USADA Report: Now That You Know, Which Knee Warmers Will You Wear?

It was called “Clarity.”  As they adjusted the plastic mask over my face, I recall it having a hint of lemon lime.  It was what I ordered from the bar at the “O2 Lounge,” 9600 feet above sea level on Main Street in Breckenridge.  For lack of a better term, the barista at the oxygen bar turned on the flow and my wife and I sat back in hopes of relieving our pounding headaches on day two of our cycling vacation.  It worked.  If only for a few hours the headache subsided and my labored breathing eased climbing the trail.

While widely accepted, and being no hard and fast rules or sanctions against it, mountaineers are divided on the subject of using supplemental oxygen in their summit bids.  It’s also widely accepted that I’m no mountaineer.  Still I wonder, had I cheated in a way?  Absolutely not.  I was not trying to set a speed record on the local 14’er Quandary Peak, but simply trying to ease a day on the bike path to Frisco and a hike up to the Colorado Trail.  There are no rules in recreational cycling and hiking.  In more or less terms, nobody gives a hoot.  However in pro cycling we do, give hoots that is. 

Now with temps in the low 50’s and falling, I pulled on my knee warmers.  Blue, warm and sag-free, I love them.  Days earlier, I read Hincapie’s admission on his website, as well those of the others who cheated.  Like watching the slow helmet motion footage of a Red Bull Rampage rider casing an 80-footer, I followed the live blog of the USADA release at the WSJ website.  Even though we could all see this coming like semi-truck headlights in the fog, my stomach sank.  I began to feel played for a fool.  While there are a dozen companies that make blue, non-saggy, toasty knee warmers, I chose to buy Hincapie.  A few days ago, like many personal decisions we’ll make down the road based on our scruples, I chose to take them off.

Errmahgerd George!

The Hincapie I knew made those knee warmers as cool as the consummate right hand man I cheered for on TV and sought out for a photo when I vacationed at the Tour of California, the perfect teammate, always up there toughing it out in mud, in rain, and on the steeps.  I identified with that.  While I can count my personal solo wins of my 14 years of amateur racing on the fingers of one hand, I’ve always tried to encourage my teammates, give them the perfect lead-out, help with a draft, and lend equipment or advice.  I’m not going to say Hincapie knee warmers were like putting on Superman’s cape, but they did make me feel more like the bike racer I wanted to be.  Now instead of being a symbol of cycling’s team and hard-men nature, the knee warmers are a reminder to keep role models at a distance while trying my hardest to hold the sport dear. 

“Don’t be naïve Joe,” I can hear you say.  Everyone was doping.  Get over it.  “People suck and they cheat,” a reader posted on our Facebook page.  I know.  I know.  I know.  With taxes, the stock market and their spouses it happens everyday.  We all get screwed sometime or another.  However, I do feel cheated and I’m entitled to feel that way.  For (insert name of hero you can believe in here)’s sake, the accomplishments of the greatest American cycling team, the results of every race I saw them compete, the fame gained by the coaches and management, every dollar earned directly or indirectly because of that success is all ill-gotten. 

Adam Myerson ‏@AdamMyerson

You motherfuckers have a LOT of work to do to pay your debt back to all of us.

The root of my feeling lies in the fact that doping is not a one race thing.  To me, it’s preposterous to think, and as far as I can tell, physically impossible for a rider to stop doping and continue to masquerade as a clean athlete.  Doping is a tattoo, permanent.  Even if for a short period of time, the muscles built, the cardiovascular system developed, the knowledge gained at the top of the sport will always be with these riders till the day they die.  The phrase “former doper” is a joke.  Once a doper, always a doper. 

Nooo!  Him too?

By using EPO they were able to train harder and recover faster, win, get their name in the headlines, generate fans, and be in touch with industry people.  Now, years later these riders, team managers, coaches and doctors are going to ask me to participate in their Grand Fondo, read their book, go see their new team race, watch the movie, believe in the new crop of athletes under their wing, sign up for that triathlon, purchase their training program, to toe the line with me at a non-sanctioned mountain bike race, buy their brand of bikes or feel comfortable in their knee warmers.  I’m sorry.  They may be able to race a UCI event in 6 months, but I think I’m done with them and their knee warmers.    

However, I do somewhat sympathize with the riders…somewhat.  I’m sure you noticed a hint of victimization in the USADA report.  Many riders allege management more or less said it was dope or go home.  It reeks of coercion.  Yet a Barry, Hincapie and the others made the decision.  They were 10-12 years younger than now, hungry to go big time, pressured and perhaps a bit narrow minded to realize that there were more options than doping or going home. 

In mountaineering you’re judged by your peers, be it bottled oxygen or team support, on what type of assistance you used to get to the top and back down.  Maybe that’s what divides us from the those that doped.  From the USADA document, most riders seem to hint that they felt there was no other way to the top of the mountain.  We the fans feel otherwise, until now having to assume we were witnessing a monumental accomplishment.

I Booked a Plane Ticket and Got Up Early for This?

The real victims in all of this are the people that didn’t make the cut, the riders who lost to the dopers, talented prospective staff members that didn’t buy into the program and ended up trying to make the most of other avenues and/or cycling’s minor leagues.  I also feel sorry for the fans that booked a plane ticket, drove up the mountain in a rent a car at 5am to be a tiny part of something they thought was great.  It turns my stomach to think of all the people in the last decade that bought into the Trek marketing machine.  I feel bad that I once poked fun of Floyd Landis showing up for the Mohican 100 NUE Mountain Bike Race and thought LeMond was a loud mouth buffoon.  Looking back, at least they had the courage to speak out against a momentous opponent. 

Doping is against the rules in cycling.  Cycling is not anything goes like fighting cancer.  It’s not kill or be killed.  You practice, you eat right, you persevere, you find a mentor, you play by the rules, you lose, until one day…you win, and it’s glorious.  As a fan, I cheer for the guy dangling off the back in danger of getting dropped as much as the one goosing the pace at the front.

Floyd Landis and I (I'm the Fat One)

People jump up and down.  They scream.  Some have followed you since you were an amateur.  Some heard about you and came out to see if you could pull it off.  Now, they surround you cheering.  You get a trophy, sponsorships, book deals, and cameo roles in movies.  They want the same brand bike you have.  They want the same clothes, now with your name on them.  They want to get the advice of your coach.  They want to ride alongside you on a Grand Fondo.  Your success creates a worldwide movement.

However, doping makes all of that lying, stealing and cheating.  So don’t tell me that it’s okay for any of these cyclists, managers, coaches, doctors to continue in the sport, to continue their endorsements, to put on rides, to start or consult other teams, to show up at local mountain bike races and triathlons, endorse products, and create foundations based on the very color of the ill gotten glory.  It’s not.  All their perceived success in cycling is tainted by doping.  They gave up that chance the moment they went down the wrong path.

I’m not a strong enough voice to sway cycling one way or the other.  I’m not qualified to come up with a fool proof way to insure pro cycling is clean nor have the authority to change its direction.  I am however qualified to not attend events tainted by the presence of a doper.  I can impress on our local racers about what it really means to cheat and that there are other options.  Like Adam Myerson, I am qualified to question those at the highest level of the sport, raise an eyebrow when things don’t look right and be vocal about it.  For now, I can choose to remain a fan of the sport, but not the individual.  I can choose which bike to buy and which knee warmers I wear.

#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.  

Monday Travel Day #cxnats

4 Runner loaded to bear

Monday is a travel day and a day to recharge a bit after a couple hard races in Chicago. There were a lot of expectations for Chicago, but racing in the same nasty mud conditions we had the last couple OVCX races was a surprise and the kids needed some time to recharge.

So we loaded up the truck and headed to Verona. Hills that is. Gravel climbs, icy descents.

Surprisingly I got two teenage kids out of bed at 8:00 am, had breakfast, packed the car, loaded up the bikes, and out the door on our way to Madison by 11:00 am. Dad’s always have schedules and times we expect to get things done by, but rarely do dad’s plans meet up square with teenage productivity. Somehow today we did it.

Starched flags the whole way up

Once we got on the road we were glad we had plenty of time to get up to Madison. We were greeted by temps in the upper teens and a head wind all the way in the low 20’s mph range. Normally this is a touch annoying, but today we have the Thule Mountaineer rooftop box (big enough to be a coffin for a 6’ 5” guy), two bikes on the roof, and four bikes hanging off the hitch. A 20 mph head wind was like riding a TT bike with an Zipp 808 front wheel and a disk rear wheel and being adamant that you had to stay in the aero bars – you know you are going to get bounced, you just never know when and spend a lot of energy steering into the cross.

We drove a leisurely pace, thanking the Illinois department of highways along the way for raising the tolls on January 1^st. The tolls on I-90 north of Chicago to Wisconsin now takes $3 a shot. Adding up the tolls and their increased price from south of Chicago all the way to the Wisconsin border it will now cost $20 just to pass through Chicago. My first thought was “DAMN!”, but then I started thinking…if we want people to think about driving every place at any time this is the way to do it. If it was going to cost me a Jackson a day to drive to work just in tolls, you can bet I would be thinking about alternatives to driving my car.

Verona-Still Work To Do

We drove into Verona and headed to Badger Prairie County Park and immediately noticed one thing: ice. Ice on the driveway into the park, ice on the course, ice in a lot of places. Immediately we talked about Bend in 2010 and the ice time trial we had to ride there. When comparing conditions side by side there was no comparison. The ice at Bend was way, WAY worse than anything we just saw in Verona. The ice in Bend was so thick that there were ruts in the ice, and it really never went away. The ice in Verona will go away with a little salt and some reasonable temperatures.  (Jan 2nd Course Preview Video courtesy You Tube/Ted C Burns/CX Magazine.)

After hitting up a Chipotle in Middleton, WI (the McDonald’s of cross racers) we hit up our hotel and started to get settled. And by settled I mean the kids went played in the pool while I washed six bikes and 3 additional wheelsets in the shower. When we finished in Chicago the mud was sticking to the bikes and on top of that freezing to the bikes. As a result of the freezing temps we didn’t want to wash them outside in Chicago – last thing I needed was water getting in sealed bearings, freezing, expanding and having to run to bikes shops collecting bearing replacements. So I channeled my inner Dusty Labar and soiled the shower.

Now the bikes are clean, the kids are refreshed, and we have all ridden on trainers on the hotel to shake out the legs after yesterdays beating in Chicago. Tomorrow we start our quest to learn, prepare and compete in Nationals – look for insights on the course and tires in tomorrow edition. We will try to get reviews of the current conditions utilizing the following tires:

Tubular:

- Vittoria XG (almost exactly same as Challenge Grifo)

- Vittoria XM

- Vittoria XN

- Challenge Limus

- Clement PDX

Clincher:

- Clement PDX

- Clement LAS

I have also included a few fun photos below. Teenagers are fun, interesting, and perplexing to travel with – they are so easily distracted by normal every day items.

Occupado! Sorry kids, can't use the toilet right now

Pretty nice hotel pool, even has life guards

Hotel with bunk beds? There were fights over the top bunk

I found them in the closet playing with the hotel safe.
Seriously, I did not stage this.

#Cincy3CX Hangover

Trombone Maddie Cheers Katie, Kaitlin & Georgia

I’d love to dazzle you with insightful commentary about this weekend’s Cincy3 Cyclocross Festival, but like last year, after writing the race stories for the media, I’m all typed-out.  While thankful to see my name in the Velonews Byline with accurate and colorful articles, the weekend was so ADD inducing, in retrospect, I can barely keep my thought in one direction.  So here’s some odds n ends:

UCI Officials are intimidating, like prison guards.  I felt like a sheepish grade school student asking the teacher a dumb question when I approached an official to confirm UCI C1 points went 15 deep.

The Farrell Family Crest

I forgot that I registered for Friday’s race at Devou.  That’s the pit falls of registering for events three months in advance.  I discovered the receipt for the race on Saturday while going through material to write up the race reports.

I thought Team Hungry was the creative team with their own team flag until I saw the Rogue Racing team made personal signs to cheer each of their individual teammates. (photo left)

Maddie carried a sign and a trombone, she’s like 10.  (photo above)

In my radio career, I’ve interviewed Garth Brooks, talked to Army Generals, and met big politicians.  I’ve never been star struck until I get in front of a pro cyclist.  Seriously, I could strike up a conversation with any total stranger at any supermarket in Anytown USA, but put me in front of Jeremy Powers, probably one of the most approachable pros on the circuit, and the nerd in me rises to the top.

Me and Jpow Take 2

I just remembered, Tony Frankin, the drummer Sunday at Harbin Park was wearing a Motorhead pullover while a CXer rapped over the beat.  He wasn't half bad.  The crowd erupted in cheers.

Arguing with officials at the start about your call up is like trying to talk yourself out of a ticket.  Might as well flash your man boobs.  Besides, when you kick and scream at the start line, you’re essentially telling your competition that you’re starting in the back and inviting them to draw first blood.

My Best CX Season p/b Pearl Izumi

Middletown, the home of classically restored Cutlass Supremes with DUI plates.

The fallen leaves at Sunset Park in Middletown were bigger than Paul Bunyan pancakes, man hole covers, floormats and hubcaps.

I still don’t know why I bother bringing an impeccably clean bike to cyclocross races, only to completely destroy it on one warm-up lap.

Katie Compton with Meredith Miller Pre-Race Day 1

Half finger gloves are perfect for tweeting during a cross race.

I love driving my Toyota 4-Runner over curbs while parking at races.

I also love to see my wife at the end of a race.  Thanks honey.

Some of your observations from The Best Bike Blog Ever's Facebook Page:

• 
  

  Jason (An overheard quote from Shawn Adams after 3 laps of racing at Devou on Friday, "When Trebon stomps on the pedals it just crushes your soul" 
  
• 
  

  Cooper (Announcer John at Harbin) "There is a hill at the back where you had better make sure your health insurance is paid up on before you hit it."
• 
  

  Lindsay William trying to look "as American as possible", which somehow included pulling his shorts up like Steve Urkel and shouting "U-S-A, U-S-A!" when Caroline Mani came by with about a lap and a half to go. This somehow precipitated an attack by Meredith Miller, which resulted in her taking second place.
• (An overheard quote) "I think he had a bio-mechanical" (and of course) "The $100 pissing fine and the DQ shocker of the year."

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.

My Cincinnati UCI-3 Cyclocross Festival Charm Bracelet

It’s like recovering from a traumatic experience, the UCI3 weekend plays back in sound bites and blurry flashes.  I distinctively remember seeing a female racer in tears on top of the bowl at Devou Park on Friday.  A teammate consoled her.  Not sure if she crashed in the ¾ race or just missed the podium.  I still don’t know.  The weekend feels like a charm bracelet of colorful moments like that.  There’s not a huge story that sticks out from the weekend.  Sure Katie Compton swept it again.  The battle between Trebon and JPow was great to watch from day to day with each trying to use their strengths to the other’s demise.  Nothing against the pro’s, they are the reason we came together this past weekend and they were so nice and approachable.  However, personally I had just as much fun running into my friends Pete and Kate and their cute little toddler for the first time.  His blonde hair was patchy and long.  His head was still a little flat from the crib and he wobbled around and giggled at the crazy bike world around him completely adorable.  That's how the weekend plays out for me, one unrelated blurb after another.

Friday Devou Park, Covington:

Completely whooped and wheezing after my race, I considered drinking from the drinking fountain doggie bowl.  Seriously.  I couldn’t drink water fast enough after the 2/3 race and I’m certain I looked disturbing to the handful of folks on the corner.  A Nut buster.  I seriously should dump this 42T chainring for a 39.  Where’s Parbo?  He’s not feeling good.  My teammate Tony took the 3^rd step on the podium in the Cat 3 Masters 45+ at his hometown park.  He doesn’t like flex-fit caps, so he gave me the Shimano hat he won.  

“Ya think Katie Compton would be cool if I took a picture while she’s on the rollers?”  I showed her the photo above and she approved.  I distinctively remember sticking my handlebars between the fence and my teammate’s bike going through the holeshot from road to grass not knowing where I’d come out on the other side.  That crying girl.  She didn’t look hurt.  Geoff Kabush’s sideburns are a wonder of nature.  3 laps to go?  This race could end right now and I’d be completely okay with it.  

Passing a Belgian Waffle and downing it with my wife and four others like sips of Whiskey from a flask.  After the Cat 3 race, seven friends shared a few beers in lawn chairs ringing cowbells.  Somebody left a crappy set of wheels by my truck.  That 12 year old Petrov kid just crushed the Cat 4 field.  Inadvertently mooning pro’s across the street.  My pants kept sliding off my waist as I loaded wheels into my truck.  “I’m sorry.  Did you see my man candy?”  Bridget you owe me five bucks. 

Saturday Harbin Set-up:

Maybe they're in the shed.  I was running late to meet for Harbin course set up in the morning and couldn’t find my leather work gloves.  S*** I need gas too.  Where’s that coupon for Brueggers?  I’m soo late, but I feel so much better after that morning recovery ride.  

Ouch!  I sliced my thumb with a multi tool knife cutting caution tape off of last year’s course marking stakes.  Two on these three UCI3 signs, one each on the other four.  I calculated how to hang the ten cowbells along the sandpit fencing at Harbin (see photo, bells hanging on UCI3 signs.)  Clangalangalang.  I tested each one.  I hope no one steals these overnight.  Wow!  Andy Perrino did a great job.  Those flowers, pumpkins and gourds look great on the stage.  

Phil mentioned he had to jump to cut those tree branches to Trebon and Wicks height.  You gotta choke the golf cart...alot.  “Let’s make our goal to finish taping off the course by 2:15 and be pre-riding by 2:30.”  Record time for Harbin set-up.  Brian cut a tire.  Nate slide out.  Suddenly I was leading the group for the test run.  Oh no, what’s this plastic stuff on my brake pads?  Did I wreck my carbon wheels?  Fhew!  It’s just old glue that oozed out, collected and heat-solidified on the edges of my yellow Swiss-stops. 

Sunday Snapshots at Harbin

“Pump my tires for good luck,” my wife jokingly asked before I left.  I did.  She got a flat on her group ride.  I dropped and tangled my chain with 3 turns to go at Harbin and in 4 seconds 12 guys passed me.  Note to self: not much luck in pumping tires.  

“Does this bike make my ass look fast?”  Jeni wore her funny t-shirt to the race.  Boom-ta-doom-ta.  Boom-ta-doom-ta.  I banged out a weak reggaeton beat on the drum kit next to my buddy Tony, a professional drummer.  He gave me a fist bump of approval me after the jam session during the Women’s ¾ race.  

I want the bat.  My friends Bridget and Kate gave me stick on Halloween tattoos on my neck.  Barry Wicks silently came around me on the warm up.  I bagged it to stay on his wheel.  He was gone after the barriers.  I remember feeling like I was in a video game, nearly missing carnage everywhere on the first lap or two of the Cat 2/3 race.  Cat like reflexes.  

Mary Beth brought refreshements to the drum stand, but hilariously kept knocking the bottles over.  Nate threw his bike.  After taking the lead in the Men’s Cat 3 35+, something happened to cause his bars to twist.  His bike unrideable, he was done.  A sweet two wheel slide.  With a half lap to go, I let it all hang out on the section where I had Barry’s wheel.  I stayed upright.  Dudes just falling down to the grass at the finish line.  They weren’t being drama-queens, they were honestly completely wasted.  

A friend told me he overheard Trebon (pictured at Devou) poke fun at Mark Legg by saying “Go Mister Compton!”  In a friendly way, Legg fired back, “FU Jeremy Powers.”  Chris Nevitt, Gerri Schulze, Jake Virosko and Jason Karew are looking good.  We were all impressed with the showing of local talent in the pro races.  The Double Hurdler burger with onions, mayo and mustard.  The line was huge.  I bet they raised enough money at the food booth to buy the trail cutting machine for Devou Park mountain bike trails.  Geoff Kabush relaxed in the tent next to me as neutral support tightened the hub on my rear wheel.  There were some nice Vittoria knobbed tubies on his bike with a gummy sidewall, very similar to Challenge Griffos, but probably a few bucks less expensive.  A Cat 4 racer cussed right in front of the anncouncer stand and got called out on it!

I mimed “I like your hair” to Suzanne from the drumstand.  She understood and gave her bobby hair a girlish poof.  Good to see and chat with friends I haven’t seen in a long-long time like Suzanne and Bob.  Really good.  That’s the real big story of the weekend.

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