There Must Be 50 Ways to Lose Mohican

On The Mohican 100k Start Line Courtesy Jen & Mark Farmer

You can have your frame crack, Jack…have your stem hammer your boys, Roy…get bit by a bee, Lee…are you listening to me?  Nearly 48 hours have passed since my stellar Mohican 100k turned into what can best be described by internet videos of would-be marathon winners hilariously crumpling and falling to the ground at mile 18.  I’ve bonked, crashed, mechanicaled, overheated, even had my foot caught in a teammate spokes while we were still moving.  This was the first time I’ve ever met pure fatigue and exhaustion.  At the moment of submission, I apologized to a teammate’s wife for not wearing any clothes.

Wearing only shorts and socks, I could barely lift my bike on the hitch rack.  Nicole was a sweetheart, considering this was only our 2^nd meeting and here I am shirtless and spaced out in the front seat of their Subaru.  An hour earlier, I was on pace to a sub 6 hour Mohican 100k flirting with 15-18^th place.  It was to be my best Mohican ever, my 4^th in a row.  I can hear you now, “Quit being a baby.  I was out there for (enter any double digit number under 14 here) hours.”  At prior races, I’ve wondered why some racers would throw in the towel at 11:30am.  Stuck up baby pro’s can’t even finish their race if they can’t get a good time.  As long as I got in before dark, I could still finish.  I hadn’t told officials I had DNF’d.  At the cabin, trying to get my wits and emotions back together with a phone call to my wife, it crossed my mind to get a ride back out to checkpoint 3 and finish the course for my own dignity.  I even threw a leg over the bike.  Nuh uh.  Mohican isn’t about finishing at all costs any more.  After I hung up the phone, I smiled and walked to the finish to turn in my number.  She’s awesome.

Mohican #3 Chain-Suck

I’M NO QUITTER 

My first Mohican, I melted in mid 90’s heat and humidity for 8 ½ hours over the 100k course.  I blew my radiator cap, suffered for 5 miles, took off my shirt and shoes, topped off with coolant, rode another 5 miles and spectacularly blew again and again and again till I crossed the finish line in 8 ½ hours.  It was like a legless dog dragging its way home on its front paws.  The next year, better prepared for doom, I shined, finishing 18^th in the open class with a time of 6 hours and 8 minutes!  The third year, last year, I wanted to best myself and went into the race in incredible shape.  With a great start, I rode clean, slipping and sliding through the wet roots and mossy rocks of the singletrack.  On a mud choked course, back pedaling to un-due the chain suck for the 10^th time, I twisted an 8 inch section of my chain at a 45 degree angle.  It completely disabled my drivetrain and sawed my Niner’s scandium chainstay nearly in half before I even got to the covered bridge.  Game over.  Drenched to the bone, I limped back to the cabin 10 miles with my bike skipping up and down through the gears with every pedal stroke.

Mohican now is no longer about poetically overcoming obstacles.  You want to talk about determination?  I’ve been trying to drag my carcass across that finish line in under 6:08 for two years now.  I trained to ride hard, ride long and not whither with back pain and overcome adverse weather conditions.  I changed my race day diet and purchased a new frame and drivetrain.  I’m no quitter.  

Coming Into Check Point 1 Courtesy Jen & Mark Farmer

FAST FELT EASY

This year I towed the front of the start line in my best shape ever.  I crested the top of the road climb close enough to say I was in the mix for the $100 KOM prime.  My heart rate monitor, set at 100% for my lactate threshold, floated between 96 and 103 as I graced the top 20.  I flowed.  I felt recovery at 96, steady climbing at 103. Forward progress, I drank and ate at the right moments, well aware that I should drink a bottle and consume the right amount of calories each hour.  I was making calm sense of the chaos of racing fast.  I lead the train.  No one asked to pass.  At my nemesis, the climb after the covered bridge, I kept it steady all the way to the top.  In my first two Mohican’s I suffered here, going backwards.  It was always my first “bad patch” of the race.  I had prepared for this with 10 weeks of threshold hill repeats and changing my race day breakfast.  I was elated.  In and out of the first check point in maybe 45 seconds with two fresh bottles and some oranges, the mile markers ticked by, 18, 21.  I never felt so good riding so hard for so long.  The hike a bike in the single track felt 200 yards shorter than previous years.  I pacelined through the fragrant pine needle fireroads leading to the horse trail descent.  It was beautiful.  Fast felt easy.

Maybe it was the first sign of my demise, but on a long climb leading up to the 2^nd checkpoint I lost contact with the riders I was with.  I still felt okay, got my 5^th and 6^th bottles, a swig of a Redbull and was in and out of the 2^nd check just as quick as the first.  Descending though some brush-hog cut “trail”, I hit what I call the trailer park road and felt home free.  My computer read 36 miles or so.  I was 3 hours and 40 minutes into the race.  My heart rate remained just below my LT and I kept motoring.  I did math in my head.  With 20 miles of road and maybe 5 of singletrack, I was well on pace to a sub 6 hour Mohican.  8-10 miles of gravel and paved road would lead to 2 miles of technical singletrack and check point 3 at the 50 mile mark.  Then I started losing power.

ALONE AND STRANDED

It started with a hitch in my left hip flexor.  A hotspot flared on the outside of my left foot.  My HRM number dropped to the low 80’s my speed to 12mph on a relatively flat paved section.  My body dialed itself back to the endurance zone.  This was my 4^th Mohican.  I call them “bad patches.”  You give yourself 20 minutes, chill out, ride within yourself and they pass.  I grabbed the wheel of and traded pulls with a Texas Roadhouse jersey.  I thought, in the next 30 minutes I’d refuel at the 50 mile rest stop.  After that, only one real obstacle remained, a long steep fire road climb.  I lost his wheel and then mine.

I started to feel far away.  My clock read 4:25.  Chubbier people and bigger bikes began to pass.  My arms ached.  I felt too hot.  Rolling climbs became granny gear walls.  My open jersey flapped at my sides.  My spin turned to a churn.  My stomach twisted.  I told myself, “Joe, get your shit together, the rock garden singletrack is coming up.”  Breathe.  I gathered enough wits to clean the rock garden, but parked it next to a barn.  I stripped off my shirt, helmet and gloves and sat down.  It’s just a bad patch.  You can do it. 

I felt light headed, not quite dizzy.  Cleanly through the singletrack, I crawled a half mile through the cornfield.  8mph.  6mph.  I felt embarrassed rolling in to the check.  I didn’t want anyone to see me, now shirtless, gloveless, helmetless, glassy-eyed with wet paper towels draped on my head and back.  I drank 2, 3, 4 cups of water.  I downed a Gu and an orange.  Like a vampire, I couldn’t handle being in the sun long enough to even attempt to fill my bottles.  At that moment, the 15 or so miles to the finish became insurmountable.  If I could only shake one of my issues I could ride, but my stomach remained a fist, my muscles drained, my foot burned, my hip throbbed and radiator cap still hissed.  Complicating the situation, it was still a 45 minute road ride home even if I were to DNF.  If I quit I had to still walk a 10 mile plank.  I felt alone, stranded.  Looking like a horror movie victim knocking on a neighbor’s door for help, my teammate’s wife offered a ride home. 

My Best Mohican Finish Ever

SIMMER DOWN

Having showered and changed in the cabin, my head hung and I welled up when I picked up my phone to call my wife.  A teammate came in and I distanced myself from the box of tissues.  I’m sure Brian put Kleenex and me together.  I walked outside to dial.  No one wants to hear you complain, let alone cry about your bad race.  I wanted to feel her arms wrap around me and her words make me strong again.  We talked for a long time about her Dad, her dinner with some girlfriends, and things that have nothing to do with bikes.  I laughed and smiled.  She’s beautiful.

She reminded me that I rode 3 hours and 40 minutes at my absolute physical limit, an impressive feat for any other race, road, mountain bike or whatever.  My training did pay off.  I rode all that singletrack incredibly clean and efficient.  I’ll never forget how wonderful those 36 miles felt.  I tamed the demons from previous races, only my good fitness opened the door to an unknown factor, complete fatigue.  My only mistake, a miscalculation on the race recipe.  I went out too hard too early, averaging nearly 98 percent of my lactate threshold for three hours and forty minutes.  When I only needed to cook at 400 degres for 6 hours, I set the oven at 475 and periodically checked for doneness.  Afterward at dinner a friend offered some great advice.  Ride within yourself, not out of your mind.


Hit play and enjoy the encore.

Rest Is Ridiculous: The Week B4 Mohican 100

I don’t bother lubing my chain or pumping tires, even though I’m headed to a race.  I might pour a beer in my water bottle and bungee the cooler bag to the rear rack.  I’ll probably wear cargo shorts and stuff a bag of chips in the pocket.  I won’t even bother pinning a number.  I’ll find a nice spot in the grass, preferably next to a friend with a dog, sit my butt down and try to remember its name.   For some reason I’m bad at remembering the names of my friends pets.  Tonight I’ll have a conversation with cycling friends that consists of more than shouting “hole” and “gravel” between deep breaths and beeping heart rate monitors.  Tonight’s one of my favorite bike race nights of the year.  It’s the Ault Park Criterium before I race Mohican on Saturday.  Tonight I get to ring the cowbell and shout “C’mon” to my teammates.  I should be excited, but resting before a big race weaves my worrisome thoughts into a stress basket.

It’s the opposite of ADD.  I get this way when something big is on the horizon.  It’s an intense focus.  It’s the reason I cried at my own wedding and get the nervous gags before big races.  I don’t like it, but it’s the way I am, man on a mission.  I don’t think I’ve blogged in two weeks, since our vacation to Sedona, which I haven’t written a word about.  I’m nervous about the Mohican 100, so much so that I’ve put the blinders on.  The grass is cut, the bike clean.  The seat bag is even packed.  All that’s left is to clean the house and pack the duffel.  It’s so ridiculous that I wonder if I should put my helmet and shoes in the bag tonight so I don’t forget.  Oh yeah, sunscreen.  I’m starting to have a hard time falling asleep, which is precisely the reason I need to chill out.  Recovery weeks shouldn’t have a stress level.

To many times, as athletic types, we get too wrapped up in competition, watt-o-meters, and why this stupid scale won’t register a number below 159.  For me, nothing sucks the fun out of bike riding than turning it into a spreadsheet and graphs.  Runners talk about pace.  Cyclists gush over watts.  I see the value in it, however there’s also value in the view at the Ault Park Overlook.  There’s a reason I cherish the photos of riding with friends more than the plastic trophies and medals in the man-cave.  Sure I like to win races, but my favorite moments at bike races revolve around beef jerky, whiskey in a flask and lots of cowbell.  I look forward to those moments just as much as the big “A” race circled on my training calendar.  Coincidentally, they happen together. 

My Best Mohican Ever 18th Place

There comes a time in every training program when there’s nothing you can do to get any faster than to sit your butt down and enjoy the sport from the other side of the caution tape.  With the Mohican 100 on Saturday, tonight’s my night.  It’s good to be a spectator.  It’s better to be a spectator with a cowbell, beer and bag of chips.  It reminds me of why I got into bikes in the first place.  It’s fun.  It’s beautiful.  It’s a spectacle.  It’s good times with friends.  It’s better than watching Snookie get in a car wreck with an Italian police car…or at least pretty close. 

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the numbers and schedules.  Try this once.  On your next Zone 1 easy ride or recovery day neighborhood walk, head to the bleachers of the baseball diamond at your neighborhood park and watch the game.  Yeah.  Instead of taking a “rest” day, go watch total strangers play ball.  Whether its kid’s soccer or the local bar softball league, you’ll find a reason to cheer.  Grab the fishing rod out of the rafters, walk to the Little Miami River and cast till the sun sets.  When was the last time you sat on a park bench?  Believe me, it is an activity.

A few weeks ago I filled a travel mug with coffee, grabbed the cowbell and walked from my house to cheer on the runners in Cincinnati’s Flying Pig Marathon.  Training for the Mohican 100, I did a long ride the day before.  My day was wide open, what might appear as a “rest” day in your training program.  I was out there on Riverside Drive for two hours.  Instead of a drive-by wave, I actually had a conversation with my neighbor Reggie.  I met some nice people that are turning an old boat repair shop into a Pilates studio.  It got me to thinking how ridiculous it is to write the word “rest” on a calendar.  

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

TOOLS R4 FOOLS: What Slogan is on Your Mohican 100 Jersey?

I could’ve ridden the last two Mohican 100 races without any tool, tubes or air.  Coulda…woulda…shoulda.  Besides helping a teammate with a broken chain, I personally didn’t need to bring an extra 800 pound boat anchor chain pin.  Does that mean I should leave the tools at the cabin and save the weight this year?  Yep.  If I were a complete dufus.  Contrary to what you may think, I am not a complete dufus, only a bike crazed dufus with devil horns.  My rule for Mohican is that the weight of the tools I carry should not weigh more than the poop I take the morning before the race.  So, I am strapping an entire steel IF 29er frameset to a 100oz Camelback this year.  

Really, I am bringing the same fix-it supplies to Mohican this year as I brought last year, albeit with one change.  Instead of a 2^nd 40oz CO2 air can, I’m bringing a small pump that’s about equal weight.  (bike packed as pictured above) I figure if I get a 2^nd flat, my goal will be too far gone at that point and I’ll be just hoping for a decent finish.  I know I’m not the only racer comparing the weights of air cartridges and pumps and the benefits of each.  We all consider the problem probabilities.  The most common mechanical you’ll likely encounter is a flat tire.  The 2^nd most common is a broken chain.  The third would be some kind of readjustment to your equipment, like tweaking your handlebars after a mishap.  The 4^th would be some sort of catastrophic failure of a major component like your derailleur hanger or left leg.   So is it one tube or two?  Two air cartridges or one and a pump?  I personally know a guy who brings a replacement rear derailleur, simply because he’s an idiot, I mean, determined to finish.  Before you even consider what to pack you need to ask yourself one question:

Which slogan would you have embroidered on the back of your Mohican jersey?

 “Tools R4 Fools”  

“Cooking Up an Excuse”

“Gimmie My Pint”

“Don’t Worry, I Packed a Light”

TOOLS R4 FOOLS

You’re going to finish in the top “x” or bust.  You agree with the statement: “I’m completely prepared to DNF if things don’t go my way.”  You say “foo” instead of “fool.”  Many pro’s race this way.  Less talk that way.  Maybe the entry fee didn’t come out of your pocket.  Maybe you nabbed close to a top ten last year (cough Marty) and your buddies (cough me) think you have a real shot at a podium this year.  It’s up to you, but considering that a flat is the most common issue riders have you might want to carry 1 lightweight air cartridge/chuck so that in the event of a flat you might be able to shoot in enough air and hope the tire sealant can help you hold your position to the finish.  The really good riders can do this without getting off their bike.  Sometimes just waving the CO2 can above your head and threatening the tire can convince it to seal.  Lance tried this unsuccessfully at Leadville.  You might one-up him and actually figure out how to inflate a tire with CO2 before the race.  Regardless, the 4-5 minutes it might take to drop in a tube would put you so far behind your goal that it wouldn’t be worth finishing.  In this case, your best option is to flag a ride back to the venue, toss your gear in your car and discreetly leave before the first rider crosses the finish line.  Many pros do this.  You don’t need a computer because you plan on being within sight of the leaders.

Tools: 1 lightweight air chuck and 40oz CO2 can…maybe

“COOKING UP AN EXCUSE”

Most of my teammates are in this boat.  We have our goals, but we’re hardly good enough to tango for a podium spot against the pros at Mohican.  We’re hoping to come close, to have our name a few spots below a big name on the leader board or at least near where it was last year.  Actually the object is to take a picture of the leaderboard and have your name and the name of someone remotely famous in the same frame.  If not, we’ll do our best to finish and cook up a good story for the campfire afterward.  Unlike the pros, not finishing means you’d have to face the heckling at the after party since you carpooled up to the venue with these A-holes in the first place.  So we’ll carry enough stuff to fix the most common mechanicals without it weighing more than the result of the daily morning ritual. 

Tools from above plus:

2^nd air cartridge or 1 tiny ass pump of equal weight to air cartridge (cuz you handle air cartridges like Lance Armstrong thereby giving you another chance at saving face with you’re A-hole buddies)

1 tube (it’s insurance against your entry fee)

1 Tiny ass chain tool with the few most common Allen keys to avoid bad juju

2 Shimano Spare Chain Pins (no doubt you’ll drop the first one in the dirt during your lactic acid haze)

1 Cyclo-computer (so you have a clue of when the pint glass will be in you hand, how far you might actually be behind the leaders, and statistical proof that you bombed that descent faster than your buddies)

“COOKING UP AN EXCUSE +1”

Same as above except you fear the double flat and rationalize the extra weight of a 2^nd tube by carrying the most minimalist lightweight chain tool, air chuck, pump, cyclo-computer and Allen keys possible thereby reducing the weight of your entire tool package to just slightly more than a hearty morning poo.  You then tape the tube to the underside of your stem with matching electrical tape, because only middle aged white guys can make bling out of a 50 cent roll of tape.  This is me yo.

“GIMMIE MY PINT”

You don’t really have a goal in mind other than going home knowing you did your best, but by God you’re going to finish before the tap on that finish line keg runs dry cuz there’s nothing worse than being handed an empty pint glass and being berated by your faster buddies who have already showered and eaten by the time you arrive.  So, you’re bringing an extra tube, an actual full-on multi tool to make sure you at least finish before they get out of the shower. 

Tools from above plus:

Another tube (because you’re THAT guy who installs new tubes and then pinch flats them 2 minutes later.)

A full-on complete Allen wrench set, screwdriver, spoke wrench and knife.  (Because if you can’t fix your bike you can at least stab yourself in the leg and cross the finish line bleeding which gives you carte blanche to fabricate the best story at the campfire after party)

“DON’T WORRY, I BROGHT A LIGHT”

You haven’t ridden further than 1.5 hours all spring, you still don’t have biker tan lines, you preregistered but foolishly you’re still determined to make it. 

Tools from above plus:

Headlight

Full Swiss Army type Allen wrench set including a big 8 or 10mm for your pedals

Patch kit

Stewart Smally’s mini-book of ”Positive Thoughts”

Small bottle of lube

A section of chain

Iodine tablets or water purifier

Band-Aids, Bactine, Medical Tape

A length of duct tape

Map of Mohican Wilderness with highlighted short-cuts

An assortment of screws and washers

A spare (insert part you break most often here such as derailleur hanger, derailleur, seat post etc)

A mojo or good luck charm to dangle from your seat bag to signal to all riders that you have no business being in front of them.

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.

Sasquatch and The 650b 29er Mountain Bike

Growing up, we knew it only as "The Black Thing."  As we played Kick-The-Can or a neighborhood game of Chase (a made-up game where one team hides and the other team finds, chases and tags), every now and then after dusk fell someone would see The Black Thing.  I just got a shiver writing this.  It would run across our Wisconsin street from a house with a stand of large pine trees to between the houses across the street.  It ran on two doggish legs and seemed to have the appearance of an upright hairy Great Dane.   Most of the kids I hung out in the neighborhood with had seen it at one time or another, not shy enough to talk about it among friends, but too-shy to let mom and dad know there was a giant creature roaming our suburban community.

The reason I bring this up is that, like Sasquatch and Yeti, I have once again spotted something that I don't think anyone else has seen.  I bring you the 650b-2-Niner.

It's an IF 29er with 650b wheels.  Why?  Because Mitch at BioWheels bike shop in Cincinnati sent his 650b back for repairs and the 29er wheels for the IF were on the fritz.  So needing a bike for the Mohican 100 this weekend, he logically put chocolate in his peanut butter.  Unless he got out last night, this monster has yet to be tamed.

101 Reasons I'm Looking Forward To Mohican 100

(The following is more or less a re-run from an earlier post, but riding comes before blogging.  I've got three days to squeeze in 5 days of work and to pack and finish cleaning/tweaking my bike for Mohican 100 '09 this weekend.  Enjoy and thanks for reading.)

I shared a beer with Floyd Landis last year at the Mohican 100 in Loudonville Ohio. There’s the picture to prove it. Still kick myself for not putting on a team jersey, mainly because my baggy shirt makes my 162 pounds look like 210 next to him. I zip tied devil horns from a Viking helmet I bought at a rummage sale to my helmet and the photo at the header of this blog appeared in Cycling News because of it. I peed on trees. Hundreds of tricked out bikes surrounded me all weekend. A buddy spent at least an hour and a half debating his tire choice while Trek’s Jeremiah Bishop and his teammates rode past our cabin for a pre-ride. My team, friends from all around Cincinnati, Louisville and Columbus shared tools, tweaked bikes and drank dark beers till well past sundown. We piled 4 guys into the truck at dawn and drove to the start. A black cat crossed the road in front of us entering Loudonville. I made the road rollout lead group split with the pros. I got a pint glass filled with Sierra Nevada at the finish line. Despite the trough of free food in the lodge, someone had a deep dish Chicago style pizza delivered to the venue. As for the race, like everyone else I spent the day covered in mud in what turned out to be the first sticky hot and humid day of the summer. I overheated between rest stops, slogged up shoe stealing mucky hills, cleaned my bike, took water cooler paper towel baths, nearly dropped out, got encouragement to continue from teammates, felt good for 5 miles, only to repeat the process over and over again for the next eight and a half hours. You could wait and watch the weather radar and make a last minute call on registration on Friday night, but truthfully there's really nothing that can happen between now and Saturday night that'll make the Mohican 100 more or less fun.

Link to confirmed riders of Mohican 100 here.

100 Reasons to Register Now for the Mohican 100 Starting With Floyd Landis

I shared a beer with Floyd Landis last year at the Mohican 100 in Loudonville Ohio. There’s the picture to prove it. Still kick myself for not putting on a team jersey, mainly because my baggy shirt makes me look like a fat ass next to him. I zip tied devil horns from a Viking helmet I bought at a rummage sale to my helmet and the photo at the header of this blog appeared in Cycling News because of it. I peed on trees. Hundreds of tricked out bikes surrounded me all weekend. A buddy spent at least an hour and a half debating his tire choice while Trek’s Jeremiah Bishop and his teammates rode past our cabin for a pre-ride. My team, friends from all around Cincinnati, Louisville and Columbus shared tools, tweaked bikes and drank dark beers till well past sundown. We piled 4 guys into the truck at dawn and drove to the start. A black cat crossed the road in front of us entering Loudonville. I made the road rollout lead group split with the pros. I got a pint glass filled with Sierra Nevada at the finish line. Despite the trough of free food in the lodge, someone had a deep dish Chicago style pizza delivered to the venue. As for the race, like everyone else I spent the day covered in mud in what turned out to be the first sticky hot and humid day of the summer. I overheated between rest stops, slogged up shoe stealing mucky hills, cleaned my bike, took water cooler paper towel baths, nearly dropped out, got encouragement to continue from teammates, felt good for 5 miles, only to repeat the process over and over again for the next eight and a half hours. You’ll certainly save a coupla Jefferson’s by registering for the Mohican 100 before the early deadline on February 1st. However, the main reason to sign up now before the price goes up is that there’s really nothing that can happen between now and race day that’ll make the Mohican 100 more or less fun.

Link to confirmed riders of Mohican 100 here.

Sunday Mornings

The sun is doing it’s best to burn the frost off my windshield and the fog from the Ohio River Valley. Like a human coco bean radiator, I take another sip off coffee and unzip my jacket. There’s always an interesting story Sunday morning’s on NPR. Today, I think it’s an interview with a producer from a TV cop drama, but I missed the beginning where they mentioned the show. He’s actually been to real murder scenes and I laugh when he reiterates the fact that saying “c’mon, shoot me” is about the dumbest thing you can say if someone in real life points a gun at you. I’m halfway through an Odwalla Bar and about a half hour from today’s cyclocross race venue.

Just this past Saturday, my wife and I were spinning and watching the “Pure Sweet Hell” video. Some CX nut from Portland was saying how cross is sort of masochistic. My wife quipped with a smart-assed raised eyebrow, “is that why you like it?!” Caught off guard by her subtle humor, I spurted out something like, “no, I like it because it’s short and really hard.” I chucked inside and we kept spinning. As the yuk wore off, I started to think of why I like cyclocross.

I do like it because it’s short and hard. While I do like racing bikes in general, I’ve never been completely fond of the all-day long endurance mountain bike races. I don’t get excited for the Mohican 100 and Pisgah Death March like I do for cyclocross. Every form of racing is hard in its own right, but for some reason I prefer the red-line racing over the “oh god I hope I can endure this beating for another 4 hours” variety.

But, cyclocross is more than that. It’s the little intricacies, most of the time nothing to do with the actual bike riding, all rolled up into one package that keeps me coming back every weekend. It’s trying to quietly stuff a cowbell in the pocket of my backpack without waking up my wife. It’s loading up the bikes on a chilly November morning and seeing my neighbor tip-toe out to grab his newspaper in his underwear and suddenly realize that someone spotted him in his boxers. It’s feeling compelled to make a sign of the cross midway through evening hill repeats in Mount Adams as I rest and take in the vista overlooking the Ohio River Valley from the gate of the Holy Cross-Immaculata Church.