Stale Fish: The Masters Wreck at Derby City

Artwork Courtesy of James Billiter

I covered my eyes.  I’m certain that’s where the realization set in that my friend and teammate may be paralyzed.  I paced.  I rested my head in my arms along the course fencing of the start/finish straight.  Little clips trickled into my ears.   “I’m a doctor.”  “He’s complaining he can’t feel…”  I didn’t catch the rest.  Emotion overcame me.  I spotted teammate Gerri on the other side of the course.  We had a good weepy hug as the EMT’s carefully went to work. 

Nate was stale fish on the ground.  They already had a collar around his neck.  I looked back, with his arms at his side, his legs shook.  Shock I presumed.  Fuck man, just fuck.  I wasn’t angry.  I feared the worst.  I didn’t want to make that phone call.  Someone handed me his glasses.  I snagged his Garmin off his bike and tucked both in my jersey pocket.  Gerri helped getting a plan together.  I hopped on my bike with inoperable brakes and coasted back to the start to collect my grid bag and thoughts.

As of this Monday morning, Nate spent the night at U of L Hospital.  An MRI showed a fractured vertebra in his upper spine.  Thankfully, he can move all his parts.  He was alert, coherent and concerned about his bike.  Despite complaining of intense shoulder pain, the news sounded somewhat positive.  Granted the possibility of surgery and rehab still looms, at the moment it appears our buddy Nate escaped the most serious of injuries.  Looking at his bike and helmet, it looks as if he sprinted into a wall at 30mph.  When I put the bike on my roof rack, the drivetrain was in the 53x17 gear. 

Derby City Cup Masters Wreck 1 by Kent Baumgardt

I saw the wreck unfold firsthand.  Despite the ruckus over the large mixed fields at the MudFund Derby City Cup, I don’t think those things had anything to do with it.  It was the simplest thing really.  A rider hooked a wheel at the front which cascaded into a chain reaction full-gas pile up. 

I personally knew 90% of the riders in the first four rows, and at least two more rows behind me.  Look at the call up list for Wave 6.  Granted not everyone on the list started, but all of those guys at the front, masters and juniors, are good riders.  Most of them I’d equate with sticklers for etiquette.  They know to hold a line and not to make unpredictable moves.  With the callups based on points, at least the first 8 rows were sorted by speed.  Additionally, throughout the last two weekends with Cincy3, every junior I raced with passed cleanly.  Between a bunch of USGP’s and Worlds, most of these guys have done this same long paved Louisville start at least 10 times.

Derby City Cup Masters Wreck 2 by Kent Baumgardt

Based on Saturday’s start, the first few hundred meters of the course were key for position in the race.  Everybody on that start grid knew we had a long paved start, a soft curve onto a long downhill straightaway.  From there, the course made a huge soft left hand U-turn before getting into the first pinch point on the course.  We all knew the position you held going into the first chicane was more or less within a few riders you’d have up the steps, through the first sand and over the flyover before you’d have another big chance to make passes.  Still I don’t think the speed at the start or the jostling for position in the first few hundred meters of the course was unusual or overly aggressive.  Yesterday, the wreck happened not much more than 120 meters or so from the grid, 3 or 4 shifts, and a mere 10-15 seconds into the race.      

Derby City Cup Masters Wreck 3 by Kent Baumgardt

I cannot say it was a bonehead move.  Someone hooked a wheel.  Only the rider who hooked the wheel in front of him knows the circumstances.  Maybe the rider in front hit a crack in the pavement or a rock.  Maybe that rider came out of a pedal or his hand slipped off his bars.  From what I remember seeing, the hook was subtle.  It was not a big sweeping move from right to left, more a matter of inches.  The wreck happened before the announcer’s trailer, way before the bend to the left and onto the grass.  I don’t know if the rider in front slowed, moved right or if there was something unseen that happened miliseconds before it caught my eye.  Regardless, two riders made contact.  The rider in back went down.  I don’t recall seeing the front rider go down. 

Front end of Nate's bike caved in

I started on the middle of the 4^th row.  My BioWheels teammate Mike was 3^rd row and to my left.  My teammate Steven was a row behind and to my left.  Nate, registering late, had a 92^nd call up.  With some no shows, I’m unsure of where he lined up on the grid.  In front of us was a who’s-who of the region’s top masters and a handful of seasoned juniors. 

At the whistle, a rider in front of me was a little slower off the grid, nothing unusual.  That held me up for a fraction of a second.  I got around on the right.  Clicking through gears, I remember seeing the two sides of the front open up.  The middle held more traffic.  Feeling the flow of the race drift to the left, I was now out of the saddle sprinting maybe just left of center. 

I saw the hook slightly ahead of me and just to my left.  A rider in front moved slight right to left and snagged the wheel in front of him.  I honestly can’t recall even a jersey color and would rather not speculate.  As he fell to the left, he went into someone else coming up from behind.  Those two went down and collected a 3^rd rider.  Three riders and bikes slid across the pavement in front of me.

Chris King Headset Cracked

You make split second decisions.  I was sort of boxed and heading straight for them.  At this speed, likely close to 28mph, there was no way I could change my line fast enough to avoid them and not take out guys on either side.  I threw my weight back, braked and aimed for the least obstructed part of the pile, the rear end of a bike in my path.  I didn’t make it.  I fell down on the other riders with my left side.  My bike rolled up and over.  I tried to curl up in a ball and cover my face.  The rider next to me did the same, hidden under a cage of frames.

Then the impacts came, seemingly endless, one by one.  Oof.  Ugh.  I caught a glimpse of Nate’s kit on my right.  Mmmph.  Ugh.  The weight of people on top of me compounded.  I heard a young man scream out.  Frames dug into my hip and body.  They just kept coming, hitting, landing, rolling over.  I worried about being crushed.  Boom.  Bam.  I could hear the crowd gasp.  My teammates Steven and Mike, starting more to the left, avoided the serious wreck, but got caught up in the course fencing.  Both got free and continued racing.

Crack halfway through downtube at BB

Then the bodies stopped falling on me.  With the clop of bike shoes on pavement, riders scrambled to pull tangled bikes off the top.  I shouted at someone, “Hey!  Hey!  Be careful.”  A call went out for medical.  I could see my shifter stuck in someone’s wheel.  As far as we knew, the race was still on.  From the ground, I helped to untie the bikes.  The weight was still heavy.  I just wanted to get out from under as quick as possible.  It was freaking me out.

It seemed like minutes passed, but I’m sure it was only seconds.  I was able to wriggle out from underneath.  Nate still lay on his back, I think propped half on top of a bike.  I found my bike along the fence.  The rear wheel had come out of the drops.  I fixed that, but couldn’t reattach the brake cables.  My front brake pads were stuck under the lip of the rim.  I was done.  That’s when I turned to see Nate.  The sight made me sick with worry.  I couldn’t leave him. 

While Nate does have insurance, copays and deductibles for a serious visit to the ER probably wasn’t in the fall budget.  Not to mention, his custom Indy Fab Planet X is ruined.  A fund has been set up to help him out.  I’m sure he’d appreciate your generosity.  Click here for more information.

Joe Bellante

Update as of 3pm 11/11 from Anna: "Final X-rays came back and no serious damage to any of the discs. A lot of ligament damage so he will be in a neck brace for awhile until that heals. Won't be going home yet today but hoping tomorrow. No surgery!!!!! Very happy. We want to thank all of you soooo much for all you are doing. We got the best friends in the world and so proud to be part of the amazing cycling community."

That Happened: A Wknd w/Legend Paul Curley

Tsali, our cat (named after the 2^nd best mountain bike trail in the world) is on my chest.  I’m pinned down like he owns me.  He knows I’m not moving.  A human kitty bed, I drift in and out of sleep. I finally caved after a weekend of cycling goodness.  Periodically I hear the hostess at Eli’s BBQ a few blocks from our house announce over the PA that someone’s food is ready.  The blinds are drawn.  The ceiling fan spins.  The cool leather couch soothes my slightly sun parched skin.  I would spend the next ten hours like this.  I showered, made a giant vegan protein smoothie with frozen berries, the cat saw his opportunity and I succumbed.  At 8:30pm, I got up to buy a six pack of Bells Two Hearted at my wife’s request.  The dude abides.  The Bells was a cool reward for her MS150 and my impromptu weekend riding with cyclocross legend Paul Curley and friends. 

Paul Curley hand-slung me.  Wha?  Huh?  The multi-year Cyclocross 55+ Masters National Champion joined us on the BioWheels bike shop Saturday Morning Beatdown.  He was in the Cincinnati area visiting family and called the shop to find an area ride.  With gray hair peeking from his helmet, stars on his shorts and an old Verge CX series jersey, he pedaled stoutly on his small black Cannondale.  His skin looks a bit weathered.  His stocky legs have seen a million miles.  I flicked my elbow.  He pulled through.  He can still pull his weight on the local racer ride.  He rode smart, doing work when he could, sitting on when prudent.  Periodically, like with any guest on the ride, I’d pull even and give him heads up about a particularly nasty stretch of road, an upcoming hill, or wicked descent. 

A Track Hand Sling

On a rough winding farm road in Cincinnati’s Little Miami River Valley, a rider punctured in front of Paul and me.  I coasted back to make sure the rider had what he needed for the fix.  He waved me onward.  Looking back and seeing me trying to bridge my way back up, Paul, the seasoned vet, drifted slightly off the back of the speeding bunch and extended a hand.  “Is this really about to happen,” I thought.  With a thumb up and the back of his hand facing me, this wasn’t going to be a handshake.  This was a straight up Madison style hand sling.  I took a few hard pedal strokes.  With my left hand, I grabbed firm and he hand-slinged me within reach of an easy catch.  He jumped in my slipstream.  The group slowed slightly through a corner and we were both back on.  I get goosebumps thinking about it.  Yes.  That happened, a legendary experience with a legend.  I never expected to ride with him again. 

“Is that Paul Curley?  It is!”  JBV Coach Chris Mayhew was wrapped up in the garage right up until the moment the group rolled out of Loveland.  I was invited on this Sunday ride along with other clients and friends of the JBV coaches who held a clinic the day before.  Chris, maybe too busy with coffee, didn’t catch that Paul’s sprinter type van was parked down the street.  Paul had been planning on doing a nearby race.  It was cancelled at the last minute, so he decided to join us.  It wasn’t until we were rolling through the tunnel of trees of the Little Miami bike path that Chris pulled off the front, only to have Paul roll by on his right.  I was no-handed on the back tucking my arm warmers into my pocket and saw Chris’ double take first hand. 

The genuine excitement was priceless.  The phone came out.  There was a pat on the back, smiles, maybe a tongue in cheek muttering of “go back to the front I’m just a washed up old man,” and a moment was made.  Later, Paul asked me what I did for a living.  I mentioned we had met once before mud covered in the pits at the Masters Cyclocross World Championships in Louisville two years ago.  He was just one of the bunch yesterday.  We traded pulls up the long climb into Devou Park.  To my left sat my teammate Jason, to my right cross legend Paul Curley.  Surrounded by friends and clients of JBV coaching, the Cincinnati Skyline framed a scenic 4 hour 70 mile Sunday ride.  If I had a bucket list, this would’ve been on it.  However, sometimes it’s just as fun to make the most of opportunity and write the list as you go through life.  It seems to work for Paul.

#Sub9DeathMarch BioTrain™ Derailment

Special Thanks to Hydrapak

You can’t cheat death, unless you ride with a friend who knows the Heimlich maneuver or carry a backpack defibrillator.  Judging from the size of some hydration packs Saturday, maybe some were prepared for anything.  Consequently, as team Grand Poobah of the BioWheels/Reece-Campbell Racing Death Squad, I’m beginning to rethink the BioTrain™ approach to the Sub-9 Deathmarch race in Hoosier Nat’l Forest.  Last year the BioTrain™ stoked fear in the leaders as we passed like an 8 man bobsled.  This year the BioTrain™ was as imposing as the matinee performance of “Thomas the Train” at US Bank Arena.  Three flats, a broken spoke, two wipe-outs, and a missed turn dashed our 2012 Deathmarch dreams.  For full 2012 Sub-9 Death March results click here.

Last year the BioTrain™ proved somewhat successful on both fronts.  Our 8 man gravel-singletrack-pavement eating paceline placed in the top 12 or so and gelled our team around a common goal.  This year we had fun, but only the duo of James Biliter and Nate Mirus who were driving the train at the time of the 2^nd derailment, had any success.  Being strung out and regrouping after my flat on lower Combs road, a mile later the BioTrain™ came off the rails at the gate.  Dan flatted, our 2^nd of the day less than four miles from the start.  Being driven by ADD, testosterone and adrenalin, Nate and Jimmy never heard the 2^nd call of a flat.  The train of eight was now 2 and 6.  Despite soft pedaling on the front and hair raising riding from the rear it would never be recoupled.

A few loose rules guide the BioTrain™.  1) The train stays together until the last cemetery, Fleetwood, about eight-tenths of a mile from camp where the all-out death sprint between BioWheels/Reece-Campbell racing teams commences.  2) If one gets a flat or mechanical, we all stop.  The thinking is, the bunch will ride faster than a duo and it’s more fun to ride in a bunch.  3) The BioTrain™ is not perfect.  Rule #2 is subject to cases of the very contagious ailments of Multipleflattus, Gappingthegroupus and various hearing impairments.

Who's Got New Pearl Izumi Shoes?  This guy!

On the fun front however, the BioTrain™ is a Billboard Top 100 hit with a bullet.  Had we rode the race in pairs, the guys would’ve missed my teammate Dan Pike’s mesmerizing 40rpm cadence in a gear that would make Jens Voigt and Fabian Cancellera curl up in fetal positions rocking in the corner sucking each other's thumbs in fear.  Dan may appear to be 5’ 1” and 160lbs, but it’s all quads and hammies, baby got back.

Like a NASCAR Replay, right now all the guys are remembering the BioTrainWreck™.   Driving the train on the Nebo Trail between Elkinsville and Berry Road, still in attempt to close the gap to our two teammates a few minutes up the trail, Brian Colliers clipped a buried log right in front of me, sending him over the bars.  He didn’t stop tumbling through the briars till everyone and the caboose passed him.

Slim Jim Hand-Ups In Effect

If it weren’t for Jason Mott’s suggestion that we ask for a tin snips the next time we see the Sub-9 Scooby Doo van, I may have suffered a bit more than a severely out of true wheel and an inoperable rear brake for the last 30 miles of the race.  I broke a spoke after Robinson and had open wheel surgery just 2.5 miles later at the fire tower.  As he snipped the dangling rattling spoke, my vegan self discovered the next best thing to GU energy gels, Slim Jim’s.  Survival mode.

Had Dan and I been solo, I would’ve missed Steven Gers bedrock cracking wreck in my rearview.  On trail 14, enroute to Calahan Cemetery, like a 145 pound sandbag dropped from hot-air balloon, he hit a buried log and augured himself into the ground with a singular whomp, followed by a silence so profound you could hear the frogs croaking five miles away at Coronette Cemetery.

If you think you're fast changing a flat, imagine three guys changing a flat.  Like the “athletes” in a NASCAR pit crew, with brain surgeon precision, they danced around my bike.  While I, the flatter, dug out my spare tube, the wheel guy pulled out the old tube while the air-guy dug out a cartridge.  I handed the new tube to the air guy, who aired it up a bit and passed it to the wheel-guy.  As I stuffed the spent tube into a pocket, the wheel-guy held the tire while the air-guy finished it off.  It came together and we were riding again in three minutes.  Sometimes three heads are better than two.

If it wasn’t for Kris “Karwash’s” flat on Polk Patch which was perfectly timed with our entire bunch bombing downhill and overshooting Trail 14, we wouldn’t have had the 10 minutes for a few of us to turn around, take a natural break and..."Oh, look there it is!"...stumble upon the trail.

You know what?  On second thought, after looking at the pictures of two grown men who look like kids playing in the woods, maybe we did win.

#CXMasters2012 A Softie Riding Hard

Shielding my tears from two young girls no doubt waiting for their Dad to cross the line, I broke down after the finish at the Masters Cyclocross World Championships in Louisville.  When I told my wife about wearing my emotions on my jersey sleeves at the finish she rolled her eyes.  She knows me.  I also cried on my wedding day.  My shoulders rattled with man sobs and sniffles.  A photographer snapped pictures of the newly crowned 45-49 year old Masters World Champ Don Myrah next to me but I swear he snuck a click or two in my direction.  I wiped my face, mixing tears with mud and put my head in arms atop my handlebars till it passed.  Under it all I smiled.  Like my wedding day, I was happy.  My friends and family will tell you I’m a softie.

I remember seeing the Cycling Dirt video of Adam Myerson after an east coast race.  Completely emotional, torn apart and crying, he was upset that he thought that day was his day.  Oh please spare me.  He made the lead group in the Elite race only to have one small thing derail his hopes.  He was crushed under the thoughts of all that training, practice and meticulous attention to detail seemingly being of no use.  All he wanted was that one good day on the bike.  I rolled my eyes watching the video.  It’s just bike racing.  There’s always another race.  That's what I thought until my day came.

“Do you want me to put it on you?”  Barb, one of the Worlds organizers and a Louisville race promoter, offered to drape the finisher’s medal over my helmet.  I chuckled and sniffed.  My buddy Jimmy talked about finishers medals on the trip down and how bullshit they are.  He told me he once turned one down, dismissing it by saying medals should only go to the winners.  I remained indifferent.

Smiling, Barb held it out, a white enameled medallion hung from a red, white and blue ribbon.  She recognized me as her “results runner” from the USA Crit Series at Cincinnati’s Hyde Park Blast.  Being close to many of the Papa John’s team riders from Louisville and knowing practically every rider in the Ohio Valley racing scene, she knew first hand all the hill repeats, practice dismounts, and garage trainer nights that brought me to this moment. 

The Pink Pony Pit Bike

The same feelings that Adam Myerson wrestled with on his bad day were welling up and spilling out from me.  It’s not just a bike race.  World Championship or not, it really has nothing to do with the race.  It’s all those hard-guy miles, intervals and practice carries that come back at the finish line to give you one last kick in the ass and slap across the face.  Just when the dues are paid, you get one last call from the collection agency, and like Myerson, I paid in tears. 

At the beginning of the season, all I wanted out of Nationals and Worlds was to be competitive with the best my age.  Seeing the names Fred Rose, Mike McShane and Jonathan Card on the prereg list, I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but after racing the USGP in Louisville that I could stay within 2 minutes of them.  Concrete, specific and (hopefully) attainable, I set my mark on the top 35 and the lead lap at Nationals and Worlds.  That’s not too much to ask from my Sven Nys prayer candle.

Then former Olympian, Don Myrah crushed the field on the 9am frozen ruts at Nationals in Wisconsin.  Even though we weren’t lapped, we probably would have been.  My teammate Mike and I were pulled, officially 2 laps down, 40th and 41st.  I hit the deck three times that day and more course marking stakes than I can count.  Still, I felt good with my ride.  However anticlimactic and disappointing, I still had one more chance, 500 miles, 2 loads of laundry, and 1 bike cleaning away in Louisville.   

"Onetago" Courtesy CXMagazine.com

“Onetago, onetago, one-to-go!”  The announcer shouted as I got the bell.  I buried myself on that last lap, gained three spots and lost two.  I went no handed over the line, clapping my hands, applauding for myself.  I cruised into the finishing chute on the lead lap and the 29^th rider to cross the finish line at the 45-49 year old Masters Cyclocross World Championships.  I nodded, wiped my nose on my armwarmer and Barb slipped the medal over my helmet.  

Challenge Limus: The Waffle Making Miracle Tire

It’s August 26th.  Do you know where your Limus Is?  It’s the greatest thing since the first hipster picked up a hacksaw, it’s the Challenge Limus.  The way cyclocrossers are snatching up this new mudder, you’d swear it could cook Belgian waffles on Sunday mornings.  From all the hype I’m not entirely convinced it wasn’t originally an Apple product, the iTire.  Seriously hup-hupsters, it’s a tire…not the 2^nd coming.

Mythically speaking, Limus is sort of a god, the personification of starvation and hunger.   It also means mud, slime or muck.  Combined, Limus is a Greek God hungry for mud.  Bow down.  All hail, the miracle tire is here.   If you don’t have one, prepare for doom, the rapture of crosspocalypse.

Crossers see it as second coming of our Lord Rhino.  At about $30 less expensive with the same amount of bite of the demi-god Dugast and available at the 33 UCI size limit, the Challenge Limus seems like it will get you through anything including bunny hopping alligators in a swamp for $95 each, or about the same price as the tires on my 4-Runner.  There’s no question it can level snotty off camber corners and allow you to ride up the side of a mud-hut in the CX Grand Prix of Slopville. 

You should know the Limus has limits, like you'll probably still have to train for cyclocross racing.  Before you sharpen your elbows for the checkout battle at your local bike shop, here is a list of miracles the Limus can’t perform: make it snow in September, cook waffles, shave the elusive patch of hair on your hamstring, turn grey bar tape white, ring cowbells when you need them most, stop your carbon fork from shuddering, mail you an upgrade sticker, give you calves the size of grapefruits, locate the knee warmers you left at the start line, ensure the race announcer pronounces your name correctly, keep your sunglasses from fogging up 100 meters from the start, get you home from the race at the exact time you promised your wife you would be home and be useful on the concrete known as September race courses.  Other than that, it’s perfect.

Dude, Where’s My Giant Foam Thumb?

It’s the if-then philosophical algebraic method of cycling.  If you don’t have a spare tube and air, then carry a cell phone.  If you don’t have a cell phone, then ride with friends who do.  If you don’t have any friends…uh…you should either have two Nike’s or a giant foam thumb sticking out of your jersey pocket.

Occasionally I ride with Dude.  Dude’s cool and a steady strong heads up rider.  Dude is new to town and lives in an adjacent neighborhood.  Dude and I aren’t Facebook besties.  Dude doesn’t feed my cats when I go on vacation.  I don’t know Dude’s full story.  Our conversation has never went past paceline pleasantries.  I don’t have Dude’s number nor know his address.  He doesn’t know mine.  We’re like barbell friends, on the opposite ends of the same group ride.  I show up when I need a moderately paced civil ride.  He shows up when he wants to ride with familiar faces.  I’ve been the new dude, dropped between Loveland and Morrow my first year in town and sympathize. 

Dude’s hamstrings and quads are big enough to be featured on the sale poster at the cannibal neighborhood deli.  Friends on the ride marvel at his beef sticks.  Nicknames like Dude-asaurus Rex and Hamhock don’t even come close.  The legs of his shorts should be reinforced with Kevlar.  After a recent ride, he may consider running a motorcycle chain. 

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I equate riding in Northern Kentucky like this.  Take a piece of paper.  Crumple it up in a ball.  Unwad it and there you have a topographical map of NKY.  On your typical everyday Northern Kentucky riser, Dude got up on the pedals, took two stabs and the chain snapped.  Pop.  We turned to see Dude doing the top tube dance of death.  Putting a foot down, he saved it without injury.

“Anybody got a chain tool,” someone asked.

Silence.

Tonight 6/22 in Cinti Click For Info

5 riders, an hour and a half from home and no one has a chain tool nor a spare pin nor a quick link.  In our defense, 4 of 5 don’t have the legs to break a chain.  To be sure there wasn’t a pin rattling around somewhere, we checked our saddle bags.  Nope.

“Dude, you got anyone you can call for a ride?”

Nope.

Dude’s new to town, living single in the city.  We’re his friends.  We’re all here.  So we did what any good riding buddies would do.  We left him.

Well not really.  Being at least an hour’s walk from the nearest intersection with a stop light or anything you could remotely call a town, we advised him to sit tight on this tiny road in Nowheresville, KY.  In two hours one of us would come back in a car to pick him up. 

“Dude.  What’s your cell phone number, so we can call and find you when we’re on the way back with the car?”

“I don’t have a cell phone on me.”  Dude quickly added, “Who am I gonna call?”

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We desparately held back the dumb found looks.  He’s serious.  Who’s he gonna call?  Dude was so matter of fact about it.  I tried to wrap my head around the fact that, if it wasn’t for us, he was completely prepared to walk home, like it was no big deal.  We figured he was at least 27 miles or a brisk six hour walk from home in bike shoes, 90 degree weather, with one water bottle.  Dude started asking about the fastest route back by foot.  If that’s what had to be done, he would’ve done it. 

Thankfully, another dude on the ride had enough time in his Sunday schedule to run back out in the car to save Dude’s day.  The thing is, and Dude specified before we pedaled off, Dude didn’t want a ride.  He asked for either a spare chain or the tools to fix it with.  That’s exactly what happened.  After sitting in spandex at the side of the rural NKY road for two hours not looking out of place at all, another dude drove back fixed Dude’s chain and Dude rode home.  

Gift Cards b/c I Love You, But Not That Much

You want to know how I know she loves me?  My mom called and inquired whether a Challenge Griffo cyclocross tire should be size 700x34 or 700c x 34mm.  She listened to my explanation of what the “c” and “mm” meant in relation to the dimensions of the tire.  Even if faned, she seemed interested.   She’s a retired nurse.  Having administered plenty of medication, she’s no stranger to the metric system and cubic centimeters.  Even though it may’ve killed the Christmas Day surprise, I almost appreciate her effort more that the gift itself.  Obviously mom loves me way more than people she purchased gift cards for.  I’m real present worthy and they’re just gift card relatives. 

Giving a gift card is like saying I’m not interested in your life enough to get you the dorky thing you really want.  That’s why I’d rather get a real gift than a gift card.  Gift cards are like saying TMI.  I know you’re into bikes, but that’s where I’m drawing the line.  Here’s a gift card to Performance.  You do the work.

There is an exception.  The only time I like getting a bike gift card, is when it opens a little window to my life, like getting a gift certificate to my local bike shop, BioWheels, the shop I race for.  They have Bio-bucks.  Like getting a Challenge Griffo tubular, a Bio-Buck certificate from my mom says, “I know you race for BioWheels.  I know you prefer to have your sponsor’s parts on your bike.  I called and talked to Mitch the owner.  He’s a nice guy and seems like a good friend of yours.”  It's a gift with a story.  That’s a real present.  It shows interest in my life.

Real presents bring people together.  Last year my mom asked for a specific kind of water color painting paper.  I went to 2 different art stores.  I talked to the bearded hippie clerk.  Thanks to her, I now know that a block of 200 pound water color paper does not weigh more than me.  I got a taste of my mom’s hobby and she got a taste of mine.  Now, I lean in a little more when she tells me about the challenges of her painting class.  I can see how the paper and paint work together when she shows me a painting of downtown Cedarburg, Wisconsin.  In turn, at age 65, she learned a little bit about cyclocross.

The other great thing about getting a cyclocross tire for Christmas is that I can oogle it on the couch.  Try that with a gift card.  I’ll show the tire off to my science nerdy 3^rd grade nephew and bore the little guy with a grand story of how fast I can ride my bike in mud.  Maybe I’ll show him a picture of me racing from my phone.  I’ll show him how the big knobbies can grab and hang on to a surface.  I'll tell him it was hand made in Belgium.  Maybe I'll point it out on a map.  I'll ask him to go ahead and touch the soft cotton sidewall, roll it across the couch cushions and explain how the cotton bends to follow the contour of the cushions.  He’ll be thrilled…for at least 3 minutes, a priceless 3 minutes of closeness with family.

Indy Fab Worthy (An OVCX Love Story)

THAT GUY

I just handed THAT GUY my IF.  I’m watching a guy who calls himself Jimmy Road Rash ride out of the OVCX Infirmary Mound race pits on my $5000 bike.  You might’ve heard of him, he writes a blog too (link here).  Now why would I handoff my cherished custom painted Independent Fabrication Planet X with Sram Red and carbon wheels to a guy who knocked out his tooth on a ride a year and a half ago?  Because he’s loveable, awkwardly man-huggable and a BioWheels/Reece-Campbell Racing teammate?  Hell no.  This is an IF we’re talking about.  I get the heebie jeebies when people pick it up to see how light it is.  Well my buddy Jimmy is finally IF worthy, or so I hope.

THIS BIKE

Don’t think for a second that I didn’t worry the second he grabbed the handle bars and threw his leg over my custom painted baby.  After all, the whole reason he entered the pits was because he crashed and bent his derailleur hanger.  I questioned myself immediately.  None of our other teammates were quick to offer their bikes.  I wanted to run back through the woods to the back side of the course to make sure it’d be okay.  That’s crazy talk though.  What was I going to do?  Throw my body under the bike in-case he washed out on the downhill pavement to grass turn?  Tell him to watch the rock and roots in the singletrack?  Make him wait in the pits while I swapped the $2000 Zipp wheels for something more Jimmy Road Rash appropriate like a three-cross open pro?  Sheeeeet.  The reason I handed him my bike instead of making him finish out the race on his 20 pound Ultegra/105 equipped Redline with three operable gears is because prior to his mishap he was laying down the law on OVCX fast guys like Phil Noble, Jacob Virosko, Sam Dobrozi, and Jason Karew on a 20 pound Ultegra/105 equipped Redline.

Jimmy behind at OVCX Infirmary Mound

Granted Phil, Jacob and Jason were on their 2^nd race of the day, but racing is racing.  Ask anybody around the Columbus Ohio venue if Phil and Jason could spank Jimmy even if it was their 2^nd race and I’m pretty sure the answer prior to yesterday would’ve been a unanimous yes.  However, Jimmy Road Rash was in the money in an Elite race.  No longer was he fighting not to get lapped by the Bike Reg pro’s, he was closing gaps, dropping guys and racing mid-pack Elite.  Before his misstep, he had systematically closed the 30 meter gap to and dropped every one of the guys listed above.  For the first time I can recall, the rider formally known as Jimmy Road Rash was looking at an Elite cyclocross payout.  He’s fast.  He also needs the money.

Jimmy at Gun Club OVCX

That’s always been my worry with Jimmy.  Like many riders new to the sport.  Sometimes your enthusiasm and strength grow faster than your skills, experience and knowledge.  That’s when you loose teeth and skin.  That’s when other riders leave a little extra room when they’re on your wheel.  Sure you’re fast…fast enough to drive yourself straight into a tree, fast enough to grab a handful of brake rather than soft pedal, fast enough to not think that a covered bridge may have 3 inch gaps between it’s 135 year old hand-cut decking.  That’s why you keep riding a beat-up 20 pound Redline with 105.  That’s why you sell the parts off the Trek Madone frame you destroyed on a covered bridge to your buddy Joe.  You crash.  Replace.  Repeat. 

Jimmy @ Mohican 100

However, it’s been a long time since Jimmy’s bit it.  It’s been a long time since Jimmy sold the Sram Force derailleur from the Madone to me.  It’s been a long time since I put that derailleur on the very bike I just handed off to him.  He’s finally at that point where I hear about his mishaps less than I hear about those from more experienced riders.  Besides, at the USGP a few weeks ago when I broke my seatpost, in a pit exchange that was ultra pro smooth, he handed me his 20 pound 105 equipped Redline so I could finish out my race.  Eventually, what goes around comes around, even if it’s a gorgeous $5000 Indy Fab Planet X.

Hyde Park Blast Race Videos

Click Hyde Park Blast logo for link to results. Photos from Jeffery Jacucyk here.

Hyde Park Blast 2009 (1) from ohio cycling on Vimeo.

Hyde Park Blast 2009 (2) from ohio cycling on Vimeo.

Hyde Park Blast 2009 (3) from ohio cycling on Vimeo.

Mohican 100 Mountain Bike Race - Three Short Stories

Historic Firsts For $300 Alex

I recently saw Michael Phelps on 60 Minutes.  The reporter was surprised to find his gold medals were not on display.  It didn’t surprise me in the least.  Most athletes I know don’t like to wave their success in others faces.  You nearly have to back them into a corner and shake it out of them.  Otherwise, if you just ask them how the race went, they’ll disappointingly say, “I had fun,” only to find out later that they won or hit a momentous mile stone.  Adam Schmidt is one of those guys.  While everyone would love to win, there are often other more subtle ambitions that cause an athlete to compete.  For some it’s the physical act of enduring.  For others it’s an act of discovery.  From personal experience, I’ve found there’s always something in every race, from natural beauty or internal feelings that I’d prefer to put on the mantle over a trophy.  Adam runs competitively, everything from church festival 5k’s to off road marathons and beyond.  Adam also races bikes, short punchy cyclocross to marathon mountain bike races.  In 2008 he completed the Mohican 100 mile trail run.  Think about that, a 100 mile foot race.  That’s like running nearly four consecutive marathons, on dirt.  Hardcore.  Even though he proudly wears the commemorative belt buckle, I’m convinced it’s more of a reminder of the real prize: his vivid stories of floating elephant hallucinations and coming across dead looking people sleeping along a fog shrouded trail at 4am.  This year, Adam Schmidt of Cincinnati became the first person ever to complete the Mohican 100 mile trail run and the Mohican 100 mile mountain bike race.  Congratulations.

My Twin

You always hear that twins can sometimes experience each others feelings and thoughts, even miles apart.  As I zipped past the last rest stop of the Mohican 100, I wasn’t looking forward to the pint glass of ice cold Sierra Nevada, a shower or being able to lay my bike down.  As if I could see the finish line through her eyes, all I could think about was my wife at the finish line, watching the clock, seeing the first finishers cross and knowing in her heart that I wasn’t far behind.  She knew my goal for the race and it was if I knew that she knew I was on pace to beat it.  My clock read 12:30pm.  There were 7-ish miles to go.  It was as if her cheers and thoughts found me miles away.  As if my bike was floating an inch above the trail while being pulled by an invisible string attached to my handlebars at one end and her hand at the other.  I rode the last 7 miles of single track with this incredible speed and precision that I only recall feeling twice before.   When I turned off the last stretch of fire road and into the finish shoot seven minutes under my goal time and saw her, I'm convinced we felt the same elation inside.  For those of you wishing to back me into a corner and shake me upside down, I finished the Mohican 100k in 18th place (out of over 150) in 6 hours 8 minutes.

How Not To Crash A Campground

You walk a fine line between axe murderer and chummy fellow mountain biker when you crash a campground.  I’m still not convinced there wasn’t a chainsaw inside the duffle bag of the dude from Arkansas who made camp behind our cabins.  Mountain bikers are a very open group.  At one time or another I’ve had to do a race on the cheap, so when he asked if we minded if he set up a tent behind our cabins, we obliged.  After he got settled, he made a peace offering of chocolate and sat down to share in the campground stories.  Through conversation his story seemed believable and twisted at the same time.  He took an expensive flight from Little Rock to Columbus and rented a car, yet he slept in a hammock and we discovered he had false teeth.  He got his nutrition ready the night before the race, but we never actually saw his bike.  One moment he was cool to be around and the next we got the feeling that we better lock the cabin door tonight.  I can’t remember how exactly he ended up in our cabin alone, but I’m guessing it sounded something like this “If you don’t mind, I’m just going to pop in your cabin and fill my water bottles.”  Suddenly we felt insecure and each one of us began to quietly lock our bikes up overnight.  Later he kindly offered his tent to a teammate who was sleeping on the floor.  Only the next morning, did we find out he kicked that guy out of the tent and asked the single girl sleeping inside the cabin if she’d like to sleep with him inside his tent.  We never saw the guy the entire day of the race.  The Sunday after the Mohican 100, as we were packing up, he grabbed up his stuff and went on his way home.  Now I feel like I should check the local paper to make sure no one turned up missing.

Looking for results?  Check here at this link.