Tri State 6 Hours Versailles: The Truth Is, It Never Comes

Pre-race Meeting: Courtesy Scott Herrmann

“I don’t get it Dad,” I remember a young bike racer saying while sitting with legs stretched on the grass  after a criterium.  With the clank of the cowbells and whiz and flash of the next race behind, being fatherly, he said in more or less words, “it’ll come.”  The racer nodded reassured and hopeful.  It was a soft way to speak the truth.

Courtesy Kent Baumgardt

Holding our 2^nd place at the Tri-State 6 Hours Co-Ed Duo race in Versailles, IN by a thin margin, as I struggled to get my flat UST tire off my bike, I was faced with the hard truth.  “It” doesn’t whistle down the sidewalk and politely ring your doorbell.  “It” doesn’t tap you on the shoulder and ask you to follow through the peloton.  “It” doesn’t appear at the side of the trail like a bearded wise-man with a reading of the Barnett Bicycle Manual.  “It” never really comes.

This isn’t going to be one of those immature whiner bike racer stories that take away from the preparedness, strength and skills of the competition.  Gerry and I clung to 1st for a while.  We  finished 4^th.  Those other teams earned every bit of it.  So here’s to you: Jason and Janelle, Maria and Brandon, Cooper and Christian!  You were strong, tenacious, skilled, and dialed in your transitions.  Bravo!  Chapeau!

"Tent Alley" Courtesy Nick Lucas c/o Tri State 6 Hours

For goodness sake, Brandon and Maria had diapered twins in their tent.  Cooing and saying all kinds of goo-goo ga-ga gibberish, I overheard Dad baby chatting with them between laps.  He played with and fed them.  They were right next door on tent alley.  As I wolfed down recovery mix surrounded by every bike racing luxury a team of 8 could house under our sponsor’s 20x10 tent, he wrangled diapers and smooshed peas solo in a pop-up.  It was adorable. 

Out of the hour or so we had between laps, he spent 59 minutes making sure his little girl and boy were fed, clean, mosquito free and entertained.  With minutes to spare, he grabbed a bite for himself, pulled a water bottle out of the cooler, changed his shirt, picked his bike off the ground, gave his duo-teammate the kid-status update, handed her the keys to the crib, and was off again. 

So to blame our 4^th place position on a stick that flew into my spokes and a subsequent flat would be for him to place blame on two of the cutest babies you’ve ever seen.  I’m not kidding.  Those kids are stuff ‘em in a cabbage outfit and call Anne Geddes cute.

Courtesy Kent Baumgardt

You can bet, right now Brandon is diabolically dreaming up a quicker way to spoon peas just as I am finding a thinner tire lever to quickly get under a stubborn UST.  We’ll both train harder to be able to pad our gaps better should a flat or a dirty diaper come at an inopportune moment.  I’m patting myself on the back for quickly bending the broken spoke out of the way.  He should give himself kudos, because I heard nary a cry in the 3 hours I lived next door to his kids.  He’s obviously practiced his routine better than I have.

The truth is “it” never comes.  You have to go out and get it. 

(Note: The Tri-State 6 Hours Series gives special thanks to CORA and IMBA National MTB Patrol.  The next race is July 14^th, 2013 at East Fork State Park in Ohio)  

Natural Entertainment in Las Vegas

Can you tell I was lost in Mirage Casino

With a BAC of .01%, a cyclist for all practical purposes is drunk.  When a cyclist is drunk, there is no amount of internal compass that will help find your way out of a casino at 2am.  Despite being 2:30am, and despite breaking the beer before booze rule, I turned to Strava.  While it didn’t help me get through the slot canyon maze of slot machines at the Mirage, it showed the direction of the strip in relation to the bathroom I was in and certainly produced the most amusing Strava map of our hiking/mountain biking trip to Las Vegas last week.  Note the knotted mess on the Strava photo at left.  If you’re looking for a similar adventure, get the drink in the tall plastic cup, go clubbing till 2-3 a.m. and enjoy your 5.5 mile Annie-eyed bedazzled hike up the strip.

Watch for Wild Burros in Red Rock Wilderness

Co-workers questioned my choice of vacation prior to my departure to Las Vegas.  I did too.  It would seem like a mountain climber setting his sights on the summit Magic Mountain.  Like you, I’m one of those weird people who like to swim in pools and see life in Death Valley.  In Vegas, I managed to put my inner Tourist-hater aside, played a Pink Diamonds slot machine, danced to Icona Pop at a club and with my white chest and biker tan arms kicked some beach ball ass at the Hardrock Hotel Rehab Pool Party. 

Lake Mead Overlook

Our plan was simple: adventure in the morning, go out at night.  That worked until Thursday, when night blended into morning and I ended up hiking The Strip.  “Why didn’t you take a cab?”  My co-workers asked.  Taxis are for wussies and besides, my rational was nothing prevents the bed spins like an hour and fifteen minute heart rate spiking walk under the buzz of neon and past Urban Campers and suspected pick pockets.

BOOTLEG CANYON

Overlook of Boogleg Canyon IMBA Trail

It wasn’t the highlight of the trip, but I did get in a decent mountain bike ride at the challenging Bootleg Canyon, in Boulder City, a half hour from The Strip near the Hoover Dam.  I rented a Specialized full-boinger 29er from All Mountain Cycles, a nice ride with Sram X-9.  It was $50 for the afternoon.  Bootleg Canyon is sort of a mix between pump track and flow.  On the east side of the trail system you’ll get an overlook of Lake Mead.  Through the canyon on the north side, squint for a view of The Strip. 

Calico Trails in Red Rock Canyon West of Vegas

Once you get the hang of the twisting quick steep ups and downs of the place, you’ll dig it.  Novice and intermediate riders should stick to the trails west of the main entrance like the IMBA trail.  Those trails throw much less curveballs, have longer sighting for obstacles and feature a more smooth flowy ride.   The Lake View and Caldera area trails had me off the bike in a few spots.  You can’t bench cut rock.  They don’t.  So you’ll periodically come around a blind corner and be greeted with a section of off camber jagged rock where the trail should be.  I was jazzed when I cleaned it.  When I bailed rather than risk losing skin, I looked around to make sure no one actually saw me on foot.

WHITE ROCK CANYON

A Whole Family Watches from Above

Despite a trail review mentioning rattlesnakes, the highlight of the trip came on a spur of the moment slot canyon-esque hike out and back in White Rock Canyon in Arizona.  We hiked from the Willow Beach trailhead off the main highway a few miles from Hoover Dam.  It’s surprising how many desert places have wet sounding names.  I found the trail on the AllTrails app which can locate trails in your vicinity no matter where you are should the need to hike strike you, like at grandma's out of town funeral.  

The White Rock Canyon trail is a 7 mile round-trip out-and-back to the Colorado River.  On the way down, the walls closed close enough to run my fingers along on either side in places.  When it opened up, we were surrounded by a cathedral of 2-3000 ft. rocky peaks dotted with wild flowers, scrub bushes and the occasional family of big horned desert sheep.  They payoff was the Colorado River, deep and powerful.  We bouldered up a big rock to a fantastic view of the river’s eddys, only 4 miles downstream from the Hoover Dam.  Hike/climb downstream a few hundred meters from the beach and you can enjoy a dip in a natural hot spring.  All of this natural wonder 40 minutes away from the best artificial entertainment in the world.

#Fall: It's Not All About Cyclocross

It's About Looking Up!

It's About Grabbing A Little More Brake.

It's About Sharing The Experience With Someone Close.

It's About The Snack Break.

It's About Stepping off the Trail for a better peek at Versailles SP Fall Colors.

Hydrapak Morro: One World - One Pack

"Groceries"

Paper or plastic?  “I’m good.  I think I can get it all in my pack,” I answered at the checkout at the state liquor store in Park City Utah after our four hour ride.  As she swiped my credit card, I pulled the micro brew bottles out of the six pack holder and stuffed them into my new Hydrapak Morro.  While the people behind me in line waited patiently for me to bag my “groceries,” I wrapped one beer in my vest, two in each of my arm warmers, set all six above the first aid kit, slid my map and the cardboard six-pack holster along side of the pump, tucked in my full-fingered gloves, zipped and cinched it up and swung it on my shoulders.  They were astonished.  I rode off.

2012 Morro

It was probably a four mile ride back to our condo at the Canyons Resort.  Sure it felt a little heavy, because now I had a six pack and a good 30ml of water in that thing with tools and Band-Aids and clothes and a puppy and my wallet and phone and energy bars and a 29er tube and a bottle of ibuprofen, but everything balanced out.  It wasn’t a chore to ride.  Did I say puppy?  For the record, I did not stuff a puppy in my backpack, but if I had to, there was room to lash one to the outside if need be, probably two.

Mid Mountain Trail Above Park City

I’m the last guy on Planet Mountain Bike to actually like a big pack.  A Hydration backpack to me was the equivalent of straight jacket made from hot wet monkeys.  The crazy thing is I have one of the smallest possible, an older Camelback Rocket with a 50oz reservoir.  I can’t tell you how many times I’d swear, “I’m never riding with this thing again!”  And, I didn’t.  I used to pride myself on minimalism, even on epic rides in Pisgah and Tsali.  I’d take bottles, use a seat pack and my jersey pockets, tape a 2^nd tube to my stem, and tuck food under my short and sleeve hems.  If necessary, I’d reduce first aid and tools to the most extreme basics: a chain pin, a tri-allen wrench, a tiny chain tool CO2, 3 big band aids and a 3oz tube of Neosporin…anything to avoid the hot wet monkey straight jacket.

I used to think Camelback was the only option with their specialized bite valve and oversized filling hole.  The Hydrapak is just as innovative, albeit different.  For one, the Hydrapak reservoir is a zip-lock bag of sorts.  On our Utah trip my wife used her Camelback.  I think my Morro was easier to fill.  She had to sort of let the camel drink, while I poured 2 32oz Gatorades down the Hydrapak’s neck with a quick ker-sploosh, added a tray of ice cubes and zipped it closed.  With Camelback’s we’ve always had to awkwardly hang them upside down on a hanger with a paper towel stuffed inside so air could circulate and dry out the reservoir.  To clean and dry, the Hydrapak reservoir folds inside-out and the plug and play drinking tube simply unclicks from the bag.  On the bike, the neat-o magnet on the drinking tube allows the tube to magically return itself to its stored position after you drink.  No more getting slapped in the knee or baffed in the chin with an unwieldy tube. 

Hydrapak Avila

If you haven’t had a new pack in a while, The HydrapakMorro is nothing like the bulky pack you had even 5 or 6 years ago.  While a larger pack, at a stout 1lb 13oz, the Morro is extremely versatile.  (Wienies may want to check out the Avila pictured left weighing a scant 7 ounces while still having a pocket and a 70oz bladder) The man-sized Morro even makes a nice gear bag.  Pre or post ride, it’ll easily fit your kit, shoes, tools, tube and helmet.  Whether packed light or full, the Morro feels surprisingly light thanks to the vented back padding and secure cinching straps.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if there were a rather unsupported 5+ hour ultra endurance event, I’d be tempted to race with it.  Maybe.

Morro's Magnet in use at Stewart Falls - Sundance, Utah

Packed full, on a 5 ½ hour navigation of Park City’s famous Mid-Mountain trail I never felt bothered by having a ton of stuff on my back.  I even scored extra hubby points by carrying my wife’s tools and tube.  I still climbed awkward switchbacks and zipped through rock gardens as easily as if I wasn't wearing a pack.  Off the bike, I used it on a quick day hike to Stewart Falls in Sundance with nothing more than a first aid kit, a long sleeve shirt, an energy bar and 50oz of water inside.  With a smaller payload, you simply cinch up the Hydrapak Morro and it feels like a smaller lighter pack.  So, if you come across an orphaned puppy on the trail, no problem, he can ride shotgun. 


Check out the video below for more on the Morro.

The Redemption of Riding Solo

Top Flats of Shadow Run

I like to think they were Cicadas.  No dis against crickets, but the head-filling sound of Cicadas fit the zen feel of a solo ride better.  I had no wheel to chase, nor any spinning hubs behind me.  After the battery died on my Ipod an hour into my solo ride at Versailles State Park in Indiana, I was bummed at the loss of my mountain biking soundtrack.  Then I realized, the woods have a soundtrack all their own.  It was me, the wind, the kayaker down below on the creek that feeds the lake and the Cricket-adas.

Riding well below donkey wheezing pace, I had time to listen closer and tune-in the harmonies of the bugs.  I could afford to peer over the edge of the Cliffside trail and check out the dead fallen trees bridging the ravine.  I filled up my phone’s memory bank with photos.  I thought to stop and snap a photo of the trail in the “v” of two trees, but the flow was too good.  At the next intersection, I smiled wiping a cobweb from my face.  I was the first rider of the day on the Grandview loop.

Deadfall on Cliffside

I love riding with friends and teammates, but here comes the but.  I enjoy the solo ride too.  I like to ride my pace of the day, stop when I want to stop, hammer when I feel punchy.  If you need a natural break, you pull over at the next big tree and don’t have to dig deep to claw back on the train.  With a song in my head, “Save Me San Francisco” by Train, I whistled and rode the flow of the Shadow Run loop.

Interesting Tree at the Time

I planned on two hours, but got back to my car 20 minutes early.  I wasn't ready for civilization yet.  I laced up my running shoes, tucked the car key under the leg of my bike shorts and headed back out to round off the time with a trail run.  The ground felt soft and springy under my steps.  Now traveling even slower, with my breath being the only self generated noise, I could hear the kids playing in the pool, the occasional car on the road far below my ridgeline trail and still, the chorus of cicadas.  While the small climbs were tougher on foot, that “v” in between the trees was just as fun to run through.

Back at my truck, I ran into a friend headed out for a solo ride of his own.  As he made a last tweak on his bike, I raved about my ride and run to Bill.  It was Sunday.  I think we were both at church.  A solo ride is always refreshing and redeeming for the soul.  

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. 

Save 50% at BioWheels Bike Shop Click Here Hurry Limited Offer

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?”

Win A $35 Road ID Gift Card In Our Flat Joe Biker Pix Contest

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.  

Joe-Made Fender = Fail

In anticipation of a wet Sub9 Death March this Saturday, I made a fender from this 100 count CD tower.  I work at a radio station and empty compact disc towers are as abundant as men and women who can give you the time and temperature four different ways.  Its 44 degrees at 4:44.  That’s 16 minutes before the hour and we’re expecting a shower.  44 minutes past four and the thermometer reads 44.  Quarter to five and just shy of 45.  See.  I’m not making that up.

Tube snippet btwn frame & fender keeps it from slipping

In the respect that my Joe-made fender may keep some water from hitting the front of my body during the Death March in Hoosier National Forest, I have succeeded.  In the respect that it looks like a pot smoking 10^th grade shop class dropout crafted it from a CD tower of Metallica bootlegs with a pair of dull tin-snips and ugly green zip ties, it’s also…a glaring success!  In your eyes, you are making a note never to ask a certain blogger to come over and help with your home construction project.

Anything I cut ends up looking as straight as Steve Buscemi’s smile.  I know.  Measure twice and cut once.  The problem is my one cut is always more crooked than a Wall St. hedge fund manager.  I threw my first three drafts away.  I will blame the first two attempts more on the plastic being too brittle or the possibility that I am left handed and the tin snips were not.  The third attempt got burned.  A friend suggested that I heat up a screw driver to poke holes in for the zip ties rather than drilling and risking cracking the plastic.  That really didn’t work.  So I tried heating up the plastic.  While I enjoyed a 3 second high from the fumes, I turned my fender into a burnt Frito Lay potato chip reject.  It should be noted that I cannot operate a cigarette lighter and should never be put in the position of using anything with fire aside from the stove and only under direct supervision of an adult.

My fourth attempt wasn’t that bad.  Well it wasn’t awful.  It didn’t totally suck.  Well maybe it did.  Yeah.  As the two old men critics on the Muppet Show would say from their balcony, “That was horrible.  Get him off the stage.  Boooooo!”

The only redeeming qualities of my ho-made fender are that it is clear, which looks kind of sporty.  It probably will keep some water from hitting my legs and working its way into my socks, which is also nifty.  The glaring FAIL is that while the edges are straight, they are not 90 degree from the factory cut edges.  It’s also slightly off center.  Okay, the Mississippi River runs straighter between Dubuque and New Orleans.  And, after reading a recent article in Bicycling Magazine about Aero bikes versus light bikes…my fender is as aerodynamic as a city bus.

The final death blow is that you can buy a nifty perfect fender, that's much better than mine for one tenth of the time commitment for $9 at your local bike shop or REI if you click here.  That’s sort of disconcerting when I figure I put at least 2 hours into this project.  How much do you make an hour?  I'm guessing enough to buy a freaking $9 fender.

Oakley Mud-Shields, Body Bags and 3 other Mohican MTB 100 Revelations

MAKING KAJILLIONS

I am going to make kajillions patenting a design for Mud-shield sport glasses and then sell my brilliant idea to Giro and Oakley.  Those in the know at muddy races keep their glasses low on the nose to block the front wheel spray, while being able to see over the top.  Plus it makes you look as cool as Tom Cruise in Risky Business (see photo).  “Just take those old records off the shelf ladies!”  Unless you’re a mouth breather, the problem is, on the end of your nose, your glasses are constantly in a state of cutting off part of your oxygen supply.  I could make kajillions off a set of cycling shields with angled lenses solely to keep mud from getting in your eyes.  It’d be perfect in conjunction with a helmet visor.  Either that or I might try a fencing mask or peel away lens motocross goggles next year.

A BODY BAG IS NO EXCUSE TO DNF

There are three ways to DNF in a race: mental, physical and mechanical.  No matter how hard you rationalize it, when you hang-it-up all three feel like a bad excuse you gave your parents for missing curfew.  Even if they left your bike at the bottom of the ravine and carried you out of the woods in a zippered black bag and tossed you in the back of a big black Cadillac station wagon, you’d still wonder if you could come back as a ghost and finish the race.  With 2 days of torrential rain, hail, flood warnings and tornados prior to and during the 2010 NUE Series Mohican MTB 100, 30% of the riders I was staying with either DNF’d or DNS’d.  DFL (dead freaking last) is better than both of them.  Exhaust all possibilities before telling the official you’re a DNF.  You’ll never know if in the pouring rain while standing in ankle deep mud as the fat guys pass on full-suspension Diamond Back’s you could’ve pulled off the MacGruber and fixed the 7-8 inches of twisted chain on your bike with slippery fingers, those two chain pins and the 3 inch length of chain in your bag.  Otherwise you’ll go home and try to make the fix to see if it was even possible.  Then you’ll think of another way you could’ve saved the day, such as waiting for someone about your size to ride by, pushing them into the ravine and stealing their bike.  Save yourself some misery.  If you DNF’d, just let it go.  Like not getting to the top of Everest, we all have our limits.  You just found your personal death zone.

TOOL #1: CASSETTE BRUSH

If it’s muddy, carry a cassette brush.  Two of us in the cabin this weekend had the same revelation.  I think they’re called the Park Tools GCCB-UT (Park Tools Gear Cassette Cog Brush Unclogger Thingy.)  Lightweight and small it could instantly fix chain suck caused by mud and debris.  I pulled an eight inch vine, grass, roots, pebbles, sand and a 2 inch stick out of my chainrings when I got back to the cabin.  No wonder with every other pedal stroke my chain was getting stuck worse than Oprah in an innertube.  That, a bottle of water and a tiny bottle of lube would’ve saved me from race ending chain bending chain suck.  30 seconds at the side of the trail cleaning is a lot faster than fixing broken chain or limping your way home with a twisted chain.  Plus, you could brush your teeth mid-ride and ham it up for the course photog like this guy.

A BIKE RACE IS NOT A MEASURING STICK OF SELF WORTH (but it sure the hell feels that way)

Never sign up for a race and back out because conditions look bad.  No matter how bad the course or weather looks, it’s a bike race, not walking into a burning building wearing a Vasoline skinsuit.  A friend bailed the morning of the race, eating the $100+ entry fee and a ton of self fed crow.  At the cabin, he could barely look his pristinely clean Sram XX equipped bike in the eye.  As he sat on the couch, a guy in his late 30’s watching a Saturday morning episode of iCarley; his bike sat in the corner and called him a douche all day.  He turned up the volume on the TV to drown out the voice in his head.  He had to resort to kicking all our asses in post-race putt-putt golf to temporarily feed his competitive spirit.  He probably went out for a 100 mile ride when we got back and is still sulking at this moment.  He will continue to beat himself up until the next big race.  Believe it or not, sitting in a warm dry cable TV equipped cozy log cabin is worse than racing the in worst imaginable conditions.  Better to endure the suck and DNF trying.  Later he would ask me, never let a friend back out on a race.  Call them names like wuss-face and pansy pants.  Tell them you just saw a one-legged cancer patient ride by on their way to the start with an IV chemo-bag as a Camelback.  Throw their team kit at them and tell ‘em to suit up.  Strap their helmet on their head.  Fill up and put water bottles on their bike.  If all else fails, take their bike to the start line and tell them, “Dude, if you want your bike, it’ll be on the starting line.”  They will thank you for it.

MY NEW PACKING LIST IN ORDER OF IMPORTANCE: (copy and paste for personal use)

Coffee

The really good coffee.

Seriously, because you know all they sell in Boondockville, OH is a 9 pound red metal can filled with dirt and hair from the local barbershop floor masquerading as real coffee.

Bike, Helmet, Shoes, Etc.

2010 Mohican MTB 100 Results, Photos & News Link

MTB in Ohio? Take The Survey

Click HERE for link and Happy New Year!

You're Only As Good As Your Last Race (if you measure success in races)

You’re only as good as your last race.  Not sure where I heard that phrase.  It could’ve been in a different context all together such as: you’re only as fat as your last pepperoni pizza, you’re only as pretty as your last trip to the salon or your dog’s only as cool as the last Frisbee he catches.  I’ve been thinking about that “only as good as your last race” thing.  Half of me sees some truth, but merely a personality trait or a sliver of motivation.  The other half is convinced it's total bunk.  Here's why sucking is all in your head.

I’m sure there was a NASCAR driver that crashed out at Dover over the weekend, don’t as me who, but I’m sure they were a pretty stellar driver.  Phelps took 2^nd in a recent race; he’s still the man in the pool.  Yet, I beat myself up mentally over the past few months, holding on to memories of my last great race and getting lost in the number plates, bib tags and other mementos hung around my office.  Before this Sunday’s nice showing (18^th of 147) at the Mohican MTB 100k, I clung to a vivid memory of a 7^th place showing last year at the John Bryan Masters 1/2/3 cyclocross race.  Between then and now has been an exercise in mediocrity.  Over the past few years I can literally count two crowning all-time bests: an 18^th at a UCI elite cyclocross event in Detroit where I weighed 158, lined up behind Jeremy Powers, and made the payout cut; and winning the Kenda Ohio Off Road Sport Series with a win at the Wilds in freaking 2002.

Are you really only as good as your last race?  Of course not.  You’re just not thinking straight.  Remember all the little things in between: hanging with the Skeletor looking guys on the last climb of the weekly group ride, recovering from two knee surgeries, dropping a usually fast friend on the weekly trail ride, feeling really good on that January 4-mile run while on vacation in Puerto Rico, going for the salad instead of the salami, coming back from the separated shoulder, getting in the breakaway that almost stuck but toughing out a top 10, helping your dad move into hospice care, moving up from 22^nd to 19^th to 15^th in consecutive cyclocross races, grimacing through training with a messed up thumb, finishing that 5k with a time that made your running friend say, “nice job,” taking the stairs at work instead of the elevator, winning a few bones with a lame but nonetheless 7^th place in the Hyde Park Blast bunch sprint, doing your exercises 4 times a day like your physical therapist told you to.

Here's the truth, you’re only as good as your last race if you measure your success in races.

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.

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