Sunday afternoon, it struck me: I've been racing for almost 9 months straight. Nine months -- in a year that opened with unexpected tragedy and is closing with unbridled joy. Calling my wife a saint doesn't even begin to describe it.

There are only 10 days to go; well, 11 if you want to be pedantic about it. I'm at that magical place where I can count the number of "hard" workouts on one hand before I'm done, where the lure of a bowl of ice cream or an extra helping of Becca's cheese grits overcomes the nose-to-the-grindstone focus of the winter and spring and summer months. It's a funny predicament though -- much like with skiing and mountain biking, you need to be extra vigilant of the "last run" -- you may have the fitness and skill to hit that downhill one more time, but you also may be more tired than you realize. Especially when your brand-new son is waking up every few hours to eat.

Double Dare looms large, and I'm excited to close out one of my most successful seasons ever with a fun romp through my favorite playground with a good friend. After that, it's a well-earned rest -- only one possible date in November depending on whether this guy decides to challenge everyone to a duel -- that should include some quality time on the home front and some fun-with-no-focus rides on the "brown ice" that is forming in the woods even as I write this. It'll be a great chance to try some new things, see some new-ish places, and revisit old standbys. This certainly hasn't been the easiest year, but isn't it only through adversity that we truly find our way forward?

It's kinda like Christmas ...

2011-10-17T08:05:00.012-05:00

You know how when you were a little kid, and Christmas was the highlight of your year? How you built it up in your mind, plotted your strategy, stayed up all night on Christmas Eve in anticipation of all the spoils?

This weekend was kind of like that.

Those of you following along at home know that riding in Pisgah means a year-round smorgasbord of world-class trails. An orgy of delight. An impressive plethora of awesomeness.

What you may not know, though, is that several trails have been classified as "Seasonal," meaning they're only open to mountain bikes from October 15 through April 15 -- the winter months when there aren't that many hikers about. This helps avoid user conflicts on a couple of the more heavily traveled routes ... and it also means we spend six warm months of the year pining for the chance to ride Bennett, Cat Gap, Coontree, North Slope and Pink Beds.

(Well, Bennett, Cat Gap and Coontree at least. North Slope is a fun intro and Pink Beds a solid Midwestern-style twisty, but they're not as exciting as Bennett, Cat Gap and Coontree ...)

Well, this year, "Seasonal Christmas" fell on a Saturday. In the middle of one of the most impressive leaf seasons for years. In picture-perfect, 70-degree weather. It doesn't get much better than that.

Like this guy, I heavily weighed my options, eventually going for the short-and-fast to kick off the weekend followed by the long-ish and fast-ish followed by the just-plain long. And at every step along the way, Pisgah did not disappoint ...

Friday: Sycamore Cycles Midnight Cat Gap Extravaganza, featuring none other than the King of Pisgah himself and his trusty sidekick ~~Robin,~~ er, Bergmark. I got out a few minutes early for a bit of a warmup to the top of the first Cove Creek Connector hill, and it's a good thing I did -- my cassette lockring was coming loose, and Dan had to rescue me. After that it was all wine and roses as we traded no-light ninja blows to the top of Gloucester Gap, bombed down to the base of Butter, climbed up and then absolutely flew down -- I hit a zone and was making moves I've never even considered before. There's just something about being surrounded by really good, ambitious, lycra-clad racer types with lights on their heads and insane reaction abilities ... I dabbed on two of the creek crossings on Butter, and 'cross-jumped the log -- but otherwise cleaned everything all the way to the parking lot for the first time ever. I even saved an absolutely incredible nose-wheelie on the muddy rock face. Viva night riding, viva Seaonals!

Hatchery > Davidson > Cove Creek Connector > Davidson > Hatchery > Davidson > 475 > 471 > 471D > Butter Gap > Long Branch > Cat Gap

Saturday: We slept in a bit, and then headed to the library, where Kate proceeded to pick out a slew of bilingual books for us to read at bed time. I'm thinking I need to learn Spanish very, very quickly here pretty soon ...

We then went to Brevard, where we visited The Hub's Fall Fiesta celebration. And then it was pumpkin-picking time -- though Kate wanted "itty bitty" pumpkins for "her baby," we did end up with a big one too. After that, I suited up -- there were more Seasonals to be had!

Or rather, one in particular: Bennett Gap!

The reward for climbing in Pisgah? More climbing!

The gate to awesome ...

Breathtaking beauty

The reds were overwhelming

As were the views!

I took my time on Bennett, making sure I had the lines dialed -- I forget how challenging some of those features can be. That said, I'm not quite ready for Q-Bert or Huck rocks ... yet.

Then I headed up Clawhammer, intent on finishing down Black. I clipped the inside of a switchback with my foot in a bizarre moment, but then in the cold light of the LED finally saw the line on the first staircase -- and after a couple of hesitations, I cleaned it! Woot!

Nightfall at Pressley

I know it's not a big deal to a lot of folks, but getting to a point where I can clean the descent from Hickory Knob is kind of a big deal to me. After Saturday's ride, I knew I could do it ... and so the plotting began.

Ranger Station > 276 > 477 > Bennett Gap > 477 > Clawhammer > Maxwell > Black

Sunday, Sunday, SUNDAY! No workout, no schedule, no expectations except awesomeness. And Pisgah delivered in spades.

It started on Buckhorn

Bridges or wet feet? Always a consideration.

Up to the Shelter on a beautiful day.

Looks like some racer types have been here ...

High atop Black, I experienced a moment like no other. See, my parents were planning a leaf-peeping trip to the Blue Ridge Parkway this year, and should have been here right now, baby notwithstanding. As I see this incredible color all around me, I can't help but remember my Mom and how much she was looking forward to visiting.

As I crested Black and started along the ridgeline, I was surrounded by gold. It was right about noon, and the beautiful yellow leaves were enveloped in a sea of mid-day light. I'm pretty sure it was as close to Heaven as I've ever been.

Pictures just don't do it justice

The clearing

I made my way across Buckwheat, stopping to help a wayward soul, and found myself on Bennett once again. Only this time, I was prepared, and was a bit short on time -- so it was game on. And I nailed it.

I didn't try Q-Bert, and ran into two fellows instead who led the way to Huck. I went to stop and slipped on the rocky surface, my one fall for the day and a nasty little charlie horse. But it gave me a breather, as the two gentlemen scrambled about below the face of the rock.

"What do you seek?" I asked.

"The Pisgah Gnome, Samford," was their reply.

"Why, that can't be!" I said. "I was just here yesterday, and so many people have passed -- surely he cannot still be here!"

But there he was!

Hello my little friend!

Does this gnome make me look fat?

I bid the now-trio farewell and wished them happy Gnoming. As for me, I set out with determination ... cleaning Bennett (except that nasty up) from that point on and finding myself at the Stables before too long. It was decision time, and I decided to go for it: All Black -- the only way to go.

A Spearfish in its natural habitat.

Sometimes I know where I've been.

Othertimes, I dream of where I'm going ...

... another day ...

It was almost perfect, with only one walk-off bar twist above Pressley as I came off the summit, and for the first time ever, a clean run from Hickory Knob. I did it! If you had told me I would one day be cleaning that sucker ... well, I wouldn't have believed you. Now, though, well ... watch out!

Truly a perfect end to a most incredible weekend. Sometimes you do get what you want for Christmas!

Ranger Station > 276 > 477 > Buckhorn Gap > Clawhammer > Black > Buckwheat > Bennett > 477 > Clawhammer > Black -- all the way!

And then -- and then! as I was pulling into the parking lot, who do I see? None other than Pisgah Productions himself, Eric Wever! And get this: Saturday and Sunday were Double Dare equipment test runs. Guess who passed the surprise gear check! I did! I did!

It's Christmas Eve!

2011-10-14T07:20:00.003-05:00

... and this man is Santa Claus.

10:30 tonight, Sycamore Cycles, Cat Gap Midnight Ride. Seasonals open in T-minus 15-1/2 hours, and the plan is to be on Cat Gap at midnight. Not sure how we'll get there -- Long Branch? Butter? Maybe a spooky run by the McCall Cemetery on the way? -- but rest assured it's gonna' be awesome. We're just off a full moon, and conditions are set to be perfect ...

"It's the most wonderful time ... of the year ..."

* Photo shamelessly stolen from Dicky, who might or might not have shamelessly stolen it from someone else.

Week One

2011-10-13T15:21:00.003-05:00

Woah. Where did the first week go?

First, some major changes for this little lady. She's doing well -- and she loves "her" baby to pieces.

She's going to be an amazing big sister!

Meantime, the guys from BIKE Magazine were in town working on their "Bible of Bike Tests" -- Daniel made sure to fly the colors!

... and make time to check out the mag ...

... but like his daddy, he goes to all the sources ...

And finally, we're going to document Daniel's first year each Wednesday with a block photo. It's so much fun to look back on Kate -- now it's his turn!

Un-Expected

2011-10-10T08:38:00.006-05:00

Psssst -- there are cute baby photos at the bottom of this post. Go ahead, skip this part and scroll down. I'll wait.

There. OK. Now, here's a funny story -- The Day Our Baby Was Born. The photos will still be at the bottom when you're done ...

I woke up last Wednesday, October 5, 2011, and I just knew. I don't know how I knew, I just did -- Kim was letting me sleep while she got Kate ready for day care, and I woke up a little when I heard her getting dressed and I saw the light on, and I just knew.

But it was still unexpected.

See, Kim wasn't due until October 22. Even though all the indications were that she was going to go early -- from the way she carried, to the visual drop she experienced over the weekend, to the fact that all our friends had gone 3-4 weeks early recently -- we still thought we'd make it to about the 15th or so. I even predicted the 18th, as that was the day that Grandma would be flying to Arizona, and both of the granddaughters were born while a grandmother was traveling!

Anyway, Kim took Kate to day care, and I headed off to work. Despite my morning premonition, everything was just trucking along -- I'm entering my busiest time of year, and was focused on keeping things pretty steady as customer catalogs ramped up. Nothing too crazy, nothing weird, just working and trying to figure out when I was going to squeeze in a ride, maybe at lunch.

And then the phone rang.

"Hey," Kim said, slightly out of breath. Caller ID showed she was on her cell phone.

"Hey! What's up?" I asked.

"I just had my doctors appointment," she said. I had forgotten -- her once-a-week checkups were on Wednesday mornings, "and they said I'm 5 cm dilated and might be 95% effaced."

"What? What do you mean, 'might be'?"

"Well, I'm not sure if she said that, or something like it. Anyway, they want to do an ultrasound to make sure there's enough room in there. I scheduled it for 1:45 so I can go to lunch with my coworkers. Oh, and she said make sure we have our bags packed -- she doesn't usually see 5 cm in the office, and if I get to 7 I won't be walking around."

This is my wife. Her baby is halfway out, and she's planning lunch for her office. I mean, yeah, it was Papa's & Beer, but still!

I, on the other hand, went into overdrive. I fired off a quick text to "Team Baby," our friends here who were set to take care of Kate, and sent an email to my office:

Hi everyone --

I just got a call from Kim from her doctor's appointment, and it sounds like things are a lot further along than we expected. We won't be making the due date!

I need to head over to the hospital this afternoon and may or may not be back. And, I may or may not be here any time in the next few days. As the doctor said, make sure you have your bags packed!!!!!

I will have my phone with me, and we have full access to e-mail in the birthing and postpartum suites.

Still, I kind of half expected to head back to the office, even though I really needed to go home and pack. I also sent a quick email to my dad, letting him know.

The next couple of hours were a blur, and I picked Kim up just before her appointment. We checked in, didn't have to wait long, and got a really nice foot picture of the kid. More importantly, everything was OK -- there was just enough room, though the baby was "ahead of schedule" by about a week or so. Estimated size was 7 lbs., 12 oz., a good size given a 37-1/2 week timeframe.

And then ... nothing.

I don't know what I expected, but I didn't expect to be doing nothing. No labor, no contractions, no ... nothing. I dropped Kim off at her office and decided to fit in a quick ride -- I could pack when we got home in the evening. Easy, low-key out-and-back on Laurel to about where the climbing really begins, and a really solid run at the tech features on the way down. I got home just as Kim and Kate did, and we had dinner with Kate.

Kate, by the way, was being stubborn. Dinner took way too long, as she was sick and didn't want to eat. Or focus. So by the time Kim took her to the bathroom, I was getting impatient, and I excused myself to go pack. I started to gather some clothes and just kind of got some stuff together. Then I heard Kate.

"Mommy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing honey. Mommy just needs to stand for a minute."

OK, no big deal, Kate was on the potty refusing to go and Kim was sitting on the edge of the tub. I can imagine how uncomfortable that might get after a bit, arguing with a toddler. I kept gathering, grabbing some stuff out of the kitchen.

Five minutes passed. Exactly five minutes. It was 6:58 p.m.

"Mommy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing honey. Mommy just needs to stand. Now go potty please."

I went into overdrive.

I don't know if it was her voice, or the timing, or what, but somehow in the back of my mind, something got triggered. My laid-back packing became focused, as I ran up and down the hallway and threw the pile of clothes from the bed into the bag. Could this be it?

We finally got Kate into her room, and as I read her a story Kim got an uncomfortable look on her face. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"We'll deal with it in a minute."

And I knew. Game on.

We got Kate into bed, and by 7:20 Kim was already having contractions 3 minutes apart. We were a little concerned that the day's office visit might trigger false labor, so we laid her down in bed and she drank some water. I grabbed my phone and started timing; although irregular for a couple of contractions, by 7:30 she was down to 2-1/2 minutes. This was real, and it was happening NOW.

We called her babysitter, who was a half hour away. She was making soup, and I asked her to come as quick as she could -- I even told her we had soup for her. I started putting things in the car -- and my Dad called, to check up on the email I sent. I'm not sure what I said to him, but he could hear in my voice that I didn't have time to talk!

By 7:50, Kim was down to 1 minute apart, and I knew we had to move. We called her coworker, who was at the house 10 minutes later to cover until Kate's babysitter got there, and we were gone. Count the contractions -- one in the living room, one at the car, one at the bottom of the hill. These were real, and these were fast -- that baby was on its way! I forgot my phone earpiece, asked Kim if I should go back for it, got a solid NO!, and so called her family as I drove stick-shift one-handed on the mountain roads to the hospital. Eight minutes later, I was Keystone Cop-ing my way to getting her into a wheelchair and through the front doors -- I kept wanting to go park the car and get our bags, thankfully all she wanted to do was get to the maternity ward!

Ding-dong, ding-dong and the doors opened. The nurse was on the phone.

"Can I help yo ... Oh, I gotta go. I have a patient."

And it was go-time.

The nurses were great, and the doctor on call was fantastic. She kept wanting to excuse herself to go look at Kim's chart, but never had a free moment! Time slowed to a crawl -- it's impossible to think that we were only there for 90 minutes before the baby was born, and that Kim was "only" in labor for 3 hours. Like with Kate, Kim was completely unassisted, an absolute rock star. Perhaps the freakiest moment was when the baby was crowning and decided to kick back -- seeing his foot poke out her belly was like something straight out of a horror movie!

And then, there he was -- our little boy! We welcomed Caleb Daniel Strout to the world at 9:51 p.m., weighing in at 7 lbs., 8 oz., at 21 inches long. In keeping with family tradition, we're calling him C. Daniel -- and the "Daniel" comes from my Mom's name Deborah Ann. He's a snuggler, but he's also curious -- he already had his eyes open while he laid in the warmer getting measured! We're also fully expecting some fireworks with Daniel ... his most active time in Kim's belly was from 8 to 10 each evening!

We brought him home on Friday, and Big Sister couldn't be more excited. We had a very nice weekend at home, and Kim even let me sneak out to ride -- in honor of the new kid, I hit Big M on Saturday (get it?) and Daniel Ridge on Sunday. We've got some beautiful weather going here right now, and we can't wait to take the kids on their first hike together ... and our first as a four-person family!

And without further ado, here are the promised photos ...

Welcome Daniel, and we promise to keep you all updated as he starts to grow!

Earning it - Part I

2011-10-05T09:04:00.003-05:00

It's a bit of foreshadowing, but I want to start out with this: Nolan LaVoie rocks. He's been there as my crew at the lowest of lows, running 3 miles through the woods to help me try to salvage a race only to have it go south just hours later, and he was there as my crew at the highest of highs, helping me pull off a hard-fought victory and a series championship at the end of a long, difficult year of uncertainty and challenges. Without hesitation, I dedicate this one to him. Thanks man!

In fact, it's Nolan's fault I was out there at all. He's got folks near Knoxville, TN, and when he told me about the three-race Tennessee Cup Endurance Moutain Bike Series near there, it sounded like fun. Eight-hour lap races are just about my sweet spot -- long enough that XC folks aren't as quick, and short enough that I can have half a weekend at home to recover after duking it out. That 7- to 12-hour length suits me just fine, and when you throw in some fun trails, relatively short laps, incredible schwag and phenominal prizes, what's not to love?

We started in April with the Ocho, at which my voodoo with Nolan unfortunately continued. With parts of the course literally *under* water, I gummed up my drivetrain and had to run the last half of my third lap -- taking me out of contention for the win behind a hard-charging Andy Applegate. Even had I not caught him, second place wasn't that far out of reach ... I finished eight laps in just on 8 hours for pride anyway, and Nolan had a fun race out there enjoying himself.

Next up was the H8R in June, and while Nolan started the day on his bike, he finished it helping me in the pit. No major mechanicals had me in second place just about 5 hours in, only just breaking the elastic on Broussard and chasing down Scott in the lead. After closing the gap over the course of 2 laps, all of a sudden Scott was done, walking backward on the course and handing me the victory -- as long as I could keep after it for 3 more hours. Which I did, even managing to stop a lap early in order to take a load off an aching knee. Dang it felt good to win!

At the time, it felt like the Ocho Reverse -- run on the same trails as April, but in the opposite direction -- was a long, long way off. And I suppose, at the time, that it was -- that was nearly four months ago! I didn't see Nolan that often over the summer, but as September began to creep closer to October, we confirmed that it was game on in Morristown! Nolan elected not to ride, and instead focused his energy on pitting for his buddy Chris from Virginia, and for Greg in the SS class and me running gears.

I picked up Greg at the butt-crack of dawn and we had a leisurely drive through Pigeon Gorge over to the Tennessee side of the hills. It's pretty country up there, and we occupied our thoughts with speculation on the upcoming Double Dare -- based on Eric's Ride Log, this year's event could be pretty interesting ...

Roll in, perfect pit spot saved by Nolan and Chris, who had braved the freak cold snap to camp out the night before. At 6'4", Chris gets the hardman award -- Because their tent didn't have a floor, he elected to sleep the night in his CR-V and then go out and make the podium! Yikes! We got dressed, got set up, and had a few minutes to chill. At this point, "Giant Guy" Sean came over and introduced himself -- I had seen him at the H8R, but derailleur problems had prevented him from challenging for the front. At a certain point in your career, though, you know what to look for in your competition, and after he rolled away I told Nolan to keep tabs on him ...

And then it was go time!

The Final Countdown

2011-09-30T10:00:00.005-05:00

After last weekend's Def Leppard extravaganza, I've been a bit tapped out creatively -- but in honor of the fact that I once saw Europe open for Def Leppard, I figured it was about time for a "countdown" update of sorts!

Tomorrow marks 37 weeks -- "full term" in a medical sense. Sometime in the next 3 weeks -- THREE WEEKS! -- we will have another member of our family. Holy smokes.

In the meantime, we've been getting some together time, including this trip to Caesar's Head State Park, just over the border (but before you go down the hill) in South Carolina. I've ridden through here a few times now, but this was the first time we visited the overlook. It's pretty, and we're looking forward to checking out some of the hiking trails nearby when we get a chance!

One thing we haven't really done is prepare for the new arrival. I mean, yeah -- if Squirt decides to show up tomorrow, we're "ready" -- but really, we have a ton of little stuff to do for the kid. The bassinet is still in the basement, the kid's room is still holding storage, the crib isn't assembled yet ... I think both Kim and I are looking forward to maternity leave, when we'll have some time with Kate in day care and us at home with the little one.

In the meantime, though, the project list keeps growing, and trying to keep up with an almost-3-year-old ends up taking a lot more focus than we expect. Not that I'm complaining! Quite the contrary -- Kate has been in a super-good mood for a while now, and is in an awesome phase where she wants to help with everything and still (mostly) listens to her Mommy and Daddy. We visited "The Baby Place" at the hospital this week, and though I think she expected to bring home the baby at the end, she was patient and quiet throughout the hour-long group tour. I didn't once have to threaten to take her "outside!"

(By the way, for the record: Kate thinks it's going to be a girl, and we're going to name "her" Kate Lois. We keep trying to tell her that she's the only one with that name in the whole world, but darned if she doesn't want the baby named after her!)

So we're enjoying our last days as a threesome, and though we're not quite ready, we're also well aware that every expectant couple we know has popped 3 weeks early in the past month. I was expressly told not to tempt fate like this guy (delivery just days after this photo was taken) ... but then, when you get resultant adorable photos like this, how can you resist? (Yes, be sure to scroll down, past the blog header.)

Oh, and for those keeping score -- my money is on 10/18. Both Kim and her sister went into labor while a grandmother was on an airplane, and darned if Kim's mom isn't headed to Arizona soon ...

We'll keep you posted!

Bittersweet singletrack

2011-09-27T09:37:00.002-05:00

Mixed emotions this morning. Today marks the start of the Pisgah Stage Race -- 5 days of monster racing through my playground. This year's battle promises to be pretty epic: National Champions and Olympians vs. home-town heroes who can really shred. They reached their rider cap for the first time, with 85 brave souls toeing the line ... and I'm not there.

It's bittersweet, for sure. On the one hand, this race is awesome. Todd puts on a good show, and going up against the likes of Jeremiah, Adam and Sam and testing what I've got would be super fun. Not to mention the amazing courses that are out there in the woods -- I use the PSR maps as starting points for my own favorite rides, when I'm out in Pisgah just for fun, or for a solid day of training.

On the other hand, I got schooled last year, and I've learned a lot in the 12 months since. While I've definitely gotten faster -- a lot faster, thankyouverymuch -- thanks to some pretty deep digs on Thursday nights and a new ride that has me dropping Pilot for real, I've finally realized that I'm just not exactly a stage racer. Disregard the fact that I'm nowhere near challenging Jeremiah or Adam or Sam or Wes; I at least found some level of satisfaction in pushing myself day in and day out. PSR 2010 will forever be a highlight in my racing career.

But I finally realized some things this year. I'm racing different; I'm built different; I feel different. I'm not any less ambitious -- I still think a sub-8 at SM100 is on the table! -- I'm just more focused. And that focus takes me away from anything longer than a day or two in a row. It's tough to give up a dream, but I've had a hell of a run this year and have high hopes for my remaining events. I've finally come to fully realize that, despite my childhood thoughts of being a Tour rider, I'm not built for stage racing. You'd think I would have figured it out way back in the Stupidweek days, but I guess I was still holding out hope ...

That said, I've still got some fire in my belly. I might have thought about riding PSR "for fun," and may still do so in the future, but I have to admit that I've been pretty stoked to get a few results this year. There was some serious doubt coming into the season -- what with everything happening outside of racing, not to mention a complete flip in 12 months from Midwest flatland to Pisgah backcountry -- and I'm encouraged enough to set a couple of goals going into next year. Things are about to change pretty dramatically, but with a continued bit of focus, I think I can hit some things pretty hard. And I'm excited for that. They just won't involve more than two days of racing in a row.

So this week I'll spectate a bit. I look forward to Stephen's account of the racing, and I'm stoked to see a battle at the front for stage race supremacy. I'm bummed I'm not out there throwing elbows on Squirrel (ha, ha), but I also know that my energies are better served focusing on other things. And that I'll gain a huge amount of satisfaction from them, even if it doesn't involve dropping Black every afternoon. I'll use this week as motivation to drive the rest of 2011, and begin the preparation for 2012 ...

Samford & Me ... and Def Leppard!

2011-09-24T15:34:00.009-05:00

When Snotrotter and I ran into Broussard last weekend at the top of Cantrell, he informed us that driftwood had met up with Samford and was heading "some place on South Mills River, some big rock or something." Seeing as how that happened to be the one section of trail in the Pisgah Ranger District that I've not ridden, I started making plans pretty much right away, holding out hope that no one would beat me to the punch ...

I drove On Through the Night to make sure I made my date with Samford. In case you were wondering, while the world around you may be unstable, at least in Pisgah we're doing OK:

Sorry, just Foolin'. I figured this day was all about Action! Not Words, and so I grabbed my gear and headed up Clawhammer, a man on a mission. I warmed on the climb, and looked forward to passing through Buckhorn Gap on my way down to Wolf Ford: Heaven Is descending a long, wide-open trail in Pisgah on a Ride Into the Sun as the forest floods with light.

Before I knew it, I was at the bridge, and crossed over. A bit of Hysteria crept in -- this was the way to Squirrel; where was SMR? I crossed back over, and there, hidden behind some shrubbery, was the trail I wanted. I knew I had several thigh-deep crossings ahead in frigid waters, but I didn't expect to be riding through small streams and water falls that had taken over the trail in the rains of the past several days. But Die Hard the Hunter: I made my way along South Mills River Trail and kept an eye out for the Rock of Ages that driftwood had identified.

Sure enough, Samford was safe and secure, and I wasn't Too Late. I was worried he'd be cold and wet, so I offered him my PMBAR and Double Dare-approved safety blanket.

"No, no," Samford said. "I'm not hypothermic, just hypoglycemic. I need me some White Lighting; c'mon, Pour Some Sugar On Me."

I obliged, and then freed him from his Vault. First we took a Photograph for Maida:

and then I introduced him to Ted, the Only Friend I Had last weekend.

We settled him into my pack, and headed back the way I had come.

At first he was quiet, and I was worried he wasn't feeling so good. Eventually, though, he started to open up. "Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad?" he asked. "I mean, that driftwood is an Animal. He made Promises to me about Women, and then left me High 'N' Dry there in that little cave. I shoulda' known after Broussard -- I was Wasted, and Love Bites, ya' know? -- but When Love and Hate Collide, it's like you just can't turn away. I thought it might be Too Late for Love, but I thought I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. Ah, well, It Don't Matter, No Matter What they'll both eventually Answer to the Master for Bringin' on the Heartbreak like that."

I thought it was poigniant that he opened up to me, and I felt a bit sorry for the little guy. We reached the bridge, and stopped for a quick bite. My feet were cold from all the river crossings, and I thought about starting a fire to warm them. But no sooner had I pulled out the PMBAR and Double Dare-approved lighter than Samford grabbed it out of my hands.

"Fire! Fire!" he said, a maniacal look taking over his face. Quickly, I grabbed back the lighter. "Aw, man," he complained, "a little Pyromania never hurt nobody!"

I told him we had to be careful there in the Forest, and that my feet weren't all that cold anyway. "No No No," I said, "Let It Go."

"Hey, I know what let's do," he said suddenly. "Are you Excitable? Let's Get Rocked!"

"What?!" I asked, incredulous.

"Well, I heard they did some work over on Pilot last week," he replied. "Let's head over there and see what's cooking. I know a place nearby that always has something going on Saturdays. We're going to Rock! Rock! Till You Drop. No more of this human stuff; I want to hang with my own kind for a bit."

I was game, so we headed up the hill, and turned right to head down into the horse camp area. We very politely stopped to let a couple of groups pass, before we were out on the road and making the left turn onto Pilot Rock Trail.

Something snapped in him just then, and he was off like a Rocket. I spent the rest of the climb following Two Steps Behind, before he finally stopped to take in the view from the rock face.

While he chilled, I turned the other way for a nature break, but found myself with a bit of Stagefright. I turned back, but he was already up the trail ...

I quickly gathered my things and hurried to catch up. "Man, You Got Me Running," I said when I finally overtook him. "You might show a bit of gratitude, a bit of Love and Affection for bringing you up all this way."

Suddenly, he stopped. "What happened here?" he exlaimed. "Someone decided to cut out my favorite log in all of Pisgah, totally Armageddon It! It's like a Run Riot up here now! Do they think they can just Tear It Down? It's my Personal Property! It'll never be the same!"

"Oh, whatever," I replied. "Could you get over the log?"

"Well, no," he admitted. "Only a Koerber could Klean it. But I was trying, and man, I was getting close. I could have done it someday! Darn it! I'm madder than a one-armed drummer in a rock band. May the Gods of War reign down all over Blue Ridge Adventures! I'll never ride this trail again!"

"Unbelievable," I said. "You are so full of yourself. Let Me Be The One to tell you that Day After Day, Todd's no Demolition Man, and his crew do an amazing job out here, and by cutting out that one log they made this trail so much more sustainable. So Back In Your Face: Look how much better it drains now: It was beginning to Disintegrate, and now there's no Scar. If you think removing that one feature -- which wasn't a feature at all, by the way, but was created by happenstance when the wind blew that tree down, and caused a natural drainage problem -- ruins your trail experience, then you have a Long, Long Way To Go toward understanding trails. IMBA is not a Four Letter Word, though I know they've been Comin' Under Fire, and the trail is not Torn To Shreds. Now, don't Cry -- this trail will still put a huge smile on your face Everyday; you can still get your Rocks Off!"

Samford allowed that was true, and said he felt a bit Guilty, so we continued on and crested the hill, turning right onto the connector. Gravity didn't disappoint, and soon we were at the gap and turning left onto the top of Laurel Mountain Trail. This is the so-called Gnome Trail, and Samford was visibly excited about reuniting with his kind. We rode for just a few hundred yards and stopped.

"Aw, man," he said, "I'm sorry. We're early. There's no one else here. The party must not start until Tonight, Only After Dark."

I looked at my watch. "Dude, I wish I could stay, but I've got a pregnant wife and a little girl waiting for me at home. I gotta' book."

"That's OK," he replied. "I'll just hole up here for a bit. I'll Miss You in a Heartbeat, though -- thanks for the ride."

I didn't want to leave him hanging, so I offered to leave him with my orange Onza toothbrush, just in case he got some Action.

Then I said Goodbye, and turned and headed down my favorite descent in all of Pisgah -- let me tell you, Love Don't Lie, and cleaning the rock garden felt awesome, even with the changes. I headed back up SMR, and down Clawhammer, turning right onto Buckhorn Gap to finish out the ride. It was a great day To Be Alive, and I'm sure Samford will have some serious fun All Night!

If you'd like to join him, Samford is on the Gnome Trail (top of Laurel Mountain Trail), just past the second tree blaze as you head toward the Parkway from Turkey Spring Gap. There's a jumble of moss-covered boulders on the uphill side of the trail, and Sam found a nice little niche next to a rock running perpendicular to the trail, halfway between the tree blaze and a big tree with a nice root-over. Happy hunting!

Floyd Friday

2011-09-23T08:59:00.003-05:00

Most of the CC folks are up at Beech Mountain for gravity nats this weekend, so we here in the office are enjoying our first-ever "Floyd Friday," keeping company with Roger Waters, David Gilmour and the crew. Nancy, our shipping guru, and I share an appreciation for the finer rock of the past 40-some-odd years, though I think her catalog ends with Van Halen circa 1984.

So that was the big excitement today, until I came across this on Dicky's blog:

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

I mean, don't get me wrong. Quicksilver was on constant rotation in the Strout family VCR back in the day. Even if Kevin Bacon calls it the "low point of my career" (can't you just see him sitting on those steps, fallen briefcase beside him, papers fluttering in the wind?), you just can't beat world-beaters on bikes with whistles, fixed gears that freewheel and circus acrobatics during working hours when you should be running a "command performance." And after all, before there was Morphius, there was Voodoo!

But I really think I liked Joseph Gordon-Levitt better as an alien. Sure, being a cyclist is all the rage in Hollywood, it's the next golf and all, but do you really think that's him hucking off a loading dock pulling a 360 in his escape from the long, bad arm of the law? At least Kevin did some of his own stunts, such that they were, and for sure Larry wasn't faking it when the truck pulled him up the grade in the now-famous street race scene. And Paul -- Paul! -- you just know it wasn't a stand-in in the bike-mirror-washing scene on Market Street, or there at the end when he finally got his hot dog stand.

I guess I'd just like a little more reality with my messenger-turned-hero stories: The grit, the crappy weather, the smell. Instead, we get a re-tread, with the girl, the African-American rival, the incredible flat-foot skids. Do you think they even have a dance scene?

Still, like Rich, I'm sure I'll be adding it to my ~~Netflix~~ Qwikster Queue here in a few months. And Kate and Squirt will grow up with yet another "biker movie" to influence their athletic and career choices. There's not much call for bike messengers in Hendersonville, but maybe someday they might aspire to be riding around Greenville or even the big, bad, mean streets of Charlotte ...

Digging deep

2011-09-19T07:38:00.008-05:00

I flipped on the interwebs today and saw that Brian Matter won Chequamegon in just a few ticks over 2 hours -- Wow! Serious congrats to him on a new course record and three in a row ...

... but did he do it while wearing lipstick, rouge and eyeliner?

Brian's ongoing Fat Tire Festival streak is what went through my head as I drag raced up to Bent Creek Gap on Saturday. The comparison with Chequamegon is apt: A cool Saturday in September, 40-ish miles of mostly widetrack, a power course ... but where Brian got to chase after Tour de France contenders and guys who can climb Snake Alley in a 53, we got to wear antlers with little bells, glow bracelets and makeup applied in the most comical manner possible. And, we gained about 6,000ft. of elevation in climb after climb after climb -- no Firetower for us, just relentless ups followed by mercifully fun downs!

Oh, and I didn't win. Damn.

To say that Saturday was, well, "interesting," probably doesn't do it justice. When the folks who brought us Hoffencross decided on a brand-new challenge in early September, I couldn't sign up fast enough. It was my shot at redemption -- navigational errors saw me lose H'cross at the last checkpoint, and darned if I wasn't after some serious bragging rights.

But then we found out more. And in true Hoffenchard fashion, nothing was as it seemed. Though we had the map ahead of time, though we *thought* we knew the routes, little change-ups were thrown, the biggest of which was a handicap system that saw me lounging on the couch for nearly an hour watching the other competitors roll down the driveway and into the woods. I started dead last, several minutes behind everyone else ... leave it to an accountant to figure out how to keep my ego in check.

On the flip side, I missed the early morning rain shower, and got clear trail ahead of me on the way out. The first checkpoint went well, and I met Ted, the only friend I would have for the day. Second was OK, with the fun-ish lead in climb well met, though the descent while wearing jingle bells left something to be desired. In fact, the next 2 hours of ringing in my ears has left me emotionally scarred ...

Checkpoint three was a nasty grunt, definitely more fun on the way down, and I could tell that I was keeping pace with Eric at that point, who was in the lead with a bullet. Down and out, and across and over and up, I reached the fourth checkpoint and was handed a napkin: "Dry your face." Uh, OK. And then came the rouge. And the lipstick. And the eyeliner. All of which had, of course, been tested on animals.

Awesome.

Oh, and Eric had flatted. I was only a few minutes behind him, and we were approaching the techiest climb and descent of the day. Did I mention he was on a cyclocross bike?

Up, up up we went, and as I hit each little plateau, I said a little prayer. My only real goal all day (besides winning) was to stay on the gas as much as possible -- I've not really done a race less than 4 hours all year, and I needed a hard short(er) effort to blow out some cobwebs and overcome the disappointment of the SM100. With each cove I got closer and closer to the turnaround, and with each cove, still no Eric coming down. I was gaining on him, my last rabbit!

I hit the last tough grunt, and there he was, on his way down. Yee-haw, I can do this! Grab a quick bite, pose for photos with the downhillers who thought we were crazy, get rolling. I know I've never dropped that trail, that fast, and mercifully I didn't flat (I usually do there for some reason). I was grabbing air like it was free, and ducked into a tuck as I hit the road and flew back down into the bowl. Quick right, up and out, across the road, through the stream ... and is that a guy on a 'cross bike? Is that a hot pink stripe on his ass? Is that Eric just ahead?

Game on!

I caught him just as we made another turn onto singletrack, and we chatted as we made our way up to the fire road at the top. I was being cordial, this was a gentleman's race after all, and I knew he held an advantage with his narrower tires and lighter weight. Plus, truth be told, I was hammered. By that point I was beginning to dig deep, and I didn't want to risk blowing with one more big climb to go.

We stuck our stickers at the last checkpoint and headed down the road. Eric can descend pretty quick, even on gravel and on a 'cross bike, and I did well to let him lead and hang on. I definitely had an advantage on the mountain bike, but not much, and we passed the gate and hit the wall together. And we went up.

And up. And up. And up some more. No two ways about it, that climb sucks. Eric put in a short dig, standing up to do so, and promptly sat back down. We leveled out a fraction in one spot and I put in five or ten hard pedal strokes to test, but then I stopped. Eric was right on me, I had nothing left, and I realized at that moment that we were lower down the climb than I had thought. We would admit later that we were both at the breaking point just then ... but we couldn't do anything about it. Except to hurt. After the cordiality of the earlier climb, we didn't say a word to each other for the next 45 minutes.

We reached the final checkpoint, taped on our streamers, and pointed our way downhill. All bets were off -- when I asked Eric what was the best way to the finish, he told me it was a race and I needed to figure it out for myself -- and I jammed down that hill. I kept looking back, hoping his skinny tires would slow him down in the loose corners, but no dice -- he was a steady presence just 2-3 seconds back, until we leveled out and all of a sudden he was next to me, hammering. He put in a dig, I covered. He went again, I covered again. And again. We were hauling, quick through the singletrack, onto the pavement, and I was still there despite my big tires. Whew!

We were forced into a truce on the last bit of pavement by some pedestrians, which meant it was all going to come down to the last turn into the singletrack. I went to the front on the gravel, dug a bit but he was there, and planned my attack for the gate. I went left, he went right -- and BAM! Eric blasted out of the gate in full-on sprint, a split-second before I could launch my own attack. Hot damn, it was on!

I gave chase, channeling my energy to a focal point just a few yards in front of me. Eric almost biffed the right-hander onto the trail, and I was on him. But then he was gone, as we flew through the woods in full sprint. I was riding blind, able to only follow the trail thanks to the hot pink stripe on the back of Eric's shorts. I hit berms, caught air, at one point flew almost vertically over a jump ... I was on him again at the left-hander over the roots, but he dug deep over the bump and at the street had me by 10 feet. Down, turn ... and it was over. I lost by mere seconds.

Again.

Huge props to Eric for a well-executed race and final attack -- we were both givin'r there at the end, and we both did as much as we could. We were shelled -- we got to the house and just stopped, and another word wasn't exchanged for several long minutes. I dug so deep, in fact, that when I got home a bit later, I laid down on the bed and fell asleep in an instant -- while wearing all my clothes and my shoes!

My finishing time was two minutes over 3 hours, which looks like it would have put me about 760th in the 40 this year. But really, for me there is no comparison: Until Brian or Christian or Jason has to stop at OO and affix pipe-cleaner antlers with little bells to their helmets, Chequamegon just isn't for me.

A not-so beautiful mind

2011-09-15T08:55:00.003-05:00

Two trains of thought this morning, both linked by a common thread ...

First: I'm not good at math. I've heard that your neural pathways for math are developed by about age 7, sort of defining your capacity to comprehend math at higher levels. Not to say you stop learning -- I mean, how many 7-year-olds are doing advanced calculus? -- but just that the framework is there, and there's only going to be so much you absorb as you learn the mechanics of it. (Of course, by age 12, some of us should be expected to be disproving Einstein ...)

For me, that absorption stopped for good when I was 15. I had barely made it through algebra in 8th and 9th grades, and by the time we got to proofs in 10th-grade geometry, I was done. Mrs. Tiemeyer (spelling? not sure of her name now) was our teacher, and I remember her one shock of white hair and sitting in the back of the class, chair propped against the back wall, making race-car noises under my breath. But I don't remember how to do a proof to save my life. (And, in fact, I almost flunked out of college because of logical proofs, which follow the same pattern. I still say it was an attempt to control my thinking.)

I scraped through, probably because my parents required me to sit at the kitchen table and do homework every night -- 1 hour for every C, 2 for every D, and a whopping 4 for every F on mid-term or quarter notices -- and somehow made it into 11th-grade calculus. I lasted about four weeks, but it was clear by mid-semester that I was on my way out -- class was right after lunch, and though the teacher put me front and center in the room, I would pass out cold, folded over head-first onto my desk, fast asleep with drool running down my cheek, nearly every day. By Christmas, I was forced out, placed instead into "Business Math" -- the only math class where you could use a calculator, aimed as it was at remedial students. We had a great teacher, had fun with it, I met my graduation requirement -- and never took another math class again.

(Funny how the brain works -- all this was going on while I was in AP classes, taking two language courses, blowing out the bell curve on the state-mandated reading comprehension tests, and acing the English portion of the ACT. But don't ever ask me to do long division!)

Second: There is actually business in the bike business. Or rather, there needs to be if you want to be successful. The best bike shops and suppliers figure this out -- look at what Chris Kegel is doing up at Wheel & Sprocket, or Stan Day at SRAM, or the Burke family at Trek (Go Marquette!). Sure, it's a fun industry to work in -- bikes are awesome, and it's what attracts so many of us. But unless you make the transition from bike-cool to bike-business, you are not going to survive. Want to make a million dollars in the bike industry? Start with two million. The number of unique retailers in this country has shrunk by as much as 35% in the past three years alone, while some suppliers and retailers have been going gangbusters: it's not enough to be selling bikes, you gotta' be selling.

And along with selling comes number crunching, which brings me to today. We're about to close out the third quarter of the year, and begin budgeting and forecasting for 2012. When you're a communications guy, you don't need to do much beyond guessing what your pet projects and travel costs will be for next year. But when you're in sales, it gets a bit more complicated -- you're also expected to forecast what you think your customers will buy. And that requires some number crunching. It's great that Excel will do your calculations for you, but when you don't always understand what those calculations entail, it gets to be a bit of a bugger!

And so here I sit, massive spreadsheet open across two computer screens, analyzing and trying to forecast what my part of the domestic bicycle parts market looks like in 2012. It's a bit daunting, and is a far cry from the handshake-and-a-dinner that face-time sales entails. But what's awesome, what I've come to discover over the past nearly two years that I've been in this role, is that I enjoy it. I may not be good at math, but there's something exciting in the give-and-take that reveals a somewhat accurate prediction. And though sometimes it's the bike stuff that keeps me engaged, it's the business side of it that's turned out to be really, really fun. Because ultimately that's what's going to keep us in business; that's what's going to make us successful.

I just need to make sure to triple-check every Excel file before I let anyone else see it.

Disconnect

2011-09-13T07:02:00.002-05:00

I had a tough moment the other evening: Kim and I had settled down to watch a movie, and as the opening credits rolled, it came up that not only was this movie based on a Broadway play, but that the music was by Marvin Hamlisch. I've mentioned before how much Hamlisch's work is a part of my family's life: His scores formed a significant part of the musical backdrop of my childhood.

And I couldn't help but think of my Grandmother.

See, Nana probably loved this movie. She loved a lot of movies; none moreso than romantic fluff accompanied by impressive music. We lost my Grandfather, the absolute love of her life, when they were in their early 50s, and I think films in which love persevered through time helped her continue to feel connected with him for the next 20 years of her life. She used to get this far off look in her eyes sometimes, as she hummed to herself the music from Somewhere in Time.

But while I may guess at it, I don't know for certain whether she ever saw Same Time, Next Year, nor what she thought of it. I can imagine that she liked Alan Alda -- who doesn't? -- and that Ellen Burstyn's crossover reprise of her Broadway role appealed to Nana's theatrical sensibilities. And that's when it hit me: With Mom gone, we've lost a connection to an entire history of our family.

Mom wasn't the last of her family, not by any means. Her aunt -- my Grandfather's sister -- is happily living in California; my aunt -- Mom's sister -- is also in the Golden State; and my uncle -- their brother -- is here in the East. We see them all from time to time (my aunt just booked her tickets to see Squirt in a few weeks!), and for certain we preserve the stories and memories that form the fabric of our shared existence. But memory is a tricky thing, and stories get shaped and molded, and -- ultimately, unfortunately -- the little things get forgotten, get left behind.

I know that if I were able to talk to my Mom, she would have known off the top of her head what Nana thought about Same Time, Next Year. Mom's movie choices -- and by extension, mine until I was old enough to buy my own tickets, and even then, well after -- were heavily influenced by Nana's critical influence. I don't know if she shared that in quite the same way with my aunt, my uncle, my cousins. And so I realized, probably for the first time that deeply, that with Mom gone, we've also lost a strong connection to Nana. For sure, it was Mom's version of Nana, but still -- it's the collective memory we preserve, and now a large part of that is missing.

Just what I needed

2011-09-12T11:00:00.003-05:00

Thanks, Stephen, for the photo ... North Mills River yesterday with Stephen, Chris and Kristi, and then a family trip to Caesar's Head and Kate's first souvenir penny on the anniversary of a day I wish I could forget but will forever remember.

Someday Kate will ask me about it, and someday I might be able to tell her. But thankfully not yet, because even after 10 years there are just some things that are better left unsaid.

Gut check

2011-09-07T07:55:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I let technology get the better of me. I'm pretty adamant that I don't use the phone while driving unless I've got my headset on; I don't take calls or text when I'm with other people unless I excuse myself; I don't whip it out at dinner just to check the weather.

There are times, though, when I flip through emails or Facebook before I go to bed. Last night was one of them, which is how I came across a link to the MTB Race News coverage of the SM100.

Remember that four-wheeler with Mike Simonson on a backboard?

Simonson, who has little memory of exactly what happened, claimed he washed out at high speed, going over the bars before colliding with a tree. Sven Baumann, who was not far behind Simonson was on the scene first and immediately stopped to offer assistance. What he found was shocking as Simonson was covered in blood, mainly resulting from a large gash on his neck caused by a stick or something that lodged in the strap of his helmet, slicing into his neck. Doctors later discovered that the deep cut was just one centimeter from severing his jugular vein. Simonson also suffered a cut to his forearm, nearly severing tendons that could have resulted in extensive surgery.

However, despite the remote location of the collision, Race Director, Chris Scott and Aid Station Captain, Christopher Hoy, were prepared with emergency procedures and an evacuation plan in place. Amateur Radio operators were also on hand to communicate with emergency personnel who airlifted Simonson to UVA Hospital in Charlottesville, about an hour from the crash site.

Fortunately, a team of specialists were able to stitch both wounds, however, the worst news for Simonson and his wife Michelle was yet to come. Michelle had volunteered to help out at aid station two which was also aid six. Upon hearing the news, and as her husband was being airlifted, she drove to Charlottesville only to learn that Michael had also suffered four fractured vertebrae in his neck.

It took me a long, long, long time to fall asleep last night.

I'm not sure why Mike's crash is bothering me so much. Crashes happen -- I know, I've had plenty -- and they're just a part of the fabric that is bike racing. Even the really, really bad ones are just part and parcel to going fast on two wheels.

I think maybe what it is, is twofold. First, I was there. I was going down that hill as fast as I possibly could, loving every minute of it, only to come around a corner and see the aftermath. Even while racing, it was a stark reminder to me of how much on the edge some of those descents can be.

Second, and I think this is the kicker: Mike could have died. One of the main reasons I stopped road and track racing was for exactly that reason -- fellow racers were dying, and it wasn't always their fault. At least on a mountain bike, I figure(d), if I crash, it's my doing, not someone else's. And although the consequences of crashing in the forest might be severe, at least I'll be around to talk about it tomorrow.

But after this, now I'm not so sure.

When I saw Mike there on Sunday, I didn't know who it was. I didn't know how severe were his injuries. But it could have been anyone, with any injury -- my thoughts immediately went to Kim, and Kate, and Squirt -- I knew, deep down, that it could have been me. Because I've been there. It has been me. And I'm pretty certain I don't want it to be me again.

I have some re-setting to do in the next couple of weeks. I need to get my legs back on straight. This week, and particularly this weekend, is going to be more emotionally charged than most -- and the perfect antidote is a long day in the woods on Sunday, forgetting everything and focusing on being alive. I think I may just let my wheels take me over to Pilot, and see how I feel -- especially after last weekend, that may just be the perfect benchmark for the last few weeks of the year, physically and mentally.

In the meantime, there was some good news for Mike. I wish him well, and I really hope to see him on the starting line next year:

It was a long two days and nights before doctors were able to assure her that the spinal injury would not require immediate surgery. Simonson’s fitness was noted by doctors as a benefit and his vitals remained strong. Doctors believed that the vertebrae, though cracked, would fuse and heal on their own over time although more x-rays and visits with doctors in Michigan will be required to ensure that they are healing properly.

NUE Series Director, Ryan O’Dell, "At the hospital, I visited Michael after he was moved from trauma to his own room. He was not allowed out of bed or even allowed to elevate more than twenty degrees to eat or drink. But, in a testament to his strength of will, rather than focusing on his injuries, Mike, the now leading contender for the 2012 NUE Series along with Josh Tostado (Bach Builders), was already looking forward, talking about his plans to get back on the trainer as soon as possible so he could begin recovery and preparations for the 2012 NUE race season!”

Un jour sans: Part II

2011-09-06T16:18:00.002-05:00

I was right, and on the pavement it was all I could do to just keep rolling. Somewhere out there I ran into Jamie Pittman, whom I had talked into doing this race on account of how awesome it is, and was psyched to see the Fats colors way out here in Virginia. At least, I think this is where I hooked up with him -- in actuality, it may have been later, or earlier, or he may have been a dream and never really existed. I do remember that he recognized me first, and when I looked at his number plate and it said "James," I was totally confused and couldn't get my mind wrapped around the idea that "James" equals "Jamie."

I rolled into Aid Station 2 to a bounce of blonde curls and a HUGE "HI DADDY!" from Little K, handed off my now-empty gel flask to Big K, told her it was going to be a long day, hoped she got the underlying message, and floated on to grab two fresh bottles and my stash of food. I put a foot down, half-drank and half-poured a bottle, dropped my bike and ran back for a new fresh bottle, and then got going again. I think I've mentioned it before, but I'll say it again: I love the volunteers at this race, and the bottles-in, bottles-out trade is pure genious. Above all, I think the vibe from the help is what keeps me coming back, year after year.

On to the third climb, which this year has been used by big machines and was a spongey mess in 95% humidity at 9:30 in the morning. I struggled to hold wheels, was never too far off the group I was with -- I think Jamie was in there somewhere? -- but wasn't keeping pace whenever it went up, even a little. Experience paid off throughout, though, and I knew to conserve just a bit for the super-steep top section, where as badly as I wanted to get off and walk, I didn't, and I just kept the gears turning over. Through the meadows at the top, I kept hoping we'd hit the tree line that marked the downhill, but it was so far away ... so far, in fact, that I almost stopped once or twice to regroup. But I knew stopping would be death, so I kept it together as much as I could.

And then -- gloriously! -- it was time to go downhill. I was doing great, but then the guy ahead of me checked up on the roots, I got off-line, and I missed my goal of cleaning the downhill. Damn. I stood by as first one, then two, then five, riders passed me by, including Lee and Brenda, the power duo from Motor Mile. I would not see them again until just before the last climb, many, many hours later ...

The rest of the descent was awesome, and I was faster than I've ever been. Think Squirrel on crack -- only even more fun, and more fast. And for once I was having fun, instead of being scared out of my mind. Wa-hoo!

Into Aid Station 3, grab new bottles, and off we go. Five miles of pavement, I'm pretty sure I'm with Jamie here, and I know that after the river crossing and partway up the next climb is the halfway point of the day, at least geographically. I've gone through there sub-4 more than once; this year, it was a struggle to hit 4:35. This is also the climb where I get stupid, where I lose my front wheel, where I've injured myself and created deep, lasting scars ... this year, thankfully, I was under control. I rode about as much as I have in the past, walked some when the power just wasn't there, and was doing OK until almost the top, when WHAM! DAMN! F*! I'm getting a bee sting on my right Achilles tendon, through my sock. Holy crap! That hurt!

I made sure there was no stinger, though it was irritated for the rest of the day, and part of it may still be in my sock. Jamie had fallen back somewhere along there, and instead I was trading places with Scott, another guy from the TN Cup -- the guy who had walked off the course at the H8R. We'd been off and on since the second climb -- he would get ahead of me, crash or flat, and I'd catch up. We continued this way until the last descent, when a decisive flat allowed me to stay in front through the campground. But in the meantime, he got ahead of me on the fourth climb, only to crash and let me in front on the descent. And what a descent it was -- finally! Brailey's Pond without injury, absolutely FLYING on the way down. It almost made up for how long the climb was (I'd forgotten -- I didn't make it this far last year) ... almost ...

Into Aid Station 4, quick chain lube, new food and new bottles. I rolled out, and the suffering began. The sun had come out, adding a baking factor to the high humidity, and the long, long, long slog all the way to the base of the big climb was pretty horrible. I couldn't keep up with the small groups that formed around me; hell, I couldn't keep up with the single-speeder who was dragging us along -- in a pedal section! I did what I could to limit my losses, as guys blew and guys flew -- we'd pick up a body or two, drop another one or two, until finally we hit the rollers near the real climb, and I was toast. Done. Finis. I remember Kelly in there somewhere, riding strong, but even he was having a tough go of it on that road -- one gear, one long, long slog.

I made the turn at 6:25, and started to play games in my head. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I hit the aid station by 7:15, I could get a sub-9. I had no idea how far away it was, only that the sign at the base said the road was closed 10 miles ahead -- so it couldn't be more than that. Right?

I got about 10 minutes into the climb, and I was cooked. I had to stop. I pulled over in a small cove, found some shade, and stood there for a minute to collect myself. I poured water over my head, drank some, and took a few deep breaths. My body was almost completely shut down -- no matter how hard I pushed, my heart rate would not go above 143, and I was climbing at 138-140 -- by comparison, two years ago I was worried I couldn't get above 152. A couple of guys passed me, and as I remounted, I thought to myself: "Self, you just need to keep Dicky behind you as long as you can." Not serious, mostly in jest, I had seen him hours before as he passed me by (on the first climb? Second? I don't remember), and I knew he was behind me after I re-passed him somewhere along the line on some long pedal section.

But then, like Beetlejuice, no sooner had I uttered his name than he was there.

We rode together for a minute, but every time the road pitched up, he powered ahead. I'd catch him on the little flats, but he was on a mission -- there were a few singlespeeders just ahead, and one of them was in sight. He cajoled me with thoughts of Coke and pizza, gave me a bad time for being allergic to pizza crust (rubbing it in how good it tastes), and generally commiserated with my misery -- his knee was flaring up, and he was just out to finish, as I was. It worked out well, as suddenly we were at the aid station, hitting it at exactly the 7-hour mark. He was faster out, wanting to stay with his rabbit, and though it hurt my feelings for a minute, I made him my rabbit, and did what I could to keep him in sight the rest of the ride.

I sort of remember being sky high from year's past, but this year that ridge just seemed to go on forever. I entertained myself with thoughts of riding up there with Andy Applegate a few years ago, and just kept on pushing toward that summit. I was chasing Dicky, I was chasing Scott, the TN Cup guy, I was chasing my demons. And I knew that downhill was going to be a sweet reward.

Meadow after meadow after meadow came and went. Holy crap had I forgotten just how long that damned ridge was. It seemed to never end, as each tree line marked not the descent, but yet another grueling pedal section. It was somewhat sloppy, I was hot and bothered, and I just wanted it over with. Where was the top, damn it?!

And then -- FINALLY! -- it was time to go downhill. I had forgotten how rocky it was, was again very thankful for my tire choice, and was enjoying every minute even as my brakes faded and my arms and chest burned from the effort. The singletrack flew by as I bounced from rock to rock, until it opened up and there were guys standing there -- "FOUR WHEELER AHEAD" -- and why are there a bunch of dudes pushing a 4-wheeler down the slope, are they hunters or something or holy crap that's a body on a backboard thank god I'm sill riding and not sprawled on the side of the trail ...

I had to check up behind the medical team, giving me a moment's respite. I hear it was Simonster who went down -- not sure of status, and hope he's OK. I dropped into the widetrack, kept on rolling, enjoyed the shout-outs from the volunteers, and rolled into Aid Station 6. Quick bottle change, out and going, dump water on myself, drink, dump on the ground ... one climb, repeat the bottom of climb three, don't need extra water to slow me down, and then turn left and we're almost done ...

I caught back up to Lee and Brenda on the pedal section, and we chatted for a few moments. We made the left onto the climb, passed through the gate, and while I didn't want to be anti-social, I was still harboring hopes of a sub-9 finish -- I set my own pace and kept on, keeping the pedals turning. Scott caught and passed me, I was doing mental gymnastics with my watch, and before I knew it, I was turning left. Hallelujia!

And then reality set in. First, we kept climbing. I remembered from a few years ago that there is a short climb once you get to the gravel part of the downhill. What I didn't remember was the two steep climbs that come *before* you reach the gravel, and when I saw the second one, I knew sub-9 was not going to happen. Still, I wanted to keep Scott behind me (he had apparently ripped his valve stem off with a rock, only to have Stan's seal it!), and though I was completely blown physcially, I was keeping it together on the downhill enough that I couldn't hear anyone behind me. Only I thought I did, and every small rock that pinged off my wheel was Scott, or Lee, or Brenda -- and I was almost too tired to care.

But then, mercifully, I crested the ridge and was on my way down. I pushed as hard as I could on the gravel pedal section (which wasn't very hard), and was so thankful when I finally saw the arrows pointing down. One more rocky section, a couple of fun, semi-tricky drops (only when you're tired), and then I was in the campground, the race was almost over, and I could finally relax with no one else in sight. Through the field, ring the gong, and I was done. Finally. I pulled through and collapsed onto the tread of the Bobcat that was there, the one piece of shade I could find. The Ks were there, but I was so shell-shocked that I could barely acknowledge them. I think I said one thing for the next 30 minutes:

"That was hard."

I eventually gathered myself, and Jamie's wife introduced herself. Jamie finished, and I made sure he gonged, got his Chris Eatough Coaching water bottle for being a first-time finisher, and got his pint glass. I grabbed some food, congratulated Christian, and the Ks and I headed to dinner. It took a while to feel anywhere near normal, though oddly I understood the conversation Christian had with another racer and a volunteer entirely in French while I was in line for soda. And my ankle was swelling fast -- by the time we drove home, I had a full-on cankle that wasn't letting up. And I hurt. Everywhere. Just finishing took about all I had. But I did it.

And somehow, it doesn't bother me that much. I get more worked up by broken bikes than empty bodies -- days like this will happen, whereas broken bike parts or crashes are preventable. Sure, I'm disappointed, but I'll try to look at the positive: My second half of my personal worst at SM100 was nearly as fast as my second half of my personal best -- I'm riding the downhills that much faster now. I actually ran a negative split on Sunday. So I have that to look forward to: If I'm not yet at Eurobike next year, maybe -- just maybe -- I can keep my diet together, hit Stokesville in perfect shape, and that sub-8 will be mine ...

Dialed

2011-09-06T12:29:00.002-05:00

Like I said, everything was darn-near perfect for the SM100 this year, except for me. So here are a few notes to myself about what to do if I get another shot at it:

Bike

Slant Six front, 22 psi (0.5 psi higher than normal)

Karma 2.2 rear, 23 psi (0.5 psi higher than normal)

Fork at 115/110 -- didn't get full travel, maybe 110/105?

Shock at ~140 -- maybe 23-24% sag, try 138?

New cables

Bled brakes

New cleats

New chain

Voyager lubed the night before, wiped down at hotel that morning, re-lube at Aid Sta 4

Nutrition

Start: Flask with Honey Stinger, 3x bars (easy to eat and handle), 1x 90-calorie chocolate cookie snack pack

Aid Sta 2 (reached at a slow 2:25): More bars, Honey Stinger gels (never ate)

Aid Sta 4 (~5:30?): Honey flask, couple of bars, unopened snack pack

Started with a bottle of water and a bottle of Gatorade; switch to just water throughout, getting refills/new bottles at every aid station

Schedule

Get up at 3:35-3:40, eat, leave by 4:45, start somewhere near 6:30-ish

Don't eat beef the night before

Probably ride pre-ride at home before leaving on Saturday. Packet pickup is at 4 p.m. You know the first climb, especially now that it's graded -- just remember the rocky section on the spine, and that there are a couple of small-ring steeps that are clearable if the trail is tacky

Un jour sans: Part I

2011-09-06T09:29:00.004-05:00

The French have this great expression when it comes to a tough day on the bike: they call it "un jour sans." Literally translated, it means "a day without" -- but like all things French, especially when it comes to bike racing, it really means so much more.

Sunday was, for me, un jour sans.

I maybe should have known Saturday, when my pre-ride with Jason and Zak from the Charlotte area went so well. I've got this inverse relationship between pre-ride and race day, and though I never try for it, a really tough, bad-feeling pre-race usually means I make great -- or at least good -- bike race. Or maybe ealier Saturday, when we were stopped on the side of I-81, just 40 minutes from Stokesville, as we were battered by gale-force winds and hail for the better part of a half hour. Or later, when the waitress at the restaurant just couldn't seem to get our order right.

But the moment when I really knew, when it all became crystal clear, was about 20 minutes into the race, on the first small paved rise through the housing development, when the dogs came out to say hi. Usually, I'm sitting top 10, or at least top 20, there just before we turn onto the gravel. This year, a huge group came up on the left, pushing the pace and taking Christian with them, and when I went to respond ... I had nothing. No, not nothing exactly, but ... the lack of something.

I kept after it, through the rollers, and where in past years I would lose spots because I didn't know how to ride gravel corners, this year I was losing spots every time we went uphill. We made the big left, and instead of being in the second group -- sitting top 30 or so -- I was in the fourth or fifth group, already somewhere in the late 40s or early 50s. Then we made the tight left, onto the real climb, and although they've graded it and it rode faster than ever, I was sliding, sliding, sliding backward -- until, toward the top, I was caught by a group of single speeders, some of whom were sporting Camelbaks.

Ugh.

Now, don't get me wrong. I admire single-speeders, though I doubt I will ever be one myself. And many of them can climb a hell of a lot faster than I can. But when you're shooting for a sub-8-hour finish at SM100, which will put you within spitting distance of the top 10, finding yourself among a big group of them -- and getting passed like you're standing still -- is not a good sign. At one point, I got too close to one of them as he struggled over the big rock at the top, got myself sideways, and knocked someone behind me off his line. Apologies were going to be the name of the game, all day.

I still had hope, though, and I managed to ride the ridge at the top with just one dismount, forced upon me by someone else who missed the first rocky up. This was the cleanest I'd ever ridden up there, in part due to the absolutely perfect trail conditions, and in part due to a solid bike set-up. The singletrack downhill was faster than ever, but then the small rise when we hit the gravel just hurt that much more ...

I spent most of the first loop questioning my tire choice, questioning my recent diet, wondering just what the hell had gone wrong. I was slow and getting slower -- which was pretty difficult to stomach. For the first time probably ever, *everything* was dialed -- except for me. The bike was nearly perfect (a little too much air in my fjörk, but nothing dramatic), my tire choice would ultimatley prove correct, my nutrition was spot-on (one bottle on the bike, one in pocket, drops at Aid Stations 2 and 4 with more food, water only and NO CRAMPS!), the trails were amazing ... and I couldn't make the most of it. It stings, bad, mainly because I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to race up there each Labor Day -- if my career continues to progress, I'll be at Eurobike sometime in the next few years instead ...

We hit the gravel, and I suffered my way in a small group to the base of the second climb. And then suffered my way up it. I missed the switchbacks -- again -- because I just couldn't get on top of even my smallest gear. And then I walked some, rode some and walked some more -- again, not much worse than years past, just slower. Way slower.

The second descent is awesome when you're ready for it, and I was. I was flying, probably using my brakes a bit too much, but also enjoying it more than I ever have. This was the first place where I was really thankful for my tire choice -- I blew down the chutes full bore, passing people sitting on the side of the trail trying to get themselves collected after flatting on the sharp rocks hidden under the turf. Eventually I dropped into the lower soil section, and pulled over to let a rider or two by -- and wouldn't you know it? There was Cheryl, on fire for yet another NUE win.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again -- I don't mind getting girled. There are some wicked-fast women riders out there. But I've managed to hold off Sue more than once, and usually don't see her until Aid Station 4 -- nearly 5 hours into the race. This time, though, here was Cheryl, at the 2-hour mark, and I knew two things for sure: She was killing it, and I was toast.

I followed her through the flow, and we popped out on the road. "I can't climb, and I can't descend," I told her, "but I can motor if you need a wheel." "Awesome, man," she said. And we were off.

I dragged her from the bottom of the second descent all the way to the small crest at Aid Station 1. Two more signs hit me in quick succession: first, I didn't see that many outbound riders on this long section of two-way traffic, meaning I was way further back than I have been before; and second, when we hit the downhill, Cheryl hooked up with a small group, and I couldn't keep up. This has happened before, but this time, I knew for certain that once we started climbing again, I wouldn't be able to catch them, as I had in years past. I was doing the mental math, hoping against hope that I was mistaken in some way, but I just knew, at that moment, that it was all going to be for fun. Only fun has never, ever hurt so damned bad.

Routine habits

2011-09-02T11:29:00.003-05:00

So I made a joke at the end of yesterday's post that I didn't know where to eat dinner tomorrow night in Harrisonburg. See, we've been going to Cally's for years -- there aren't many races I've done year after year, but this is one of them -- dining al fresco, listening to the tolling of the town hall bell, has become a Saturday tradition/routine/habit for Kim and I, and now Kate.

But then, thanks to the wonders of the Interweb, I found out this morning: Cally's has closed. It's becoming a Capital Brewery. What?! How could they do this to me? To us, the SM100 family? Don't we bring enough business to downtown Harrisonburg each Labor Day to sustain the business for at least a few more weeks? (They closed on July 10.)

Apparently not. I guess I know our true place in the world after all.

Oh, well -- again, thanks to the wonders of the Interweb (thanks Erin!), we have a new favorite: Jalisco's. We'll try it for the first time tomorrow!

Speaking of routines, I am well aware that I am a creature of habit. I'm naturally pretty high-strung, even moreso after some strong Breakfast Buzz from Kinetic Koffee, and I find in routines a natural repose that keeps me from exploding. Taking a cue from Dicky, I spent this morning pumping up my spare tubes to make sure they didn't have any holes, picking out new CO2 cartridges, and tracking down all the little bits and bobs that I will need to make me feel better on Sunday morning about attempting to make great bike race. The irony is that if I get to the point where I have to actually use any of this gear, my "great" bike race will have undoubtedly already fallen to "mediocre." Meh.

Tonight it'll be a quick bike wash, as yesterday's Sycamore ride down Buckhorn Gap was again a sandy mess, then packing the food and clothes I will need to sustain me for three days in the Shenandoah. Not unlike Stonewall (whom my grandmother insists is an ancestor), I plan to employ "audacity and rapid, unpredictable movements" while in the Valley ... I'll ignore that Uncle Jack started off with a loss at Kernstown ...

... and speaking of "rapid, unpredictable movements" -- last night's ride was pretty fantastic. We had a huge group, and we were motoring ... on cold legs from a few days of rest I couldn't hang with Wes and Brian (or the Kid from Brevard College) on Clawhammer, and I played it a little too safe on the gravel descent of 477, but in between I was railing Buckhorn like I never have before, and I opened up the throttle on the flats in full-on TT mode ... enough to get my front end wobbly ... it felt really, really good to be going that fast ...

So now it'll be back to my routines, as we're only 24 hours from pre-ride and the show starts not too long after that ...

My obsession

2011-09-01T09:15:00.002-05:00

Lessee ... 72 hours from now, with any luck, I'll be making my way down Dowell's Draft at lighting speed (or, at least, "lightening" for me), past the right-hander that ended my race last year and over the rock drop *without hesitation* that I've walked for the past three editions of the Shenandoah Mountain 100.

In case you were wondering, I love this race.

What's weird is that this year I'm obsessing about it. I don't know why, but for the past eight or nine days, I've changed my rear tire choice (in my head) about a million times (there are only two choices), I've gone back and forth about whether to tear down and rebuild my bike yesterday, today or tomorrow, and I just can't settle down enough to relax and focus on ... relaxing.

Föck it. I'm going to steal Kim's eyeliner and dress up as a Roman footsoldier. Do you think they make Crank Bros. cleats to fit gold, pointy-toed elf shoes?

At any rate, I finished working on the bike last evening. Recabled, bled, re-chained, fjörk re-lubed, torn grips replaced, sprayed with cheap beer ... all that's left is a shakedown ride tonight with the Sycamore crew, a light wash and lube tomorrow, and we'll be good to go ...

Speaking of shakedown rides -- I used my Kate's singletrack for the first time last night to dial in the bike. It was so much fun ... for the first 70 feet or so. Then I hit the first switchback -- dang! When you're 3 ft. tall and riding a Strider, it may be all well and good, but when you're 6'2" and riding a full 29er ... well, let's just say "tight" is the operative word here, followed immediately by an off-camber, small-log step down and then an off-camber, rock-to-log step up. If Kate does decide to take up bike riding, watch out little Koerber ...

For the record -- and I'm putting this out there to feel better in my head -- I've decided to go with the Karma 2.2 on the rear. The front is a brand-new 2.2 Slant Six -- had to go new since the one I mounted in March is losing its tread in one spot. (Good enough for training, notsomuch for a race.) For the rear, though, I was going back and forth on a Karma or a Small Block 8 -- SB8s are fast on the long gravel and road sections; Karmas offer more bite on the downhills and more sidewall protection in the rocks. They're a bit heavier, but the peace of mind they offer more than makes up for the slight disadvantage I'll have on the open sections. And Karmas roll fast -- their rounded profile means you're actually sitting up on a few knobs, rather than across the full contact patch of a SB8. This will be especially important if the Harrisonburg area gets any of the predicted rain called for in the next few days ...

(This was weighing so heavily on my mind that I actually went back to old blog photos to see what my setup was in the past. Brad ran SB8s front and rear a few years ago; I've done both Karma-SB8 and Karma-Karma ... with the Slant Six now, thankfully I only have to worry about the rear ...)

This, by the way, is my preferred Pisgah setup, though I'm using my race-ready, lighter-weight rear wheel instead of my burlier "training" hoop that I ride on the weekends. And thanks to a personal special delivery, I'll be running smooth as silk all race long ...

Now, if only I could decide where to eat dinner on Saturday night ...

It's on

2011-08-31T09:06:00.002-05:00

I'm jumping out of my skin right now.

Yes, I'm on cup #2. But that's not it -- I've been in hypermode for about 5 or 6 days now. I'm feeling good, but I'm distracted, dazed, crazed. And it's only made worse by the mini-taper I've got going on right now.

Last week was crazy. It kicked off with me losing half my Customer Service staff, floated through a quick doctor's appointment that confirmed everything is good to go with Squirt, and culminated in a super-fun weekend of riding and hanging out with a bunch of great women (and one little guy!) that included chocolate cake (gluten free of course!), ice cream and Sit-and-Spins. Whew.

And then it hit me: This weekend is Labor Day. This weekend is the SM100. And though my bike is in perfect working order, it is due to be made more perfect, and I hadn't even begun.

I shoulda' started on Monday. Instead, I waited until Tuesday -- yikes. In addition to the planned re-cable and brake bleed, I discovered a fjork that needed to be pulled apart, a chain that needed to be changed, and tires that needed to be set. I don't know what it is about the race this year, but Dicky has me over-thinking my tire choice -- I'm not normally a "gear head" -- I like to set it and forget it -- but I've been obsessing about which rear tire to run for four days now, to the point where I'm having weird dreams in which Kate and my former SRAM coworkers tell me my setup is all wrong and I'm destined to die out there on Wolf Ridge. Really.

And then -- and then! -- yesterday the race organizer sends out the pre-race brief. And I'm mentioned as a Top 10 hopeful! This may sound so silly to a lot of folks, but this is really a dream come true for me. Ever since my first pre-race brief arrived in my email in 2008, I've wanted to be in there. Of course, it only amped me up even more, and my bike work last night took on an additional level of urgency ...

(The best comment made so far is that I should enjoy my 15 minutes of fame. So true -- about 15 minutes into the race we hit the first big pitch, and then it's game on ... that's when we'll know whether I'm really hopeful or not!)

So today is Wednesday, the bike is in more-or-less almost-ready-to-go shape, I settle on a tire, I go to set it up in the workshop at work, and BAM! it blows off the rim. Liquid latex is everywhere, the tire is coiled on the floor, and huge machine that is Cane Creek grinds to a halt while everyone investigates the bomb that just went off. And it's not even 9:30. What else might happen today?

It's water day!

2011-08-25T13:54:00.003-05:00

Joy of all joys, it's water day at daycare! In celebration of this wonderful experience, here are a couple of photos from the past few weeks ... ice cream and backyard singletrack oh, my!

And for those keeping score, Squirt is doing great and is even a little ahead of schedule ...

Highlights

2011-08-24T11:10:00.006-05:00

So here's a fun thought: the weekend of Wausau24 marked my five-year anniversary as a mountain biker. Five years since my first fat-tire yard sale at Palos. Five years since I broke my promise to myself never to ride a mountain bike. Five years since my life changed completely.

That sounds so melodramatic, but it's true. Without mountain biking, there would have been no WBR, no North Carolina, no Pisgah!, and -- no lie -- probably no Kate and definitely no Squirt. The universe was pushing me toward this path that summer, sending some loud-and-clear messages that things were not alright and it was time for a change.

Thank goodness I listened.

And here we are, half a decade later. I'm still learning -- a lot! -- and still have a long way to go to polish my technical riding, especially at speed. But the trails of Western North Carolina are good teachers, the riders here are merciless, and like Keanu Reeves learning Kung Fu, I'm soaking it up and going back for more, every chance I get.

This weekend was a fantastic example of that.

For those of you who've never had a chance to visit, think of the Bent Creek Experimental Forest as "Pisgah Lite." There are enough rocks and roots to keep things interesting, but seeing as it's the closest trailhead to Asheville, the trails are a bit more crowded and quite a bit more "groomed" than what you find out in "Big" Pisgah. Even so, it can be challenging, and I'll admit there was stuff that I got hung up on when I first moved here last year.

So when my coworker told me about his little adventure race, I was sold: Bent Creek, on cyclocross bikes, with unkown checkpoints involving special tests, good food and fun folks, and -- of course -- bragging rights up for grabs. Throw in beautiful weather (well, at least until the storms rolled in!), and it had all the makings of a Hoffencross for the ages.

I'm sure the first rule of Hoffencross is that you don't talk about Hoffencross (somebody didn't get the memo), so I'll just speak in generalities here. The lead-in to the weekend was rough, with a bitch of a workout on Tuesday followed by two days off the bike for a quick trip to Minneapolis. Though we were surrounded by bicycles and bicycle stuff for 48 hours, and spent considerable time oogling the amazing infrastructure they have built in the Cities (top photo), my boss and I were without rides, and so spent time riding conference room chairs and bucket seats in our rented Toyota hybrid instead. Our flight home was slightly delayed, but we made our ATL connection and got back to the office with enough time to leave early for some bike building.

I haven't ridden trail on a 'cross bike in ... um ... five years? or so -- really, the first half of 2006 was spent tearing around Palos on skinny(er) tires and included a rough-and-tumble trip to the trails of Arizona and even a spin or two around the Kettles. But once I got on the Rush, there was no looking back -- though I ostensibly took up mountain biking to help my 'cross campaign, just one look at my left shoulder gives you a clue as to how that relationship ended up shifting pretty quickly ...

Anyway, I made it home on Friday with enough time to switch my trusty 'cross-turned-commuter back to full-on 'cross mode, mounting some age-old Michelins on even older wheels, setting the RD and swapping brake pads for a set that would actually slow me down on the hills around BC. We put Kate to bed, and I was off -- a quick loop out to Jackson Park, home of the North Carolina GP UCI 'cross race (yes, I can ride to a UCI race in my home town and no, I've not lined up for it yet), had me checking tire pressures and grinning from ear to ear remembering just how fun it is to ride trail on 700cc hoops. And damned if they didn't roll over everything! I didn't feel great after three days of travel, but I didn't feel awful either, and with the bike dialed, I was ready for the weekend.

As mentioned, Saturday dawned with beautiful skies and warm-but-not-hot temps, and a motley crew gathered at the starting point shortly before 10. We set out individual TT-style to "Choose (Y)our Own Adventure," given only two checkpoints from which to choose, and thus to begin our romp through the woods. I was a bit worried about my ability to navigate Bent Creek -- throw me in Pisgah with a blindfold on, and I can find my way to the next checkpoint purely by sound and smell, but I've only ridden BC a half-dozen times or so -- thankfully I knew where I was going first, and knew it was going to be tough. How tough? Well, there are only a few climbs in WNC that get you up toward a mile high in the sky, and I was starting with one of them.

Organizers Eric and Kelly threw in a few fun twists to the "mountain bike adventure race" format I've come to love so much. The first was that *every* checkpoint was mandatory. *Every* checkpoint had a special test. You couldn't win unless you completed the bonus checkpoint and its associated task -- not the most difficult test, but certainly the hardest checkpoint to reach. None of the checkpoints were intersections -- instead, you were given a trail name, and had to find the volunteer *somewhere* along that trail. (This got really interesting on Explorer Loop -- which way do you go to find Teenwolf's wife?) And finally -- and most maddeningly -- once at a checkpoint, you were given the next two from which to choose. You couldn't just plan your overall route and go -- you had to take into account that you may not know where the next checkpoint was.

And ... it was awesome. I definitely pulled out the map more than I wanted to, but I also caught lucky breaks on some route choices. I survived the special tests -- though having a personal trainer as a volunteer and leaving the test to her diabolical mind still has me sore, four days later. Not only did the bike (and wheels!) hold up fine, I was riding stuff on the 'cross bike that gave me fits a year ago on a mountain bike. I felt good physically, despite the travel, though the legs were a bit heavy since I just couldn't bring myself to break out the compression tights for a "local" race. In the end, I didn't get lost ... but I did lose, by just 3 minutes, to the repeat champion. I know exactly where I lost too -- for the record, if you find yourself at the intersection of 479H and 479, on a 'cross bike, climbing the wall and dropping *all* of Lower Sidehill and the new Sidehill Connector is not the fastest way to find the moonshine. Just sayin'.

I managed to make it back to the garage before the rains came, hung out and heckled fellow finishers for the next few hours, and then made the call to head home to see the girls for the first time in what felt like forever. Once Kate was in bed, Kim and I suffered through most of Romeo + Juliet; I remembered how much I dislike that play, and especially bizzare modern/Olde English mish-mash interpretations of it; and it was time to sack out in preparation for another long day on Sunday. Sleeping in is always so sweet ...

Sunday was a special test of another sort. Once I got back to riding again this month, I hit up Laurel > Pilot and then the Legends Loop (which includes Laurel > Pilot) the weekend before last, just to get on familiar trails, get the bike going again, and have fun on some tech downhill that wouldn't necessarily kill me. It went well, and though my fitness was lacking, I cleaned more of Pilot each day, getting within 9 feet -- just 3 yards, 3 rocks! -- of completing the rock garden after only walking one or two spots higher up. Sure, there were a few dabs, but Sunday the 13th was the fastest and cleanest I've ever gone downhill in my life.

This weekend, I figured I'd give it another shot, heading out for a Legends Loop-plus, climbing South Mills River instead of Horse Cove. In a complete reversal from last week, the fitness was on, but I was out of rhythm on the downhill, bouncing around a bit too much on account of being too tight with my body. It came to a head halfway down Pilot, when I dropped into a switchback too far forward and BURP! sent Stan's fluid splashing to the ground. My front tire had come unseated, and there I was with half a descent to go, worried about whether I would end up putting myself into the ground.

But ... but ... but! I got the tire aired back up, and started rolling again. And darned if I wasn't staying on top of it! It wasn't perfect; it wasn't pretty; I began to bonk pretty hard, but I stayed upright and hit the bottom half pretty hot. This was a big, big win for me, as traditionally when I get thrown off-balance I tend to stay off-balance, leading to some pretty knarly crashes and some ugly injuries that like to stick around. This time, though, I rolled it through, and though I hung up on the last two rocks of the rock garden -- just 6 feet left! -- I was feeling OK as I dropped through the river and onto 1206. I made the left turn, grabbed some food, and started to climb ...

SMR is one of my favorite climbs in all of Pisgah, and the fist part didn't disappoint. Then it got ugly, with mud bogs every few hundred yards, and the fun sort of went out of the ride. It got worse after the bridge, when I found myself in the midst of 3 miles of fresh trailwork, just as it started to rain. Pushing up to Horse Cove Gap was the only option, as my shoes became caked in clay and my fork and stays packed up from mud and leaves and sticks and debris. Holy crap did that suck.

The rain stopped, and I took a break in the stream near the top to clean off my tires and shoes. That helped, and once I dropped onto Squirrel, all was right with the world. One of these days I'll figure out those g-outs, though I don't plan on ever getting to the point where I'm three-pointing the logovers that fall after storms roll through. Laurel Creek was an absolute blast -- again, flying faster than ever! -- and even 5015 went well as I dragged my sorry ass all the way back to Yellow Gap after two full days of riding. The gravel back to the car was sweet relief, and the rest of the long evening was spent cleaning myself, my bike and our yard since it hadn't been mowed in a couple of weeks ...

The days are definitely getting shorter around here, but I'll tell you, breaking out the lights for a little romp down Trace Ridge really does the body and mind good some nights. I'm looking forward to a jam-packed September that doesn't include a trip to Vegas, but holy cow, Labor Day is next week already and as Dicky notes, the Shenandoah Mountain 100 awaits! Where did this summer go anyway?!

Slammed

2011-08-22T13:22:00.002-05:00

How did it get to be August 22 already?

Holy cow. Everyone's getting ready for 'cross (except me), we've got a baby due in exactly 2 months, and things are heating up for the 2012 product season.

Yikes!

I need to get caught up a bit around here; seems that long race report took up half the month. Geez. I've got plenty to talk about -- 3-D "imaging," quick visits to the Great White North, Bent Creek on 'cross bikes, burpees ...

Stay tuned!

Learning to Walk Again

2011-08-15T10:23:00.004-05:00

Read Part I here: Decision Point
Read Part II here: Wrath of God
Read Part III here: Gimme Shelter
Read Part IV here: Hunny

Things get a little fuzzy in my memory after that. Jeff and I rode together for a bit, until he declared that the pace on the gravel was a bit much for him -- he, too, was concentrating on riding his own race. Huge props here: Jeff was in his first-ever 24, building up to his goal race at the 24 Hours of DINO, the Indiana State Championship. Watch for him there in a few weeks -- this guy can hammer for a long, long time.

I had my crew keep tabs on him, though, not knowing him or his strengths and worried about where we stood, even with a lap between us. We might have done well to look a bit more forward, as Ron encountered chain trouble and I pulled back a bunch of time pretty quickly -- though, eventually, he pulled away again and ended up getting an extra lap at the end.

The restart was nasty, in every awesome sense of the word. There was hub-deep standing water everywhere; rocks and roots were slimy and crazy-slick; and the mud just kept on coming. My crud catcher worked wonders, keeping my eyes clear of debris, and my bike was up to the task -- that is, until I popped a spoke somewhere in the late afternoon, at the same time the axle nuts worked their way loose. I could feel the somewhat squishy rear end get even moreso, and I knew we needed to do something -- BIG thanks to Tim, who instead of sending me back out on my slick go-fast tire, offered up his own well-equipped rear wheel that thankfully dropped in with no adjustments needed ...

The course had been rerouted past the worst of it up by Checkpoint Charlie: The first five miles were exactly the same; the mile six marker came just as we entered very familiar singletrack; and mile seven now marked 1600 meters of hell. The Snowshoe trail had turned to peanut-buttery mush, and for nearly a mile we were forced to battle through and risk life, limb and body on a series of undulating up-and-overs that had us sliding sideways every time we thought we could go forward. It was crazy, and though I rode some of it here and there throughout the night, for the most part I concentrated on staying upright and walking what I needed to just to keep moving forward.

I was staying pretty calm and just enjoying the ride. The course firmed up (except for Snowshoe), and I was turning pretty consistent laps -- I may not be fast, but damn if I can't keep going the same speed for laps on end. We had a bit of an unanticipated snag with my lights when the close-in trees kept hitting the power button and changing the light to full brightness instead of my planned race power level -- thankfully, my second battery was ready to go and we had enough juice to last us more than the night. Eventually, I even started running at full brightness anyway -- after about 1 a.m. I got so tired that it was the only way I could stay awake as I slogged through the night.

And what a night it was. It never really got cold, though I rode with a vest once darkness hit. Instead, the upper-60s/low-70s produced the most amazing fog -- thanks to the reflection from the lights, it was as if we were riding with dirty glasses on, it was that close. I much prefered it to the incredible dust that has hung in the air in previous years, but all the same, it was very strange to see hoar frost forming and yet not feel chilled at all. Thankfully, Cody had gotten his generator running again after the storm, which formed a welcome oasis of light at the pits each lap.

I remember being really happy with Tim's rear tire. I remember rolling into the pits every lap, and seeing my Dad there, awake and alert. Every lap. For 24 hours. I remember seeing Tim at one point sprawled in a camp chair -- he snapped to immediately, but still it was a pretty funny sight to see. I remember telling them, "These things are harder than I remember." I remember that my knee didn't bother me beyond just a bit here and there -- but by that time, other things hurt worse. I know I failed to execute at the Sector 1 rock more often than not -- the best was probably the full-on stop that had me falling over sideways in front of a small crowd of people. I also slammed my left shoulder into a couple of trees. But I also cleaned the mile 3 rock garden over and over, and got faster that mile every lap.

I also remember that I never had any mechanicals, not one, except my wheel change. I owe a huge debt of thanks to Tim for keeping me rolling -- he was on it, all the time. This is also where I need to insert a huge product shout-out to ProGold Lubricants, and their new head of marketing, Bruce Dickman.

I first heard of ProGold about 4 years ago when they sponsored a very early World Bicycle Relief grassroots initiative called "All Sevens." Four friends -- three from St. Louis, one from Bath, UK -- rode 700 miles in 7 days from Basle, Switzerland, to the start of the Tour de France on 07/07/07. ProGold kicked them a box of lube, and I tried it on a trip to St. Louis to visit them -- and I was sold. I've used it religiously ever since.

Or rather, I did use it religiously until I got to Pisgah. The ProGold formulation is fantastic -- lightweight, easy to apply, clean and clean-running -- and worked great in the Midwest. Once I got here, though, there was a bit of a snag -- when every ride is wet, your lube tends to degrade pretty quickly. I still use ProGold on the road, but for mountain biking this spring I had moved to something a bit heavier. I wasn't as happy with it, but it didn't run off quite as quick.

Enter Bruce Dickman. Those in the Southeast know Bruce well -- "The Mouth of the South" has been announcing races for years, and has built quite a following here. This spring, he went legit and landed an industry job -- he is the new face of ProGold. It's a good fit for this Georgia company -- there are a lot of lubes out there, and if anyone can get you to listen to why this one is the best, it's Bruce.

Anyway, Bruce hit the ground running, and introduced us to Voyager -- ProGold with heavier carriers. He sent a bottle for us to try, and I figured Wausau would be a perfect test -- boy was I right, more than I had hoped. I got worried when the rains came, as I hadn't really tested it much to that point, but my worries were soon assuaged -- Voyager was up to the task, even through the standing water, the grit, the grime and the slime of 24 hours of racing, 17 of it in the wet. Tim was pretty liberal in his application of it at first, but by the early morning, pre-dawn hours, he was able to back off, as the lube was holding well and he didn't want to gum up the chain. In fact, despite the conditions, I think we managed to go the last 8 hours without re-applying -- including riding through a brief but drenching rainshower mid-morning on the backside of the course. It worked so well that I even felt confident keeping my chain on the bike once I got home, cleaned it up and re-lubed.

It was a welcome place to be to not have to worry about my bike, and to just keep things pointed forward. I got pretty bad acid stomach after about 2 a.m. -- one of my gluten-free bars didn't sit so well -- and so bringing in calories became the biggest challenge I had to face. Oddly, a bit of cold Coke mixed into too-warm oatmeal was just what my body craved, along with lap after lap of gluten-free PB&J sandwiches. This was a flip from previous years, when I focused on sugars early and didn't want sweet by the middle of the night -- but was also a major change from dealing with the gluten problems I now understand to have been manifesting themselves all these years. Huge thanks to my sister-in-law Kari, who whipped up a double batch of Allen Lim's rice cakes and got them to my dad before the race -- I didn't manage to eat them all, but they kept me going and kept me cramp-free for many, many hours.

Eventually dawn came, and true to form, I didn't have that great of a lap. I don't know what it is, but whereas other competitors speak longingly and lovingly of the "dawn lap," I dread it. It doesn't matter what I do to combat it, my body begins to shut down and I feel like I'm riding through molassas. It only lasts a lap, though, and once the sun begins to warm the land, I get back in the game mentally and physically. Which is a good thing, as Jeff closed the lap-plus gap to me just after dawn, when I was struggling, but I was able to hold him in check for a couple of laps to keep him right at that magic lap-down point with only a few to go. He confirmed that he was far enough up to close it out at 10, but even so I stayed with him when he caught back up after a short rest just to be sure.

I rolled through the pits about 7:25, turning pretty consistent 1:10 to 1:15 laps. I had been doing the math for hours in my head, lap after lap, trying to figure out whether I'd need to do 5 or 6, 4 or 5, 3 or 4 more to finish. Tim actually told me I'd need to slow down if I didn't want to do an "extra" lap at the end, and while I agreed intellectually and had been trying to ride slower, my body was in go mode, and I turned another 1:10 or 1:12 to come through with more than another 1 hour, 20 minutes until the official end. You don't finish until you cross the line after 10 a.m. ... and it was only 8:35.

So I shut it down. I rolled out on a parade lap, determined to take as long as I could to get around the course. Jeff powered by me, looking super-strong, on the mile 4 climb -- and boy was I ever glad I had managed to keep him at bay through the night. If he's able to do the same at DINO, watch out ... I walked all of mile 7 on Snowshoe, not wanting to kill myself in the last tough stuff; and as I rolled out on the mile 8 gravel section, it hit me: I finally put together a near-perfect race at Wausau, and my Mom wasn't here to hear about it.

One of the biggest logistical challenges for Wausau each year was that it is always held on the weekend between my brother's and Mom's birthdays. Three years ago, Nine Mile 2008, it actually fell on my Mom's birthday -- and in a super-surprise move, she joined us for a weekend in the woods, tucking herself out of the way, in the shade, in a camp chair, and stealing bacon from the hotel for my SRAM coworker's little dog on Sunday morning. In my 10 years of racing, she had only ever been to three cyclocross races -- such was her dislike for a sport that put me in the hospital on more than one occasion -- and so for her to be at Nine Mile for 24 hours of racing was huge. Sadly, I detonated in the middle of the night, and spent most of the early morning hours asleep on a cot set up across from the pit.

The next year, 2009, was even more difficult. My Dad was again in my pit, but on the drive to Wausau my Mom called to tell me that my Uncle Leo had died. My aunt told my Dad to stay and help, while my Mom flew to California -- we dedicated Kate's first 24 to my Uncle, and everyone who was there remembers what an emotional rollercoaster it was for me and Dad. I rode much of the pre-dawn hours with my World Bicycle Relief teammates, before my gut went bad and I needed to stop for a bit -- though we eventually regrouped and managed to put Brad into 4th and confirming his place in the national points race. I finished 5th and Todd 6th, but then the race management that year decided to only put three places on the podium. It was a harsh finish after previous podiums went five deep.

This year, as I rolled the gravel through mile 8 and into the singletrack of mile 9, I started to sing. I knew that even with my Mom not there, she was there, and I could tell she was with me in every glimpse of sunlight, every buzz of a bee, every bird I heard as the forest came alive that morning. I had done it, had put together a solid race, and while she is a million miles away, I feel like I finally found my place and can't you feel me growing

stronger? I'm pretty sure I cried my way to the mile 10 marker, and beyond, but then I made the right-left combo out of the woods and up the little hill, and I had timed it perfectly: it was 10 a.m., and I rolled across the line in 2nd place, relief and joy washing over me. Tim was there, my Dad was there, and deep down, I know my Mom was there too.

Jeff finished a few seconds ahead of me, but one lap down. Ron had blown through a dozen or so minutes before and had gone for one more -- finishing with 21 laps on one gear, the first person ever to win the overall on a single-speed. My Dad and I began the long process of packing -- Tim and Ryan helped my Dad get the car ready, while I focused on getting the bike cleaned up and packed for shipping back to North Carolina. We had the good fortune of a hotel room waiting for us, and while my Dad had planned to be there in the early afternoon, I had always been holding out hope for a podium appearance that would delay our departure from Nine Mile for a while. As the day heated up, we made our way to the awards ceremony, and it was pretty fantastic to be there, hanging out with my Dad, eating barbecue and telling and re-telling stories from the race and laughing about all the wild and weird stuff that can happen in 24 hours. And then it was my turn, and we kind of walked up together, so he could take pictures. And that's my enduring image from the Salsa 24 Hours of Wausau 2011: My Dad, camera to his eye, snapping my photo with a big smile on his face. We had finally done it, a team effort all the way around.

Hunny

2011-08-12T11:02:00.002-05:00

Read Part I here: Decision Point

Read Part II here: Wrath of God

Read Part III here: Gimme Shelter

To the pit, off the bike, dig out the warmest jacket I could find, cover my legs with towels, find a seat. Drink some milk and honey for a small recovery, snack on some food. Wait. Shiver. Focus on the positive. Stay off my feet. And wait.

My Dad, Tim and Ryan had dropped the tent to save it from the wind, and tied it down to the cooler to keep it from lifting off. So there we were, in some sort of Being John Malkovich world, crouching in a half-raised tent and trying to stay calm, stay warm and stay informed. Nobody really knew what was going on, and as riders began to filter back into the pits -- halted at the aid stations, some chose to ride back, others were forced to wait for the rescue wagon -- the word was wet, the word was cold: Even if my lap gamble hadn't paid off, at least I was warm and relatively dry longer than those who were stuck out on the course. Our Salsa tent was sandwiched between Cody Gunst on one side and Justin Lund on the other -- Cody had ridden in while Justin got a lift in the box truck. Each of us had our own strategy to deal with the stop.

Eventually, word filtered in that we were looking at a mass restart -- first at 4

p.m., then 4:30, finally confirmed at 5. With the rain tapering off, it was time to start moving; all told, I had 2 hours of down-time with no idea what it would do to my body. Would I shut down? Would I go good? What will that restart look like in the mud?

With about 30 minutes to go, we started getting ready. Tim re-set my bike for mudder conditions: new wheel, crud catcher, lube. As I stood up from the camp chair, I realized that my Honey Stinger gel flask had completly emptied all over my jersey and shorts, setting me up for the following:

Tim: "Here, let me get that." He walked over with a wet rag and began wiping down the bottom of my jersey.

Me: "Aw, man, it's all over. All over. Here, get my shorts."

Tim: "No worries, it's coming off."

Me: "Yeah, but it's Honey Stinger. The last thing I need is to be chased by bugs through the woods all night."

At this point, Jason, Tim's coworker who had been observing this whole thing, strolls over, and deadpans: "It's not the bugs you need to worry about. It's the hoards of angry Pooh Bears. They're viscious."

... and for the next 17 hours, wet chamois and all, it was all I could do to keep from laughing about angry Pooh Bears after my ass for Honey Stinger.

My dad had made his way to the timing tent, and came back with good news: My fifth lap had counted, and put me in second place behind Ron Stawicki, with only the two of us on the lead lap. None of us had been sure whether Ron, with his single speed prowess on full display, was racing the Open class -- turns out, he was, and had 12-ish minutes on me, even though I had a geared advantage. That news told me two things: first, Ron was out for blood -- he's wanted to win Wausau overall on a SS for years; and second, I had a tall order in front of me. In fact, I was honest with my crew, and told them that while I wasn't conceding by any means, I needed to ride my own race, and wanted them to keep tabs on Jeff in 3rd place vs. updates on Ron in 1st. I knew that if I started chasing Ron I'd put myself in a hole that I might not climb out of.

I pulled off a quick stop in the chalet, where the fire had it nice and warm, and lined up at the front next to Ron for the restart. It's been a while since I did a foot-down XC start, but I knew I needed to give it my all through at least the first few sections of singletrack if I wanted to stay upright and maintain my place. The countdown was on, and as Adam hit "1" I took off -- sure, it's been a while, but I remembered my Stupidweek crit training!

Here's where I need to pay Wes Dickson a debt of gratitude. Wes owns Sycamore Cycles in Brevard, and hosts a Thursday night, all-comers, beat-the-heck-out-of-yourself ride in Pisgah that has tested my limits nearly every week this season. I've ridden harder and faster on those rides than I've ridden in any race, only to blow myself up and do it again -- this is the mountain bike training I've needed to really round out the endurance riding that I enjoy so much. And in those first 3-1/2 miles of restart through small lakes, rivers, mud, rocks and roots of Wausau24-2011, every single one of those rides paid off.

I wasn't first into the singletrack, but I was in the lead group. I was maybe 5th or 6th wheel, and holy crap! I was staying with them! Ron was right there, just one or two wheels up, and damned if he wasn't getting away. I've seen him pull off crazy-smooth moves that I won't even try before, and I have to admit I was surprised as heck that I was staying even -- we were in near full-on WORS mode, slipping and sliding our way through the singletrack, and I was there.

We popped out onto the forest road and began to climb through the mile 4 marker. I did the math and realized there was still 17 hours to go -- 17 hours -- and pulled back a little from the pace we had been setting. I let Ron go as we hit the steep, and settled in with Jeff, getting comfortable and getting ready for a really long afternoon and night in the saddle. I was focused on my race, on what I could do, and concentrated on staying upright and moving forward as best I could through the wet and mud.

Gimme Shelter

2011-08-11T08:06:00.003-05:00

Read Part I here: Decision Point

Read Part II here: Wrath of God

So what do you do when there's four miles to go and Gozer the Gozerian is about to make a live appearance?

You give it everything you've got.

Like Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Zeddmore (because no, you can't forget Winston!); like Maverick and Goose; like Ricky Bobby and Cal Naughton Jr., I strapped in tight and held on for a wild ride. The bike was set up for fast, dry conditions with a very low-profile rear tire, and I knew that as soon as that rain hit, I'd be slipping and sliding my way around the course. If I could only get to mile 8, where there was gravel, I might be OK. The last two sections of singletrack might be ridable still. If only I could get to mile 8.

But I was still in mile 7. I was climbing to the singletrack that ran behind Checkpoint Charlie -- already greasy and wet from logging operations and rain the week before -- when it hit. First the trees began to whip back and forth. The bushes roiled. The clouds blocked the sun, and midafternoon suddenly became late evening. A wall of wind smashed through the forest. The temperature dropped 30 degrees in the time it took to ride 300 meters.

And then the rains came.

I had made the singletrack, and just as I made the left turn I could feel a few drops. The top part was wet already; the bottom had rocks, and I knew I needed to be smooth to get out of there as quickly as I could. As I arced across the top and began the run down, the sky opened up, and a deafening roar descended around me. At first I couldn't tell if it was just a trick of the wind, but sure enough, by the time I hit the bottom, the rain had broken through and was soaking everything in sight.

I knew I was in for it when I passed Checkpoint Charlie and the volunteers had abandoned. There is nothing more frightening than passing an empty shelter strewn with provisions as the apocalypse engulfs you. Solitary cups, already filled in anticipation of passing them to riders, stood starkly white on the table against an ever-darkening backdrop. Litter on the ground that was to have been cleaned up was now being drowned in growing, flowing streams of muck and mire. I could hear trees begin to split, tell-tale creaking giving way to sharp reports as they splintered and smashed to the ground.

This was going to be the longest sprint of my life.

I crested the small hill and started down the other side. I knew this section well from previous years -- I remember the climb up to Checkpoint Charlie being a nasty reminder that sometimes even little hills can be painful. But in this direction, it was almost all downhill -- with rolling ski trails giving way to tight singletrack giving way to the timing chutes. I gave it all I had.

Miraculously, my tires held, as the gravel soaked up the first of the rain and the singletrack shrugged it off. Standing pools were beginning to form, and as I roller-coasted my way through mile 8 I screamed and hollered with delight as I poured on the power and splashed my way through every low spot on the trail. The temperature drop and sudden rain had come as blessed relief, and damned if I didn't feel like I was 7 years old again, testing my limits in the Middle School field on an old banana-seat Sears Free Spirit Special!

Mile 9 was a blur of buttery-smooth singletrack turning to peanut butter, as I skidded and slid my way over the bridge, through the big ground hole, and up to the mile 10 marker. Just 3/4 of a mile to go: a short, fast gravel section and super-tight singletrack separating me from the end. I gingerly made the turn onto the fire road, I clicked down and stomped on the pedals, I shouted and screamed as I passed the campground with water spraying everywhere from the pools I was riding through, and I made the final left turn and focused only on getting to the timing mats. I've crashed in this section of singletrack before ... concentrate ... keep it smooth ... turn ... flow ... no brakes ... right turn ... left ... small hill ... there!

The tents appeared before me out of the mist, as volunteers ran for cover and the crew scrambled up into a big box truck for shelter. "THE RACE IS BEING POSTPONED EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY," came the voice over the loudspeakers. "SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. THE CHALET IS OPEN FOR SHELTER." Shelter? All I could think of was getting across the line ...

... and I did! Just as I came through, I was waved off the course. No one was being allowed out, those on the course were being halted at the aid stations, and waterlogged volunteers and racers were huddling under blankets and running for the chalet, where it was dry. I wasn't quite sure what was going on -- and more importantly if my lap had counted -- but I knew my immediate need was to get to my pit as quickly as I could to get warm. No sooner had I crossed the line than I noticed how cold it was, and I began to shiver violently as I coasted out of the timing zone and down Main Street.

Wrath of God

2011-08-09T08:09:00.007-05:00

Read Part I here: Decision Point

I tore out of pit row with no idea what was to come. As it stood, temps were in the mid-90s, there wasn't much wind, and the sun was shining bright. The new course layout took us first quickly south, then east across Redbud Road, through the sweet singletrack that winds forever on that side of the course. Then we headed back west, still in tree cover, until we crossed Redbud again and plunge back into the forest with a super-fun, fast bunnyhop into a quick drop. Then we climbed up the roots to the rock drop/climb, before plunging back to the undergrowth and twisting our way out to the fire road. At this point, we approached mile marker 4, as we climbed up the fire road before traversing across to the base of Ho Chi Minh.

I cleaned the widetrack steep, made the turn, and cleaned the rocky start to the singletrack climb. I was on a mission, riding smoother and faster than I had all day, but I still wasn't sure what was going on -- what storm? What weather? The thoughts in my head were getting louder and louder. Those of you who have been around long enough may remember 24 Hours of Nine Mile 2006, documented in 24 Solo, as Chris Eatough won the national championship while dodging lighting strikes and trail flooding that turned the forest into a flood plain. I wasn't there that day, but I remember watching the radar while at the Pony Shop in Evanston, seeing massive red blob envelope Wausau and put my friends' lives in real danger. So I knew that if the volunteer said "weather," we could be in for it.

And we were. I crested at the mile 5 marker, made the turn on the gravel, and felt the breeze. I could see clouds now above me. The wind picked up. I kept on turning the pedals, as fast as I possibly could. As I passed the checkpoint at Four Corners, the Mountain Bike Patrol were on the radio, and though I asked them how long I had, I didn't get a response -- and it wasn't time to stop.

I made the false flat, and kept after it to the singletrack at mile 6. This was the one section I knew from previous years, in this direction, and while it used to give me absolute fits, the Spearfish ate it up as I coasted in, tailwhipped the first roller (really!), and slalomed through the trees. Quick transition to the second half, and I was juking and jiving my shoulders through, rolled the rocks, made the right turn, popped out to the road, and OH. MY. OH MY. OH SHIT.

The sky was boiling. Boiling. From that vantage point, looking west/northwest, wind swirling the field below me, I was staring at a massive wall of black, the backside of the course about to get swallowed up as if it were night. Lighting was flashing, thunder was rumbling ...

... and all I could think of was Ghostbusters.

Dr. Peter Venkman: This city is headed for a disaster of biblical proportions.

Mayor: What do you mean, "biblical"?

Dr Ray Stantz: What he means is Old Testament, Mr. Mayor, real wrath of God type stuff.

Dr. Peter Venkman: Exactly.

Dr Ray Stantz: Fire and brimstone coming down from the skies! Rivers and seas boiling!

Dr. Egon Spengler: Forty years of darkness! Earthquakes, volcanoes...

Winston Zeddemore: The dead rising from the grave!

Dr. Peter Venkman: Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together... mass hysteria!

I had four miles to go.

Decision Point

2011-08-08T15:54:00.002-05:00

The story of this year's Wausau24 really comes down to about 5 seconds. That's all the time it took to seal the deal, less than 4 hours into a full day of racing. Thank goodness, sometimes gambles pay off.

I was more relaxed than I've ever been, for any race, going into this year's event. Which was weird, considering that the cards were stacked against me in some respects: I haven't raced a full 24 in two years; I had double, fairly physical, tradeshow duty in the week leading up to the race; I was traveling and had shipped everything I might need to Wisconsin; the course is backwards from what I used to know so well; my dad was my only confirmed crew member, and wouldn't be able to handle wrenching duties should anything go wrong.

On the positive side, title sponsor Salsa Cycles went out of their way to help my dad and me make the race. The idea that I'd be back at Wausau really began to take shape way back in February while at the Quality Bicycle Products Frostbike tradeshow in Minneapolis, when there just happened to be enough space on our return pallet to fit a Spearfish frame, size L ...

I finally got the bike built in May, and have been really digging it ever since. Salsa's got a good thing going, at a good price point, and the 29er with just a bit of full squish has really taken to the trails of Tsali and Pisgah in a big way.

I've been having a lot of "Adventure by Bike", and when the folks in Bloomington asked if I wouldn't be interested in doing a small "Adventure" for 24 hours at Nine Mile, it was an offer I couldn't refuse!

The leadup week was spent "altitude training" at two shows in Utah, both of which happened to have plenty of Salsa folks around reminding me to save my legs. Taking their advice, I missed out on a couple of opportunities to test other bikes in their fleet, including the beautiful-looking Selma and the bigger-hit Horse Thief, which would make an appearance in Wausau complete with a Cane Creek Double Barrel Air ... In the meantime, the Spearfish, an extra set of wheels and more than 30 pounds of gluten-free food were on their way to Wisconsin via the Big Brown Santa!

I flew into ORD, where my dad was waiting; we arrived at Nine Mile in the late afternoon. My fully assembled bike arrived soon after, and I was able to get out and pre-ride with just a small amount of getting-ready fuss. As hoped for, pre-ride was horrible, with minor bike adjustments leading to swarming mosquito attacks followed by a big stick in my rear derailleur causing shifting issues followed by more swarming mosquitoes! Thankfully bad pre-rides lead to great races for me ... After finally finding good Mexican food (after years of trying, and thanks to the course guy for the recommendation!), we passed out in the comfort of the race hotel until it was go time.

Eat, get ready, chill out -- it's pretty rad when your personal mechanic is the product manager who specced your bike. And his riding partner is a hammer and also there to help. Tim and Ryan would prove to be the final pieces of the puzzle for my pit, and together with my Dad kept me rolling all night long. Then it was time to line up ... and we were running. I was doing fine until the turn, when I got behind the flailing boehmeth -- oh yeah, I remember this guy! Three elbows and a flinging heel later, I was able to get away from him, just in time to funnel into the timing gates and out the other side to our bikes. Our bikes! This is a riding race!

I was maybe 15th into the singletrack, maybe a bit more, with a solid but not spectacular start. I was determined to carry the relaxed vibe onto the race course, at least at first, and see where it would take me. Apparently, farther than expected, as I rolled through the second lap in 2nd place! Third, Jeff, had just caught me, and we chatted for a bit -- but Mike and Ben in fourth and fifth were just behind and were quicker on the draw out of the pits.

So Jeff and I rode in fourth and fifth for Lap 3 and most of Lap 4, when we caught up to Mike and Ben right before Checkpoint Charlie -- about 2/3s of the way through the lap. Mike was beginning to fade, so I made my way to Ben, who absolutely killed the singletrack and eased up a bit on the gravel. "OK," I thought, "I can play this game," and I shadowed him into the chutes.

And that's when it happened: the decision point. Turns out, we had put 2 minutes into Mike and Jeff, the next pair of solos, and as I rolled to my pit, a volunteer stepped up to speak to Dad and Ryan. "Did you hear about the weather?" she asked.

I looked at Dad and Ryan. "What?"

"Severe storm coming in."

"How long?"

"An hour, maybe less."

My lap times were 53 minutes. I looked at Ryan. "Do I race it?"

"Yeah, race it."

I was off. Our fate was sealed, one way or another.

Team Skink

2011-08-04T08:07:00.002-05:00

Some of you may have noticed something different when tracking the results from Wausau24: My lap times were listed under "Team Skink." After three seasons racing for Siren Bicycles and in support of World Bicycle Relief, for 2011 things have changed a bit ... sort of.

Because of my role at Cane Creek, I'm fortunate to have the opportunity to experience a variety of bikes and components from different industry partners. To say it's a dream come true is an understatement -- Pisgah is the perfect testing ground for mountain bike equipment, and our parts cover a range of applications, so we get to ride a host of different parts and frames in some of the toughest (read: best!) conditions imaginable.

Thus, "Team Skink" was born, named after the lizard that is native to our area and has appeared in the Cane Creek logo for more than 20 years. We even saw one on our back deck the day I got home from Wisconsin! These little guys are super-quick and resourceful -- exactly the way I'd like to race. So rather than riding one brand exclusively, this gives me a chance to take our testing to the next level -- on the race course.

As you can guess, I still actively support World Bicycle Relief, and isn't it great that Siren is a valued industry partner?! That said, at races going forward, I'll likely be wearing our new Cane Creek cycling kit, or something event-specific -- this was the case at Wausau, where title sponsor Salsa Cycles went out of their way to acknowledge CC's involvement with the event and really took care of my dad and me out at the race.

So watch this space for an upcoming Wausau24 race recap, and down the line a bit of a deeper look at some of the fun stuff I get to ride these days ...

Perpetuating the pain

2011-07-21T10:33:00.001-05:00

So before Sunday, I was beginning to think that 2012 might be the year I step back and take this bike racing thing a little less seriously. Really! Not that I care any less, but I'm down to just a few "must-do" events, and wouldn't it be more "fun" to experience Wilderness or Burn or Iron Cross without any particular expectations? I'm all-in for Pisgah36, but after that I was thinking it might be nice to enjoy the weather a little more, rather than making myself work through it ...

But then Chris handed me the envelope, the reward for dragging myself up and over Iron Mountain. And oh damn, if Mr. Scott doesn't know how to perpetuate the pain.

Rather than a check, or a gift certificate, or any number of other prizes that might fit in a No. 10 envelope, my prize for 5-1/2 hours of suffering ... is more suffering. As I've mentioned before, Chris puts on a bunch of great events throughout the Virginia mountains. One of them that was on my radar but was a bit too far to drive for a "short" race in April is the Dragon's Tale -- 40 miles of -- quote -- "Tight, narrow, mossy, off-camber Appalachian sidehill singletrack that runs a tight and rocky spine like a ridgeline." You know you're in for it when the event web site expressly states that you can drop dry socks at the aid station 'cause you just might need them!

Anyway, I opened that envelope, and inside was a free entry to Dragon's Tale 2012. Now really, how can I bring myself to "just ride" an event when I've gotten a free entry? No way! So then 2012 became a little more serious -- P36 and then Dragon's Tale -- and then, oh yeah, PMBAR, Tsali, Burn ...

Now, what will be interesting, is that it's the same weekend as Warrior Creek. Hmmm ... I heard tell of someone pulling off a double last year, and the drive from WC to home is the same as the drive from WC to New Castle ...

Hey Chad, maybe 2012 will be "serious" after all? For fun?

LATE EDIT: Just got a note from SMT that the certificates were incorrect -- my finish is good for a return to Iron Mountain instead! Hmmm ... even more pain and suffering? Mr. Scott, full speed ahead!

And with that ... good luck

Among my many pre-race rituals is one that Kim and I have repeated hundreds of times. Just before I go to line up, Kim gives me a kiss, then whispers good wishes into each of my ears, then gives me another kiss. With that, I'm off.

So we've been working with Kate to do the same. Rather than a simple "Good luck and have fun" (which Kim says too), we've taught Kate to tell me "Break a leg!" She always gets a good giggle from it.

Well, on Sunday, we were going through our routine at the car before the start. I gave Kim a quick kiss, she whispered in my ears, I kissed her again, and turned to Kate, who was standing at my feet. "OK, Kate, I'm ready -- what do you say?"

She got a big smile, her blue eyes lit up.

"Daddy! Have a baby!"

I guess we have a bit more work to do.

Sunday, July 17

2011-07-18T07:27:00.004-05:00

Some victories do not include podiums ...

... and some do!
Sunday, July 17, 2011, will be a day we remember for a while in my family.

My Dad rode a bike!

Let me say that again: My Dad rode a bike! One year, three months and 13 days after an Easter Sunday ride nearly ended his life -- let alone his riding career -- my dad got up on two wheels again. With my brother's help, he got rolling, and managed a few glorious minutes spinning in circles in the street. He's still a long way from his favored century rides, and he's got some strengthening work to do thanks to his new Catrike, but what we thought would be impossible 15 months ago has indeed come to pass.

My Dad rode a bike!

Meanwhile, 700 miles away, I was doing a bit of riding of my own. A train of Gary Fisher-29er Crew members split the peloton on the run out of Damascus, and I jumped aboard as Lee rode off the front and Sam laid down the hammer. I hit the Straight Branch climb same as last year -- third in -- and just like last year, I bobbled a bit on the slick, giving up a few spots.

Unlike last year, though, I didn't fade, and set about making up the difference. By the time we crested Feathercamp Ridge, I was comfortably in a grrove; I ripped the descent into the campground; blew a quick kiss to the Ks as I motored on by on the road; climbed more of the Lum Trail than last year; and survived the descent to Aid Station 2 with just a few dabs and no forced dismounts. Woot!

I rolled out of #2 with about a 30-second lead on the next guy, down about a minute on a guy ahead. No. 11 -- Peter Kotses -- was chasing hard, and my legs were in a bit of rebellion on the never-ending gravel roads that seemed to climb forever ... somehow, somewhere, though, I managed to keep them turning. In fact, right about the exact time my Dad was riding a bike again (!!!!), I made the pass on the guy ahead. Peter was right there, though, breathing down my neck -- right at the 3-hour mark, he was within 15 seconds on an exposed section of gravel road, but then ... then ... then! ... all of a sudden he was gone. I dropped my bottle at the top of the next downhill, ran back to get it, and still he wasn't there. I was alone.

I kept my focus straight ahead, knowing I needed to power the false flats and longer climbs, and limit my losses on the steep stuff. I also needed to focus on the downhills, being smart with my tires but not getting conservative -- I'm not the best descender in the bunch, and stand to give up some time there. I rolled into Aid Station 3 all alone and with no chaser in sight ... What's that you say? I'm in fourth place? No way!

I had no solid expectations going into this race, other than to beat last year's time and hopefully -- impossibly -- score a top 5. I've always wanted to stand on a Chris Scott event podium -- I've been racing the SM100 for four or five years now -- but couldn't dare to dream ... especially as my legs went into full-on hamstring cramps as I climbed out of #3. Hmmm ... maybe that Coke wasn't such a good idea after all ...

... But I thought I knew what was coming, and I just kept looking forward. Every stick that fell in the woods, every squirrel that ran through a tree, every bird that chirped, every bug that buzzed me (and got stuck in my jersey) was my next closest competitor, and I was jumpy. I got nailed just below my right eye by a bee or a beetle going about 20 miles an hour on a downhill, and I could feel the swelling -- but I still had hours to go. No f-ing way I was going to give up on this one, not after I bailed on SM100 last year. Just keep it going, keep it smooth.

And I did. I strategically walked a few super-steeps, but I also didn't hear anyone behind me. I cleaned the hell out of the downhills (mostly), only bobbled one trail feature that I remember riding last year (I came into it a lot faster this year!), and just generally thanked my lucky stars that I have the chance to ride Pisgah as a practice playground every week. Before I knew it, I was back on Feathercamp, though the sign pointing toward Damascus said it was still a full 6 miles to go ... isn't that all downhill? ... um, no ...

Funny thing about Iron Mountain -- from last year, I remembered the first maybe 10 miles, and the last 1 mile. I had blocked from my mind everything in between. Both of the never-ending gravel roads. All of the crazy-narrow bench cut. All the damn rocks. And -- importantly -- all of the insane ups and downs of the last 6 miles. Though generally downhill, we still had to razorback the ridge from gap to gap -- sort of like a flat Turkeypen -- that is, up and down without the steep payoff. Ugh.

I hit the last gap, and the race moto was there -- hmmm, that's interesting! He told me "one more to go" -- meaning one more climb -- and I knew I could do it. I geared down and grunted it out, listening as I heard him a couple of switchbacks behind, knowing that as long as he was still behind me, my next-closest competitor wouldn't be. Just ... keep ... going ... there. Whew. Downhill from here, click into the big ring, and what the hell? Are those rocks?!

I would have sworn up and down that the last descent was a semi-clean fire road. Uh-uh. Nothing doing. This was Old Toll meets Buckhorn Gap, all small sharp rocks and boulders and wet and flying. Game on through the coves, keeping it pinned knowing I couldn't afford to lose any time. Go-go-go-go and wait! There's a body in the road!

Though he was standing next to his bike, that was the thought that went through my head. At first I couldn't believe it, but that "body" was also a racer -- who suffered three flats in the last 10 miles. Total tire detonation. Iron Mountain will eat you alive, and running 1.9s on a 29er hardtail is a risk you take to trade speed on the gravel vs. care on the downhills ... especially the last one ...

Anyway, it was Lee, who unfortunately managed to fall from a solid 2nd-place-with-a-9-minute-gap to standing there, alone, at the side of the last descent. As I passed, I didn't realize he had flatted, and assumed he had just checked up -- so I drilled it. Bombs away. Here was my chance, and I wasn't going to let some rocky, tech downhill get in the way. I rode out of my mind, descending faster than I ever have in my life. I flew through the river, floated the rocky sections, prayed I wasn't going to lose a tire, and pedaled for all I was worth. And there it was, the opening in the trees ... the volunteers on chairs ... the timing clock ... and 3rd place!

I do feel bad for Lee, 'cause I've been there. But I was also super-stoked to break the 29er Crew sweep of the podium, and after Sam showered the crowd with bubbly I'll admit I took a swig. It felt pretty good to stand on the top steps of the pavilion right there in Damascus City Park, and I have to hand it to Chris Scott for yet another awesome event. Heck, he even had his dad out there running the grill, and those hot dogs were fantastic!

As good as it felt, it wasn't until we were back on I-81 and headed home that I was able to get cell reception, and as soon as I did I saw the message from my brother.

My Dad rode a bike!

Mr. Moonlight

2011-07-14T08:38:00.002-05:00

One of the great things about living in Western North Carolina is that whenever things seem to be getting frustrating, there's some sort of amazing moment that serves as a reminder that nothing is as bad as it seems, and that there's a whole big world out there that's pretty awesome.

Thankfully, I had one of those moments yesterday.

After a couple of rough days at work, and two frustrating nights spraying foaming alcohol all over my bike (my fail, not the brake's), I walked upstairs from my lair to a house that seemed rather bright. This was odd, given that it was nearly 11 at night, both Ks were in bed, and the streetlight in front of our house is out. I looked out the window -- and I could see the top of the mountain. Wait, what?

I opened the front door and stepped outside. It was a little humid, a little stuffy, and very, very still. I was overwhelmed by the singing of the frogs and the crickets, an aural assault that was everywhere and nowhere at once. And I could see. For miles. I stepped out into our driveway, getting a clearer view to the south, and was immediately overwhelmed by the brightest moon I think I've ever seen. The holler ahead of me was shrouded in mist, but I could make out distinct details both near and far as if it were daytime. I walked to the end of the driveway, and looking back could still read the license plate of our car parked in the driveway. My shadow stood out behind me in sharp contrast -- no fuzzy edges, no ambiguity -- it may well have been noon, not midnight.

It was magical.

And it was exactly what I needed. I stood there at the end of my driveway, in my underwear, alone and surrounded by a beautiful, surreal night landscape. And I was at my house. My home. My place in the world. I let the night close in around me, alive and bathed in silver light, and the worries washed off me. I found serenity.

Today, of course, it's back to the grind, but it doesn't seem quite as bad, not as difficult ... and here, at my desk, I close my eyes and in my head I see a giant moon, staring down at me. And I know that I'm exactly where I need to be.

Happy days

2011-07-08T08:59:00.006-05:00

OK, so my blog entries may have made it sound like everything was all moody moping around here -- the truth is, that's far from the case. In fact, the last month has been pretty awesome, watching the forest come alive around us as spring became summer -- seeing the new world though the eyes of a 2-1/2-year-old is pretty spectacular!

The holiday weekend was great, as I got my night riding fix and consequently spent all three daytimes at home. Saturday and Sunday were spent on yard- and housework in preparation for a small backyard grilling get-together to celebrate the Fourth. The big rides those evenings capped off a solid month of training -- probably my most challenging block ever, and certainly one of the best quality!

Where to begin?

First, maybe by explaining this photo -- this is my backyard! It's been pointed out to me that I'm living my dad's dream: While I was growing up, he always talked about owning a wooded yard, and even transplanted massive pine trees from New Mexico in an attempt to spruce up (ha, ha) our lot. It went well -- until I ran over a couple of them with the lawnmower.

Anyway, when we started looking for a house, I realized that I shared his dream -- and so when we found this backyard -- and the accompanying basement! -- I knew we found home. It didn't take long before I started scheming -- after all, doesn't our little girl need a fun place to play in? And don't I need a test track for my bike builds? What's the answer? Singletrack!

I attended an IMBA trail building class last autumn, but it's taken until now to get this project started. I spent all day Saturday marking trail, and Sunday building -- so far, it's only about 65 feet long or so, but when complete will be upwards of a tenth of a mile or more. Not much on the grand scale, but it will provide Little K and Squirt with a nice place to run and ride their bikes, and me a fun place to play trailbuilder. And that first night ride at 700 lumens will probably frighten my neighbors just a bit :-)

(Our yard is on a slope, probably in the 5+ degree range, steeper toward the back. Without the trail, there is really no flat ground for them to ride their bikes, other than our driveway -- which isn't as fun, is it? I'm adhering to IMBA trailbuilding best-practices, so this little piece of heaven will eventually be fairly narrow, hardpacked singletrack with fantastic drainage -- and will even include at least one log skinny with alternate lines and up to seven switchbacks!)

What else?

The riding has been going well -- really well, actually. There's a bit of hitch in my giddy-up after my seatpost slipped so dramatically at Tsali, but from a fitness standpoint, I'm not sure I've ever been better. Good thing, too, with this, this, this and this coming up ... yeah, that last week of July is going to be rather insane.

Big K is good, healthy and doing well, though it's hard to believe we're past halfway and -- holy moly! -- about to enter the third trimester. Wait, what?! I'm not ready for that yet! The second one is just getting good!

Seriously, though, everything looks to be all-systems-go. It's a little weird to experience the difference in care between Evanston and here -- it's not an understatement to say we were blessed with a fantastic birthing experience thanks to ENH. Not that here is bad -- it's just -- "normal." The standard of care is high, the folks involved are pretty good, but the expectations are just ... normal. Not exceptional. That's taken some getting used to.

And as for Little K ... geez. Wow. I look back at photos from Christmastime, and I can't believe the changes. We're carrying on conversations now, we're using the potty (last night AND this morning! YEAH!), we're exploring everything, blonde locks flowing out behind her. It's awesome, and so much fun. And funny -- especially when she gets moody and doesn't want daddy to torment her ...

Last but not least, I'll leave you with this. Kim's aunt is a master at finding just the perfect gift that will drive you insane ... from the "Horny" Rhino, to the dancing Elmo, to the sqwaking duck, Kathy knows just what you need. In celebration of the Fourth, we got these little gems in the mail ...

Six months

2011-07-06T08:29:00.003-05:00

I'm going back and forth on what to say today -- I feel like things around here have gotten a bit heavy, that "life" content has taken over while "bike" content has taken a backseat. Which is funny, because it's in direct contrast to the rest of my reality right now.

Tonight marks six months since Mom died. That realization hit me last evening, when I was going back through some old training notes. I came across a couple of scattered references dating back to last autumn, a few mentions around the Holidays, and then of course the timeline of the first week of January. That triggered a few unwelcome memories that I tried to drown out with thoughts of happier times, but once the lights went down, well ... There are still some things I'm trying hard to forget that don't want to go away.

It's weird how it manifests itself. I'm not the same person I was seven months ago -- and not always in a good way. For the most part, I've been OK, better than OK even, given my personal commitment to change that I made back in January ... but then every so often, I lose it. Most days, I am as patient as can be while my daughter does one thing or another that she shouldn't be doing. But then, like last week, I go absolutely ballistic when she refuses to change her pants. Or I start crying when certain music turns up on the iPod. Some songs are known triggers -- it's the ones that catch me off-guard that are the worst.

I just feel uneven -- not unpredictable, but not completely "there" either. Detached, just a bit. I know it's compounded by the physical stress I've put myself through this month with a heavy training load, and intellectually I know it will pass, but my gut really has me wishing I could just curl up in a corner, or go hide out somewhere for a while and just process. There's no need for me to go picking fights for imagined slights from good friends. There's no need for me to be screaming -- yes, screaming -- at a cute little blond kid who only wants to wear Dora-with-a-dress pull-ups. There's no need for me to be a moody mess at work who just seems to be moping about. But yet here I am.

Six months. Winter into spring into summer. Kim's and my birthdays. Easter. Father's Day. Mother's Day. Two becoming two-and-a-half. Three becoming four.

Miss you Mom.

Water Bugs and Dragonflies

2011-06-29T07:22:00.009-05:00

I heard my Mom's voice again today.

Not in the sense that I have a recording and "heard" her -- but rather, I read her words and I heard her.

It was as though she were sitting next to me, reading them herself.

See, back in the winter of 1989, a young girl was born to a family we knew from church. Lauren's heart didn't work, and her prognosis wasn't good: She was born on December 22, and doctors gave her three days to live ... three days before Christmas.

Through some very fortunate circumstances, I was able to help save her life. I was one of just a few folks who had blood she could use, and on New Year's weekend my parents willingly drove me 50 miles each way through an ice storm, into the city, so that I could donate. I think she was one of the youngest heart transplants ever at the time, and miraculously she survived! I still have the local newspaper from then, their family's cover photo on the Algonquin Countryside.

Last spring, Lauren reached out to me -- along with others involved in her now 21 years of life. She's in college now, and was writing a book of her experiences. She wanted to include the stories of those around her, the perspectives of the people who have given her the greatest gifts. I wrote a short piece I've been meaning to write for years and sent it off.

I didn't hear back for a while, and in fact didn't really think about it until I saw Lauren's mom at Mom's service. The book was caught up in editing, but was progressing along -- Mrs. Aggen and I talked for a bit about how difficult the publishing business can be, and how once a work is submitted it becomes "property" that is not always your own. I filed it away that day, more focused on other things.

Fast-forward to last month or so, when another friend of mine -- whose mother is Lauren's godmother -- posted on Facebook that she was reading Lauren's book. Austin's Gift had finally made it to print, and "even though I know what happens," she was reading it with tears in her eyes.

What I didn't know is that Lauren had reached out to my Mom too. In what was probably one of her last bits of creative writing -- the contact from Lauren came just two weeks before my Dad was injured -- my Mom related her side of the story, how they couldn't find me because although I was grounded I had snuck out of the house while they were at a holiday party, and how we were waiting and hoping and praying for a successful outcome at the hospital.

And that's when I heard her. My Mom's voice is there, captured in Lauren's book. Her cadence, her tone -- it's preserved forever. When I read those words, which Lauren combined with mine to re-tell the story of that night, I can hear her again.

But here's the irony: Lauren is deaf. The drugs they administered to keep her alive when she was first born destroyed her auditory nerves. She can't hear, and so never knew my Mom's voice. But through her writing, I can. I never asked, nor never expected, to be repaid in any way for being able to help give Lauren the gift of life so many years ago. But that's exactly what she's done, repaying me with the gift of memory.

When she was born, our church pastor gave Lauren's parents a small book called Water Bugs & Dragonflies. Its subtitle is "Explaining Death to Young Children" -- they were given the book in preparation for telling Lauren's brother Dave that his new little sister wouldn't survive. In another crazy connection, after Mom's service, I found an old copy of the same book in her bedroom -- I think it was given to me by our minister when I was 9 years old, when my grandfather -- Mom's dad -- passed away. In the book, Lauren's mom recounts receiving the booklet, and I can just see in my mind's eye Rev. Miller's face, the pale brown/manila color of the book, and the drawing of the dragonfly on the cover as he gave it to her. Thankfully that day they didn't need it! Soon, though, I think it will be time to sit down with Kate and tell her about how her Nana was a waterbug just like all of us, and now she's a beautiful dragonfly, flying high above the pond.

Bookends

2011-06-27T08:16:00.003-05:00

7 a.m. Saturday

Kitsuma > Point Lookout > US-70 > Old Toll > Heartbreak Ridge > Mill Creek > Kitsuma > Point Lookout > US-70

Saturday we had our first of what will hopefully be many Cane Creek Heartbreak rides -- perhaps the only thing more awesome than having a coworker who lives in Bent Creek is having a coworker who lives literally on Old Toll! I hadn't been on Kitsuma since last summer (pre-trail work), and decided to check it out on my own before joining up with the group for the climb up. And by up, I mean way up. The ride opened with a 2,750 ft., boulder-strewn climb for about 11 miles, followed by one of the best descents in Pisgah: 3,100-plus feet in the next 5. I've ridden Heartbreak a few times now, in all sorts of conditions, and I can say that it doesn't get much better than Saturday's mid-70s, low humidity, and beautiful skies revealing amazing views. I can't wait to go back! Along the way we picked up a couple more folks, who it sounds like executed a rescue for one of our group who had double-flatted (the same wheel) and needed to save a family member in distress ... Needless to say, this won't be a ride we soon forget!

Just for good measure, and to confirm my initial impression, I rode Kitsuma again. And ... I don't like it. At all. The trailwork is not sustainable, the tread nicks -- intended to shed water -- are the only things that collect water on the entire trail, the backslope is shoddy, and I predict major carnage there come ORAMM. It's just open enough now that a novice or intermediate rider can get some speed, only to hit one of those nicks and lose a front wheel -- the results of which would include cartwheeling off the side of the mountain like a rag doll at 25 miles an hour. No thank you.

7 p.m. Sunday

Hatchery > Davidson > Cove Creek > 225 > 475B > 276 > 477 > Club Gap > Black > Clawhammer > Buckhorn Gap > 477 > Buckwheat > Club Gap > 477 > 276 > 475B > 225 > Cove Creek > Davidson

One end of Pisgah to the other; one end of the weekend to the other. I'll admit, I was pretty beat up after Saturday, and welcomed the opportunity to sleep in a bit, enjoy a 5-year-old birthday party at a lake house, and even get a man cave project complete before grabbing some dinner and hitting the trail. Sure, it was a school night, but with a month to go before I race through the night, what better time to try out the new lights and get everything dialed?

When I first moved here, I wasn't a big fan of riding out of the Hatchery -- now, a year and a half later, I'm in love. That side of Pisgah has some of the best singletrack around -- none of it is incredibly long, but full-throttle, techy descents, challenging climbs and beautiful scenery abound in the Davidson River valley. I still avoid Pilot Mountain Road as much as I can, but that's a post for another day ...

I crested Rich Mountain right at dusk, enjoying a quick snack before firing up the lights and pointing the way downhill. Club had gone better than expected (I'm beginning to "like" that trail!), and I knew how thrilling Buckhorn Gap would be. Black > Clawhammer just cruising, and then deep into the forest ... I kept my feet dry, which slowed me down some, but before I knew it I was slogging my way back up 477 -- and oh, man did it hurt. That's a long climb, longer than I remembered, and I debated bailing on Buckwheat all the way up. But I know how much fun Club is going downhill, and so the push up the knob wasn't all that horrible, with good times ahead ...

The descent didn't disappoint, and I was surprised at how good I felt by the time I hit 225. With a bit more time I would have liked to have headed over to Daniel Ridge, but Cove Creek is a super-fun, super-fast drop in its own right, and not a bad compromise. Davidson flew by, and before I knew it, I was back at the car and headed home ... quite a late night, but worth every minute!

Homophonic

2011-06-23T09:17:00.004-05:00

Dear fellow Bloggers ... and posters, and tweeters, and anyone else who writes stuff:

The English language is full of homophones. Which, in many cases, are also heterographs. This has nothing whatsoever to do with sexual orientation or Ancient Egyptian history, and everything to do with how you describe your activities. To wit:

I, too, rode my road bike, on the road, to two stores.

Now, I can forgive uneven use of the serial comma, or the odd splice or two, and I even get away with mix-and-matching grammar conventions myself now and then. But when I do it, it's for effect -- I know the rules, and it's my little way of getting my due for years of systematic programming. What's critical, though, is that when you do it not on purpose, you either change the meaning of what you're writing, or you put a sentence together that makes absolutely no sense. I realize not everyone is a trained writer, but it pains me when even college edumacated folks write about their rode (road) ride, or how they like such-and-such a bike to (too).

The English language is a pain in the ass, but one of its beautiful qualities is that it assimilates. It's a living, breathing organism, and the English we know today will be different in some respects in 100 years. Certain conventions, though, are there for a reason, and that reason is clarity -- I'm hopeful that the shorthand/shortcuts we've become accustomed to thanks to Facebook, Blogger, Twitter, etc., does not lead to a complete degradation of a system that can be so precise in its conveyance of meaning.*

In the meantime, I'm going to go right about that their caret I need to eat.

* This is a fun one for me. Or rather, not so fun. As with verbal communications, it's up to the sender to ensure that a written message is understood by the recipient. By all accounts, Abraham Lincoln was a master at this, and is why we continue to study his speeches to this day. I, on the other hand, sometimes find myself embroiled in debates as to what I "meant" when I write -- the popular appeal and access granted by the interwebs make this a constant, no matter the subject. It's interesting to me to discover what meaning an audience will read into a statement -- I think because of my background, I tend to think in terms of "this is what the words say, therefore this is their meaning;" quite often, that seems to have led to offense where none was intended. Regardless, I always try to find the right (not write!) words for the job.

Masochistic

2011-06-20T18:08:00.004-05:00

I try really hard not to sound like I'm bragging when it comes to some of the rides we do in Pisgah, but let me tell you, it's hard. It's a fine line between "This is what I did this weekend" and "Don't you wish you were with me, doesn't it sound great that I get to do this?"

This weekend was a little brag-worthy. It was ... painful. In so many great ways.

It started when PMBAR and DoubleDare partner Greg texted that his wife was working all weekend. The kitchen pass was signed, and all we had was starting coordinates and time. Game on.

NMR > 5000 > Trace Ridge road > Never-Ending Road > Middle Fork > Spencer > Big Creek > Sassafras > Laurel > Pilot > Slate Connector > 1206 ... and then because I couldn't get enough, solo 5051 > Yellow Gap Trail > North Mills River > Fisherman's in a raging thunderstorm that didn't hit until I was already well up on 5051.

Couple of things to note: First, Never-Ending Road does, in fact, end. You get to a point way out there where it becomes a wildlife corridor and is off-limits to bikes. Second, the new Pisgah map should be explored. Third, and closely related, Greg and I had a long conversation about whether Sassafras is legal. The story goes, it was once but has been decommissioned, but in checking out the USFS database, the new Pisgah map folks found it was still in the GIS registry and included it on the map. So though we share a strong dislike for poaching, we wanted to see what was what and decided to check it out in the least-destructive manner: Up. That's right, we went up to Laurel. Ho. ly. Crap. First I began riding like a small child on Spencer (I always do, very weird), and then we climbed on foot for nearly 40 minutes. It's been a long time since I stopped for a rest during a hike-a-bike; this time I stopped. Twice. Ouch.

Needless to say, the rest of the day was spent recovering. Thankfully, it went well ...

Sunday dawned with storms over Bent Creek and Mills River, but a mostly-dry Brevard showing pretty on the map. Greg decided to take it easy, so I headed out solo, parking at the Fish Hatchery and starting with no real route in mind. Only then it hit me: Why not do a SWANK?

475 > Davidson River > Cove Creek > 225 > Daniel Ridge > 475 > 471 > 471D > Butter Gap > Long Branch > 475 ... and then because I was feeling sassy and inspired by Mr. Janes, 5003 > 140 > 5031 ... which put me right at Farlow as the thunder rolled in and the rain started pounding, for a very treacherous Farlow Gap > Daniel Ridge ... on a suspect rear brake, and where it was sunny at the bottom for 475 > Davidson as quick as I could to meet my honeys.

It being Father's Day and all, the Ks came out to play, and we hiked to the Daniel Ridge waterfall and played in the river by the bridge before getting ice cream on the way home. It was a fantastic way to spend the afternoon, and it was fun to show Kate how to skip rocks just as my father showed me many, many years ago.

So today I'm feeling it, and my planned bed time keeps creeping sooner and sooner in my mind. I really, really need to re-bleed that rear brake, and empty the dishwasher, but you know my legs are like lead and my head is kind of foggy right now ... yawn ...

Late edit: Took a break from spraying booze all over the bike (only the Champagne of Beers will do for Avid, btw) to really look at the map. And ... no Sassafras. Damn. I'm really upset -- I absolutely take the high road when it comes to poaching; I don't even like "gray area" trails. Sustainability is way too important to me, as is our very fragile relationship with the USFS. Chalk one up to ignoring hearsay and carrying the map for myself.

Searching for a memory

2011-06-16T21:47:00.007-05:00

The insomnia is back.

Not as bad as it was in January and February, but it's back -- off and on the past couple of weeks, on for a few days before I just shut down and switch off for a long night or two of rest. But then it comes back. It always does.

On nights like tonight, when I'm keyed up from a hard evening ride and I just want to relax, my mind starts to go. It used to be that I would just think about work, or racing, or sometimes family -- but now, there's really only one thing I think about. Especially today, when thanks to Facebook's long chain of messages, I found myself looking back on notes written in January to a very dear friend of mine who knew my Mom for a long time. She was one of the first people I called that week in January, when we were still fighting. And she was one of the first people I called when we lost.

For years, I had a great trick that would calm me enough to fall asleep: I used to visualize the start of races. Especially endurance mountain bike races, which typically start Le Mans style, with a run of some distance before we start jamming on the bikes. I'd set up the scenario in my head -- 24 Hours of Nine Mile was always a favorite -- and sure enough, by the time we rounded the corner, throwing elbows and trying to stay upright on our carbon-fiber wondershoes I was growing drowsy; by the time we hit Checkpoint Charlie I was fast asleep. I'm not sure I ever made it to Flower Trail.

That trick has eluded me for some time now. Instead, I find my mind wandering, and I find myself trying hard to think of a happy memory of Mom. I know that if I can find that one memory, I can hold onto it, and I'll be able to use it over and over on nights like tonight when what I find instead in my mind are sterile hospital rooms and beeping monitors and tubes that kept her alive but was it really alive? Or worse, that awful moment when Kim and I sat in the waiting room, the only ones there at the moment, and the door opened and the nurse asked for "The Strout family." Damn it! It was not supposed to be for us!

Or worse, much worse, the dark hours that followed that I try not to remember but can recall with exacting certainty. The hours -- the minutes -- when we had to say goodbye.

So I look for other memories instead. I'd really like to find one with Kate, because I know that after years of waiting, the surprise of another granddaughter took my Mom's breath away. Dear lord, did I really just write that? But you know what, it did. The first time she held Kate ... there. Finally. There's the memory. That's what I needed.

Good night.

Blue Dot Junkie

2011-06-15T07:19:00.004-05:00

It's hard to believe it's been 3 years. I mean, here I am, 3 years later, living a whole new life, but still sitting at a computer, still spending my mid-June watching the blue dots make their way south from Banff to Antelope Wells. I can't imagine what it's like for Mary (now with a son!), Matt (now with two children!), Mike (filming again!) and the rest of the inaugural peloton that set out to rewrite ultra-endurance racing history.

The blue dots are funny. Each one represents a person, each one represents a unique journey outside the scope of what most of us can imagine. We can come close -- Ride the Divide captures so much of the story -- but ultimately will we ever test ourselves beyond the limits we impose on ourselves? To the point of near death?

I had the privilege of seeing Ride for the first time with Mary, racer/producer Mike Dion and director Hunter Weeks a year ago. I admit (to Kim's relief), this style of racing isn't for me. But the story they captured on film, the lasting images of a few brave souls making their way from snow-covered Canadian bear country to the baking heat of New Mexico, was inspiring. Awesome, in the full sense of the word. Unreal.

And so here I sit. In a year with a record number of participants, I count among the pack several close friends and many acquaintances. The leaderboard is open on a separate tab in my browser. I refresh on a regular basis -- but really, what's a one-hour refresh on a race that lasts 20 days?! I cheer on my friends from afar; I curse the satellites that don't update fast enough. I listen to the call-ins, I read the message board and blogs.

I am a Blue Dot Junkie.

Not wearing yellow

2011-06-10T14:46:00.000-05:00

I took off my yellow Livestrong wristband the other day.

This may not seem like a big deal to you, and you likely abandoned yours a long time ago. But for me, it represents a pretty big change in my way of thinking, and I’ve struggled with the decision for a while now.

Because here’s the thing: Cancer sucks.

I’ve been a cancer “survivor,” in the broadest sense of the term, since my grandfather was diagnosed with a brain tumor when I was 3 years old. Given six months to live, he managed to fight for six more years, traveling the world and getting to know his grandsons before he died. By then I was 9 years old, in the fourth grade, and “Bubba” was gone.

Let me put it another way: I have never known life without knowing cancer.

Three of my four grandparents had it. Both of my parents. Other family members. Family friends. Personal friends. Loved ones. Some have fought and survived. Too many have not.

And so when Lance Armstrong founded the Lance Armstrong Foundation, charged with the mission of supporting cancer survivors, I was on board. I was excited that here, finally, was an organization focused on the living – plenty of really smart folks were fighting the fight against the disease in laboratories around the world; for the first time, here was a group aimed at the individuals and families who were fighting the fight just to survive each day.

And when Nike introduced the Livestrong bracelets, I walked more than a mile through a late May downtown Chicago heat wave to make sure I got one, straight from the Nike Store on Michigan Avenue. The demand was huge, the buzz was bigger, and the money they were raising was going straight back to the people who needed it most. And except for a brief spell when I succumbed to peer pressure a while back, I’ve not removed my band for any reason for the past 7 years.

Until now.

See, there’s another side to the yellow wristbands: They’re inexorably tied to Lance Armstrong, the man. When folks (especially industry types) saw me wearing the band, they automatically made an assumption that I supported Lance, that I was a “Lance Fan.” I even remember a particularly thorny conversation on the way to Moab one year, in which I debunked that thought in rather strong language to someone whom I thought knew better. Because although I thought it was cool that U.S. Postal, and Lance, figured out the winning combination to Le Tour, I never really liked Lance the person: I thought he was a pretentious prick before cancer, and I don’t believe people change that much, even when faced with a life-threatening illness as he was. To me, Lance 2.0 just couldn’t have suddenly become Mr. Nice Guy.

So when doping allegations began to be heard – they started as early as 1999, remember – I dissociated my support for the LAF from what was happening in the peloton. I’ve been following bike racing – and in particular Le Tour – for the past 30 years, and quite frankly, nothing I heard surprised me. My annual support of the LAF continued, even as the whispers about Lance himself turned into a roar. And when the bracelets were introduced in May 2004, I bought mine not because of Lance, but because of the Foundation and what it stood for – to me, a very big difference.

Throughout all this, I raced my bike. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life, and I attacked it with passion. Eventually, I got to a level where yes, I was racing against dopers. Where I was getting chased down by folks who tested positive just weeks later. Where I would line up against people just back from suspension, only to have them get suspended again a year or two later.

Instead of getting bitter, I developed my own take on doping in the peloton: I was never going to succumb, and all of those folks racing dirty just forced me to work harder. Do I feel cheated? Yeah, somewhat. But let’s face it: My results in some no-name crit in Madison weren’t going to get me a contract. Eventually, I walked away from road racing in part because of the people and the culture that was all around – each week, each race, I felt I was surrounded by folks who were OK with the omerta, who were on the inside of the wink-wink, nudge-nudge that takes place at that level. It was toxic, and I was through with it.

I also developed a theory on the toxicity itself. If you follow the cycling media, it doesn’t take long before you come across some bizarre disease you’ve never heard of, contracted by an otherwise healthy professional racer. Or you read about this rider or that absolutely destroying themselves physically, sometimes years after they have retired. I have no scientific basis for it, but my thought is that the doping products racers take to succeed wreak havoc on their bodies, opening them up for opportunistic infections, joint destruction, cancer. It happens too often to be a coincidence.

And that’s where Lance comes in. Yes, he’s “never” tested positive. Yes, he’s “never” been busted. Yes, there’s no “proof.” But I’m not that naïve, I’ve been around racing way too long, I’ve seen everyone around him get caught. I’m not stupid. I had a personal interaction with a member of Lance’s Tour squad several years back that gave me pause, made me think it wasn’t as red-white-and-blue as it seemed to be on the TV. The junior program Lance and many of his eventual teammates were a part of was dirty as hell, and in my mind, it’s the reason he got cancer in the first place.

But OK, even if that’s the case, we all engage in risky behaviors. I smoked for 10 years – if or when I get cancer myself (I’m a walking genetic time bomb after all), do I reject outright any good I might be able to do? No. So if Lance got cancer because of doping, does that mitigate the influence of the LAF? No – to me, they were separate things. One does not in any way forgive the other – LAF may be good but it does not apologize for Lance being a doper. In my mind, I could support one without the other.

Until now.

It really started for me when I read Bill Strickland’s latest essay in Bicycling magazine. Bill has been a Lance supporter, to some extent, for a long time. But in a recent issue, he finally admits that he’s been swayed: He believes Lance doped. An inside source made it pretty clear to him. And so Bill drew the line.

Simultaneously, media coverage of the Novitsky investigation picked up steam here in the U.S. 60 Minutes ran a piece in which Tyler Hamilton, a convicted doper himself, says he saw Lance dope. Even more damning, and yet to be refuted, is that CBS also reported that George Hincapie – Hincapie! – testified against his former team leader to a grand jury. Everyone so far has been an admitted doper themselves – Andreau, Landis, Hamilton – and may have had an axe to grind against Team Lance, but now, Big George may have come clean. And Lance lawyered up – he already had a legal team in place, but all of a sudden his representation took on a criminal-experience edge. He’s getting ready for battle, even if their first salvos have fallen pretty flat.

There’s one more piece here that makes it personal. There is one more Postal Tour team member who has testified against Lance to the grand jury. He has yet to be named. I think I know who it is, and he’s not a big enough personality that the media would grab onto it. But if I’m right, I’m sure this guy would tell the truth. And while that may be hearsay from a law point of view, to me it would be the final word. And that word is guilty.

So what changed my mind about the yellow wristband? None of this is proof, none of it is really anything new for that matter. Why now?

Oddly, it came down to a comment on a VeloNews forum. I can’t even remember the article it was referencing, but the commenter made a valid argument that got mixed in with my own and mutated. So I changed my thinking – or rather, I finally made up my mind. I reconnected the two entities: If Lance doped, not only did it give him cancer (in my mind at least), it also enabled him to win the Tour a record 7 times. AND – and here’s where I changed my mind – it was that winning that gave him a platform to start the LAF. It was his ill-begotten fame (notoriety?) that allowed him to raise millions toward cancer survivorship support. With that connection made, all of a sudden that feels like blood money to me.

I need to do some more thinking about my feelings toward the LAF. But in the meantime, the wristband has come off – oddly, the most difficult part is that I’m really superstitious, and I’ve had a run of amazing racing while wearing it. That short time I didn’t? The riding didn’t go so well. I hope this time will be different – at least this time, I’m doing it for myself.

I’m sad that I have to write this. I’m sad I have to think this through, to this extent. For 35 years now, the specter of cancer has held sway over me and my family, and I’m sad that I feel doubt toward an organization with a mission as important as the LAF’s. Maybe at some point I’ll change my mind, and be proud to show my support in some way. Maybe another organization will step up.

But for now, I’ve taken off my yellow wristband.

Signs you are (or are becoming) a Pisgah local

2011-06-07T09:00:00.003-05:00

Random thoughts from my romp through Pisgah on Sunday. I'll add to this list from time to time, I'm sure.

SIGNS YOU ARE (OR ARE BECOMING) A PISGAH LOCAL

You carry extra "required" equipment in your Camelbak on all rides, no matter how short, just in case there's a random gear check.
You have ridden Curtis Creek Road for any reason on any day other than the second-to-last Saturday in July.
You name your children after famous trails. ("Laurel," "Trace" anyone?)
You know where the secret beer stashes are located.
You can figure out Clay's adventures based on the photos he publishes, even when he's being sneaky.
When you see a baby bear, you don't think "awww, cute" ... you think, "oh, crap, where's momma bear?" and immediately scan your surroundings.
You know that Charles Frazier writes fiction, but you also know exactly the location of every place he describes in Cold Mountain and Thirteen Moons.
To you, "Squirrel" is not an animal.
But Wes is.
"Bent Creek" is not Pisgah. "Mills River" is not Pisgah. Only Pisgah is Pisgah. And you know what that means.