brad’s gooseberry 100

Friday night, I climbed in the car with Karl and Brad to head down to Gooseberry, to do Brad’s Gooseberry 100.

Brad is the evil genius behind CarboRocket. He also owns a few acres right up on Gooseberry Mesa, a solid stone’s throw from the Windmill, where’s he’s built a giant deck, which he’ll deck out (get it?) with a giant yurt later this year. This makes (or will make for) a nice place to spread out a sleeping bag. For me, anyway. After about an hour of hearing me snore, Karl gave up and slept in his car.

But I’m getting ahead of myself–I wanted to tell you how excited Brad was about stopping for potato logs in Fillmore.

He was so excited he insisted on buying some for all of us. Brad didn’t MAKE the logs, but he acted like he did, so we felt obligated to eat one. Brad, if you’re reading, they were AWESOME!

So, ride-wise, all I really have to say is, we had a great time. We got up at the crack of 6:45, which did not sit well with me.

This is what we call an “Ambien hangover.” And yes, it’s still dark. This may not be the most flattering picture ever taken of me.

As we got dressed for riding, I discovered the broken zipper on my brand new jersey. Not wanting to ride for 5 hours with my jersey open and flapping in the wind, I begged a spare from Brad. Who weighs at least 20 lbs less than I do, in spite of our identical heights.

Karl introduced me to the celebrity term “Spanks.” It seems to fit (the term, not the jersey). I’m thinking of becoming a model.

I seem to have stocked this post with super flattering pictures of myself. This one is totally going in the modeling portfolio.

Anyway. Soon we were off and riding. First we rode Gooseberry Mesa, counter-clockwise. If I had to pick ONE ride to have in my backyard, you know, with a gun to my head, I would pick Gooseberry Mesa. See its awesome goodness:

Okay, maybe that picture doesn’t convey awesome goodness, but you guys know me, you trust me. Trust me. It’s awesomely good.

After the mesa, we dropped down the dirt road and crossed through Apple Valley. Theoretically, Karl had downloaded Brad’s GPS track of the route. In practical terms, Karl might as well have been carrying a paper weight on his stem. Or maybe Brad’s route really did dip into Kansas. Whether it did or not, we did some lovely cross pasture riding, and might have seen the inside of an ancient volcano.

Karl and I had signed up for 50 of the 65 miles on the route, conveniently leaving Kenny’s truck in Virgin so we could avoid the 7 miles of rolling pavement to Rockville (could anything be more frustrating on a single speed?), and the 7 miles of heartbreakingly steep and loose dirt back up to Gooseberry Mesa and Brad’s deck (okay, THAT would be more frustrating on a single).

So, turns out, I felt great when we got to the truck, and even felt a bit sheepish about skipping the climb. That is, until we drove past Kenny, who had been off the front with KC and Chris Holly all day, just above the worst part of the grind. The temperature hovered at about 95 degrees, and Kenny was weaving all over the road, and looked like he’d just been barbequed. And not in a good way. Although, he did rub our lameness in our faces by refusing to get in the truck. Kenny is many things, but he’s no pussy.

Later, back at the deck, Karl and I agreed, the ride had been very fun, mighty enjoyable. But for the poor schleps who did the climb, it looked epic.

On this day, I’ll take fun and mighty enjoyable over epic.

Brad had more fun in store, though. On the drive home, he insisted we drive through Cedar City so we could have dinner at Betos, where he assured us they had the best Mexican food in the world.

Betos turned out to be Albertos, and it was not located where he said it was, but it’s all good. They had a nice salsa bar, along with roasted peppers. Brad grabbed a couple peppers and some limes for the table.

Telling me that roasting peppers removed some of the heat, and that dousing them in lime removed even more, Brad demanded that we become pepper brothers and each take a big bite. Karl dismissed the idea out of hand, telling us that even mild salsa was too much for him.

I also dismissed the idea, because I’ve demonstrated my pussiness with regard to hot food. But Brad sold the ritual hard by unilaterally taking a huge bite of his pepper and casually offering me the second pepper. I demurred. And Brad sold it even harder by nonchalantly taking a second bite. “See?” he said. “No biggie. The lime and roasting take the sting away.”

And so I took a bite. The moment Brad heard the crunch he started gagging and crying and pounding his head on the table. Immediately followed, naturally, by ME gagging and crying and pounding my head on the table.

The lesson, as always? I am an idiot.

decisions, decisions

Do you remember The Great Santini? Of course you do.

After Ben finally beats his overbearing, hyper competitive dad in a one on one basketball game, the Great Santini wants a rematch, and when Ben refuses and walks away, his dad follows him, bouncing a basketball off his head. When Bull finally goes inside, and his wife confronts him, Bull says “Who the hell asked you anything?”

And his wife has the perfect response: “Don’t you talk to me like that. He beat you and it was beautiful!”

Where am I going with this? Don’t ask.

Okay, you asked.

Last night I went for a bike ride with Ian’s youth group, maybe 6 boys, couple other adults. We started at Suncrest, went over to top of Clarks, did some new trail, down Ghost, played on the stone steps, yada yada yada.

At the bottom of Clarks, because there was what you might call a fairly sizable talent gap between Ian and his friend and the rest of the group, I sent Ian and CJ up from the bridge while I waited for the rest of the group to catch up. I waited maybe five minutes, maybe less. And then I set out to catch Ian.

About a third of the way up, I spotted the two of them, Ian leading. When they looked back and saw me, Ian took off and CJ sagged and slowed. I caught and passed CJ. I closed to within about 100 yards of Ian.

And never got any closer.

I could tell, he had shifted into a gear comparable to my singlespeed 32×21, and was standing, stomping the pedals. So I picked up the pace. I started to sweat. I started to breathe loudly. I started to lose my vision.

And still could not close the gap.

Now, I’m the first to admit (especially right now), I’m not having a banner year. No racing, no real training. But I still get out two or three times a week. I still do big rides, I’m not gaining weight.

And yet he gained. Like the man in black. If the man in black wore a white sleeveless t-shirt, silk shorts, and skate shoes.

I am torn in half. On the one hand, I want to hug him, throw him a party, buy him a Superfly Singlespeed.

On the other hand, I want to kill myself. I’ve been asking friends for advice, celebrate or kill myself. It’s running about 70/30 in favor of self-immolation.

who spun the crank?

Who hasn’t heard that if you get stung by a jellyfish, you should have someone pee on you? Everyone, right?

Of course, Mythbusters debunks the notion that getting peed on will save you, or even help in any meaningful way, except to maybe distract you from the terrible painful death you’re experiencing, by humiliating you a bit before you die.

Well, at this year’s Leadville, urine made a comeback.

Due to extravagant weather, including thunderstorms, sleet, hail, and even a bit of snow, for everyone but Kenny, who rides a belt drive, and singlespeeders, who didn’t really need their chains to be clean, chain lube was more in demand than pepper was to feudal lords. And just as scarce.

But in heat of battle, you make do. Remember in that opening scene of Saving Private Ryan, when Captain Miller needs to attach a mirror to his bayonet to get a better look at the pill box? He reaches into Sergeant Horvath’s mouth and pulls out his gum, and uses the gum to fix the mirror to the bayonet. And later, in the battle for the town, he disables a tank with a “sticky bomb” made out of sticks, milk, and feces. Okay, I made that last part up.

But still. Improvisation saved Private Ryan. And it saved at least two racers at Leadville.

Steve, Mark’s brother, riding a borrowed and very high-end Gary Fisher Superfly, had a hopelessly gunked up chain and no lube. He sprayed the chain with CarboRocket, and his shifting problems were over. Really. It’s not just for breakfast anymore.

Jamie, riding a not-so-low-end Black Sheep, also had CarboRocket in his bottles, but he needed it for fuel. So he did the next best thing–he peed on his chain. Surely his pee had some CarboRocket left in it, right?

While he claims it worked liked a charm, I can’t help but wonder–who spun the crank while he peed on the chain?

don’t forget to breathe

After a recent sprint to the guard shack at the mouth of American Fork Canyon (won by Sunderlage, if you must know), me n Sleepy and Eber and Rick were all talking about how much energy it takes to sprint.

I mean, I feel worse after a sprint than I do after cresting the Alpine Loop. I’m literally gasping for air during the half mile it takes to actually exit the canyon below the guard shack. Oddly, the other guys concurred on the effort, but none had the same gasping problem I did.

I guess it’s the same as when Kim asks me why I’m gasping for air. I dunno.

Apparently, like Annabelle Bransford, when I get excited I hold my breath.

nice one

Long ago, in a (fitness) galaxy far away, Elden, Brad, Bob, and Ricky and I set out to ride the Kokopelli Trail from Moab to Grand Junction, in a day. Of course, nowadays, people race that thing. In those days, we felt like pioneers.

Elden told me how he once used that whole experience to teach a bunch of youth about commitment, preparation, and execution, by talking about how we got ready for the ride (or not–Ricky didn’t really train for it, and didn’t come), survived the ride (or not–Bob lived at sea level, and had to bail at Dewey Bridge), survived the ride (I felt okay, but endured numerous mechanicals because I’m a bit slothful in the bike maintenance department), and finished the ride (Elden, Brad, and I rolled up to our car in the dark 140 miles and about 18 hours after starting, together and exhausted).

I don’t know why it sticks in my head (why does ANYTHING stick in my head? I dunno. Some stuff sticks, some doesn’t. Figure this out and you’ll make my home a happier place. Not that it isn’t happy right now–it’s very happy–I just mean you’ll make it even HAPPIER), but this reminds me of riding with Eber this Summer.

A bunch of Suncrest guys signed up for Leadville this year. I don’t think any of these guys had ever done 100 miles on a bike before, and most had a very happy ending. At the race I mean. Let’s just move on.

Can’t remember the date, but mid summer, a bunch of us went on a big Corner Canyon ride, heading up the Suncrest singletrack to Deer Ridge, down the new downhill run, down to the pool, over to the golf course, up, across the BST, more Corner Canyon, up Clarks, several hours, lots of riding.

As we finally crested the saddle, all but one of us turned right to get home, since we’d been out for hours. But Eber turned left, and headed for Jacobs, adding another big climb to his day, because he had Leadville to get ready for.

Eber, who less than a year earlier rolled into a deserted parking lot on the Glenwild Halloween night ride because everybody else had already left, finished Leadville in 10:27.

In large part, because he was willing to make that left turn to Jacobs. Nice one Eber. And nice one to the rest of the gang. And BB–I’ve seen the replay, and you was robbed.

leadville 09 pics

I know, I didn’t even race at Leadville this year. But I was there, and I do have a few super high quality pics from my handy iPhone.

Every year presents the same conundrum–to attend the crappy, overcrowded, sweltering pre-race meeting or not. The meeting always sucks, but it’s kind of like going to Lake Powell with a newbie–you have to make the trip to Rainbow Bridge. Some things just are. There’s always been a lottery.

So we went.

That picture doesn’t really clue you into the fact that, even at 10,200 feet, the temperature in the gym was hotter than the surface of the sun. Hotter in the balcony:

Yes, that’s Tony, gradually becoming a puddle of sweat. Look how concerned we all are. He’s a couple of minutes from disappearing altogether.

Here’s our room in the Overlook Hotel. Forget Kenny here, and focus on the blocks under the bed.

Two two by fours. Only at THIS end of the bed. Because the entire hotel is gradually sinking to the left. Or the right, I guess, if you’re on the other side of the bed.

But it beats the crap out of this hotel. People actually stayed here. None of them were women. Not even that kind of women.

For some reason, these pictures just crack me up.

Elden:

Kenny:

I’m cracking up right now. Not sure why.

Speaking of crotch shots, here’s Mark Warner, explaining something. I came into the conversation late, so I don’t know what he was talking about. But I’m hoping it was erectile dysfunction.

In the background, you can see the hotel listing to the right (or left).

After looking at this picture, I’m hoping that nobody gives me grief over looking at my phone ever again. Et Tu, Kenny?

Here are some race pics, as the lead group enters the Twin Lakes feed zone, mile 40ish.

No zoom on my camera (is there an app for that?), but trust me, they’re coming:

Wiens in the lead.

Check out the hair on that woman. Female Carrot Top or just windy?

Wiens went straight to his crew, yelling “Get me the contingency bag!!”

The crew worked like an Indy 500 Pit Crew, and instead of tires, they put on these big oven mitt gloves:

I guess Wiens had read the weather report (hail and rain and wind up top).

And here’s my favorite pic of the weekend, Jonnie J., considerably less concerned about things. Just enjoying the moment with his three favorite things: bike racing, diet coke, and peeing.

the saddest sight in the world

Okay, all of you who have seen the French Lieutenant’s Woman, raise your hand. What’s the enduring image from that movie? (Yes, I know it was a book first, but seriously, who’s read that? Oh, and you can put your hands down now.)

The enduring image, of course, is of the woman on the rocky sea shore, waiting for her man. That image is timeless, right? And heartbreaking. Waiting for the sailor who never returns. Is there a more forlorn, gut-wrenching sight?

Well, it’s the same at Leadville. This very cool video of the race is all about the leaders, the top ten, all about LANCE.

But Leadville, at least for me, is very much NOT about Lance. It’s about the rest of us.

As you may know, there are a couple of important time cut-offs at Leadville. First, it’s for the win. And who cares. I’m almost completely serious. Really, who cares?

Second, the nine hour cut-off. Those who finish in under nine hours join an elite club, and are rewarded with a gigantic silver belt buckle (those who finish in under 12 hours also get a silver belt buckle, but it’s considerably smaller. Not “you’d actually wear it” smaller, but smaller).

Like 10% of the field gets in under 9 hours. It’s a big deal. Big enough that men (and a few women) devote their year to getting fit enough to cross the line in under 9 hours. And, upon failure, they return year after year, hoping that this will be their year.

This year I went to crew for Elden and Kenny, and while Ricky and Gbrown, who were crewing with me, wanted to hurry and leave the Pipeline aid station (25-30 miles and two mountain passes to go) and try to see the winner cross the line, I was uninterested. Leadville isn’t about those guys.

But I wouldn’t miss the 9 hour mark. Rachelle, Holly, and I got back in time for that. The crowd is deep and rowdy, and lines the road for almost a mile along the finishing stretch. A large digital clock ticks off the hours, minutes, and seconds. A rider who appears on the horizon with one minute to go has a 50/50 chance of getting to the line in time. The crowd acts like a big shot of adrenaline, willing riders to the line before the clock strikes nine.

Except when they don’t. This year I watched a guy cross the line a few seconds too late, and collapse on the pavement, crying uncontrollably, while his wife knelt next to him trying, unsuccessfully, to console him.

Harsh. But not nearly as harsh as what happens three hours later.

At around eleven and a half hours (6pm), with 30 minutes to go before crossing the line no longer makes you a “finisher,” the crowd starts to grow. In fact, this year, the last mile straightaway looked more like a mountain top finish at the Tour de France, crushing in to form a single file channel finishing riders would pass through. Course marshals tried vainly to push the crowd back, but we would not be restrained.

The crowd moaned and swayed like a congregation in a big religious revival tent. Any rider appearing on the horizon was greeted to a loud roar, and spectators ran alongside them, some even trying to push riders along. Amazing. Did you have to be there? Maybe you had to be there.

But this next part, well, let’s just say, after the last week, I thought I was cried out. But tears are like Doritos–they keep making more.

We (me and the hundreds of other spectators at the finish line) had just (emotionally, vicariously) crossed the red carpet with what Leadville calls the “last ass over the pass” in about 11 hours, 59 minutes, and about 55 seconds.  The joy was palpable. And then Race Director Ken pulled the trigger and the shotgun blast officially ended the race. Wow.

And then Holly and I turned around and saw her. The French Lieutenant’s Woman. The Sailor’s Wife. Standing just over the finish line, holding a hand-scripted sign of pride for her man. And her two small children standing next to her, their hero-dad’s race number painted on their foreheads. All of them openly weeping, standing stock still.

I am tempted to blame this on manopause, but if any of you tough guys had been there, you would have been bawling like a colicky baby. I looked at Holly, she looked at me, and both of us tried our best to fight back the tears. And failed. Hell, I’m crying right now as I write this.

We watched the woman and her kids for about 10 minutes, debating whether we should go over and hug her, before we couldn’t stand it any longer and we left.

She was gone when we passed by the finish line later, on our way back to the hotel.

But I am haunted by her and her kids and her delayed husband. I wish I hadn’t seen her. But at the same time, I am very glad I saw her. I can’t figure it out. It’s just a bike race, right? And yet, here I am, crying.

remembering the roots (and rocks)

As far as ruts go, riding Corner Canyon, with its Jacob’s Ladder, its Ghost Falls, its Clarks, its BST, even its newish downhill run, is a pretty good rut. I can be on the local singletrack about 5 seconds after leaving my driveway. Really.

But Elden has forced us to remember our roots. I feel like Simba when Mufasa appears in the sky and tells him he has forgotten who he is. “You must go back and take your place in the Circle of Life.”

So this morning we did it old school. Start at the dam, up Tibble Fork to the four way at the top, down Joy (south fork of deer creek), across the road, past people who pitched tents ON the trail, up to summit, out the Ridge (157), left to climb up Mud Springs, down Mud to rejoin Tibble Fork, and down to the dam. Only like 12 miles and about 2.5 hours, but almost 3,000 feet of elevation, and some really really nasty climbing. And by nasty, I mean awesome.

I would show you the video, but while Elden brought the helmet cam, he also brought dead batteries. Which meant he got to ride in the helmet cam helmet, but without taking video. Kind of like a dunce cap.

About 16 years ago, I bought a forest service map of American Fork Canyon, traced possible routes with a marker, and just headed out. This route has endured as the best of them all. Big Tibble. Sweet sweetness. But because of the Corner Canyon rut, in the last couple years I’ve only made it up here once or twice a Summer.

That’s a sin in some religions. Including mine.

Top of Mud Springs. 3 miles and almost 3,000 feet of fast, technical downhill about to start:

Lottsa happiness here. Kickin it old school.

It takes just over 20 minutes to drive here. I need to do that more often. Cars can be our friends.

quick confession

I was talking to Rick yesterday about his stomach punch defeat in his attempt on a sub-nine hours Leadville last year (he broke his chain inside 15 miles to go, and finished with 9:20 ish), and I began to feel a bit sheepish.

If I broke my chain 85 miles into the race, and had 3 hours to finish, I would probably DNF. Because I have never successfully repaired a chain in my life.

In fact, I once intentionally broke a chain in my garage, to make sure I could fix a chain, but after about an hour, I lost interest and threw it away.

I have been riding bikes for almost 20 years. I mean, I had a bike as a kid, but I mean riding bikes for real, off road, or up big mountains, that sort of thing.

Anyway. Almost 20 years. And here are some things I have never done:

Never fixed a chain. We’ve been over this.

I have never successfully adjusted the shifting on any bike. I have attempted to adjust the shifting on MANY bikes, but always abjectly failed. Sometimes I even play with the limit screws, just to fully demonstrate my ineptitude.

I have never installed anything on any bike, other than pedals. Oh, and a handlebar. And maybe a saddle. Successfully, that is.

I think that makes me a yuppie twit.

On the other hand, I have NO plans to learn how to do any of these things. There is no ride or race that I’m too proud to bail out on. I carry tools because I ride with people who can fix stuff.

You hear that Brad? I carry the tools, you carry the brain. Same as it ever was.

hold the grease

In cycling circles, the kind I don’t actually travel in, this is called a Cat 5 tattoo:

A Cat 5 in cycling is a newbie, an amateur. Higher ranked Sneetches, with stars on their bellies, call it the Cat 5 Tattoo, as they roll their eyes.

So I have a question and an assertion.

First, is that mark emblematic of newbies (or cat 5s, or amateurs) because newbies lean on their bikes more than really really really good Sneetches when they’re stopped at the top of a big hill, or because true road connoisseurs don’t have any grease on their chains? I would like to conduct some grease testing. Kind of like the lineup proposed in Porkys. But with legs. And grease.

Second, here is my assertion: I want a tattoo. I don’t want a skull and cross bones, I don’t want a picture of my kids on my arms (all three of them), or anything in Chinese. I don’t want a sleeve.

No, I want that grease mark on my leg. Someday, I will get to the top of American Fork Canyon, lean my leg hard against my chain, and then go straight to the tattoo parlor (parlor? really?) and get it done. That’s my legacy–the newbie grease mark.

it’s like that

I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned in this space that I like to backcountry ski. I’m no mountaineer, or even a very talented skier, but I get out once or twice a week in the Winter. I’m also no safety expert, although I’ve never had an avalanche incident in the backcountry, and I’ve even taken a level 1 avalanche course.

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, backcountry skiing. So when you’re heading to the top of a mountain in Winter, you spend quite a bit of time on ridgelines. And ridgelines are often directly above places that are awesome to ski. But you don’t want to center punch a steep, powder covered slope without some beta. Cuz you might die.

Well, one way to get beta on a steep, powder covered slope is to drop a cornice on it.

You carefully ensure through the use of E.S.P. and sometimes by looking and yelling, that nobody is on or below the slope you’re looking at (natch), and then you just lift the cornice over your head, give it a little heave, and let it go, see what happens.

Ha ha ha ha. Okay, sorry. Anyway.

No, of course, you KICK the cornice off, or, if it’s really big (like, van, or bus sized), you get out a long length of cord, and SAW it off. Then you watch it fall on the slope below and see what happens.

Like this (photo stolen from here):

If the slope doesn’t avalanche when a bus cartwheels down it, it probably won’t slide when YOU ski down it. Probably.

What’s my point? Do I have a point? Well, sometimes, we’ll just be hiking along a ridge, and there will be a nice cornice just sitting there, minding its own business, and I’ll just kick it and make it fall. It won’t be doing anything to me, I might not even plan to ski the slope, but I’ll send the cornice down the hill, just the same.

Why? WHY would I ever do that?

Um. Just because. Cuz it’s fun to watch the cornice fall, and fun to see what happens to the slope below when the cornice explodes on it, and the snow slides.

You know what else can be fun in the backcountry? Especially when it’s not Winter, when it’s like 100 degrees outside, and you’re a 4 hour bike ride, or a 3 day wilderness hike from ANYWHERE (like, you know, away from climbing routes, or hiking trails, or other places where people have ever been or are ever likely to be)? Double especially when you’re on a ledge that overhangs by 20 feet, staring down into a remote horseshoe canyon that you can very clearly see the bottom of? And when there are big, cornice-like rocks just laying around, begging to be, er, nudged off the cliff? You know what’s fun then?

I’m not gonna say.

But you know what else it’s like? It’s kind of like drinking milk straight out of the jug. You know what I’m talking about, you eat a cookie, you gotta have some milk, there’s absolutely nobody around, you don’t feel like crossing the kitchen for a glass, so you just lift the jug and chug.

Sure it’s a little gross. Sure you don’t do it all the time.

But I bet you do it sometimes.

And here’s another way drinking milk from the jug is kind of like the rock/cliff thing–I’ll never do it again. When someone is watching.

misdemean

This is pleasant:

But what’s across the street from this?

Cue the scene-changing music from Law and Order:

That’s right, it’s the Federal District Court. So, your first question is probably “Hey, do you know Stanley Tucci?”

Well, no,  no I don’t. And I have a question too. I know you call someone who has committed a felony a felon, but what do you call someone who commits a misdemeanor? A misdemean?

I must confess, I am a misdemean.

Wait, if you plead no contest, does that make you a CONVICTED misdemean, or just a misdemean? I need to watch more Law and Order.

Today the justice system worked as designed. That is, it spent thousands and thousands of dollars in FBI research money, investigation, travel, court costs, prosecutor costs, my very jovial and incredulous public defender’s costs, all in order to extract justice and collect $180. Total. For all three of us.

Let this be a lesson to you. Don’t Misdemean. Ever.

On Rawrod in April, Elden and I picked up a large rock together and threw it off of Vertigo Void, a horseshoe shaped cliff a 5 hour ride or 3 day hike (or a 300 foot rappel) from anywhere. Brandon videoed the event. The Park Service was not amused.

However, the couple of bailiffs and spectators in the Federal Court room WERE amused. The guy behind us cracked “Is it also against the law to skip rocks?” The prosecutor, keeping a straight face, called our egregious act Outrageous.

During the investigative phase, when the Park Service guy was calling us to get statements and such, Elden thought calling me his best friend would somehow help his case. In my conversation with Eric the Park Service guy, I went the other way, and said that I knew Elden “Pretty well,” and even got vague on whether I  knew Brandon at all.

Brandon’s tack was to say “Hey, I didn’t do anything! I don’t even know these guys! Can’t I just pay a fine and be on my way?” But, turns out he was the equivalent of our getaway car. Except the opposite, in this case.

To all you kids out there, let me be clear, Don’t Throw Rocks Off of Cliffs. And never never never video it.

Don’t end up a misdemean like me. Get  your eagle instead.

i’m doping

I was pretty excited to go riding this morning, cuz I haven’t gotten out lately as much as I’d like. I haven’t been sleeping so well, because Kim and I hadn’t noticed that the breaker on the main level air conditioner had tripped. I’m not so good at sleeping in a sauna. And, that all comes together to mean that sleeping poorly prevented me from getting up at 5am to go riding for most of the week.

Anyway. The plan was to leave Suncrest at 6:15 and ride down the south side, through Alpine, up American Fork Canyon to the top, and return. Probably my favorite road ride in the whole world, even when I’m fat and slow. Like now. (Mark’s ride report here. I link to it because I won the sprint. Win equals link. No win, no link. When it’s available, you’ll find the link to Elden’s video documenting my win here. Unless he edits out that part. You know. Because he lost. And I won.)

Last night, to ensure that I got the needed sleep, I took half an Ambien before bed. Now, I love Ambien for several reasons, but first and foremost, it guarantees a good night’s sleep the night before a big ride. Says that right on the bottle.

However, Ambien can also leave me a bit, how shall I put it, addled. You know. During the awake part.

I woke up this morning, stumbled into the closet, managed to put the bottom part of my cycling clothes on the bottom part of my body, and the top part on the top part. Then I wandered downstairs to get a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

That’s when I first looked at a clock, and realized it was 1:05 in the morning. We’ve started riding earlier lately, but not usually THAT early.

I shrugged, had two bowls of cereal, and went back to bed. It’s all good.

giving a little back

My Dad once offered me something like $200 to get my Eagle Scout award. He was from Canada, where instead of calling it a an “Eagle” they called it the “Queen.” Something about being an English colony, I don’t know. Really, it has nothing to do with this story.

Well, the part about him wanting me to get my Eagle is germane. Today, of course, he would be offering me a couple thousand dollars, due to inflation and all that. And he’d get the same response. Something along the lines of “sure dad, whatever.” And then we’d never discuss it again. Because I’m not really what you’d call a “Scouter.”

But Ian had a really good scoutmaster who got him off on the right foot, and once he got to Life scout, well, what’s the point of stopping there? Especially with how valuable having your Eagle is on your resume.

Ian also has a mother who had invested too much time to let him stop just shy of the Eagle. There’s a reason they say you should give the mother the Eagle, not the kid. And almost never the dad.

What’s the point of all this? Saturday was Ian’s eagle project. He/we got about 40 people to show up to build/improve a section of a Draper City biking trail. I’ve been a mountain biker for about 20 years, and until a couple weeks ago, had never done a single hour of actual trail work. If nothing else, helping Ian finish his Eagle has gotten that enormous, King Kong sized monkey off my back.

Some pics of the day.

The crew gathers (that’s Ian in the white sweatshirt):

We got to use manly firefighter type tools:

The real Queen:

Before:

And, after:

You can see the trail we’re trying to reach coming up from the canyon bottom across the canyon, middle right of the picture above.

Doesn’t this look like good trail? Wouldn’t you like to ride this trail?

I’m tellin you, I’m hooked on trail building. Thanks Ian.

signs

You know how in Signs, Mel Gibson ignored all the signs? But then, after the aliens landed, he started believing in the signs?

That happened to me last night.

I had a window for a quick road ride between thunderstorms, and I figured I’d just roll out of the garage, down the South Side of Suncrest, maybe a quick tour of Alpine, and back up and home.

So, like always, I put in one headphone, hit play on the iPhone, and let Random take its course.

That’s been my riding music policy for years now. Full Random, no matter what’s on the iPod (iPhone). I LOVE the full random, but sometimes it gets a little weird.

Here’s how last night’s playlist worked out.

As I rolled out of the garage, I got Johnny Cash, Solitary man. I was groovin. And solitary. The random saints were smiling on me.

Lower on the hill, Bon Iver started wailing about Wisconsin. Elden thinks downhill songs should be jammin, but I like to mix it up–I don’t mind some introspective acoustic stuff on a descent. However, wind noise mostly drowned Bon Iver out. Bummer.

As I wound my way through Alpine, Jeff Buckley started in with the very haunting Hallelujah. This, of course, is a totally awesome song, only slightly ruined by its association with Shrek. How many awesome songs have been ruined by their inclusion in movies? And, conversely, how many have been elevated by their inclusion in movies? Depends on the movie I guess.

Hitting the backside of Alpine and beginning my return, I was a bit dismayed to hear the opening strains to the final movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. Now, I have nothing against Ludvig Van’s 9th, a musical piece definitely enhanced by its association with A Clockwork Orange. Although, I’m sure you remember the closing scene from Tarkovsky’s Stalker, with the little girl moving the salt shaker (I think it was a salt shaker, it’s been like 20 years) with her mind, as you get a very faint whiff of the key notes from the 9th in the background. I’m torn. I think I’ll have to go with Stalker, because of the minimalist association. Anyway, a bit dismayed, because the final movement is 24 minutes long, which meant I would get classical music for the bottom section of the South Side climb.

But here’s where I had the epiphany–you don’t need rockin music to ride. You need GOOD music to ride. Music adapts itself to the section. And Beethoven’s 9th, well, who will deny that it has what we in the business call a Big Finish? And it’s no bad thing to have a huge choir of Germans singing Freude as you begin a big climb.

Unfortunately, after the first mile of climbing, I got Tiffany. Yup. I have Tiffany on my iPhone. I Think We’re Alone Now. But you know what? I LOVE that song. And, in case I haven’t made this clear, I WAS alone. So there.

Next the Strokes started in with The End Has No End. That song has no end. And as the climb felt like it had no end, I was not groovin. I may remove that song from the device.

Luckily the Strokes soon gave in to Radiohead. I have enough Radiohead on my phone that I can pretty much always be guaranteed of at least one Radiohead song on any given ride. This time I got Knives Out. And I love Radiohead so much that I typically don’t care which Radiohead song I get. They’re all good.

As I started the final pitch to the top of Suncrest, I recognized the bouncy voice of Regina Spektor, and I admit, my spirits sank a bit. The song was Apres Mois, and I figured it just couldn’t be the song to get me to the top. Until I started listening a bit more closely. “I must go on standing. You can’t break that which isn’t yours. I must go on standing. I’m not my own, it’s not my choice.” This was like the bit in Signs when they all realize in the living room that the little girl left those glasses of water everywhere for a reason. I got to the top.

Only to be welcomed by Kanye West. Jesus Walks. I’m telling you, there is a god. And he lives in my iPhone.

everybody gets a hug

The nice thing about the Special Olympics is that EVERYBODY gets a hug at the end. This afternoon, Elden and I held our very own, private Special Olympics.

The ride went down pretty much exactly as Elden predicted–he went out hard, I tried to keep myself under control, he got a gap, I wanted to die.  And on the second lap, we reversed everything but our actual locations.

Unfortunately, I felt SO icky on the first lap that I could have felt like Sam or Brad on the second lap and it wouldn’t have mattered. At the top of Clarks on the first lap, I seriously considered getting off and walking. Elvis and I spent some quality time together, reminiscing about his Army days.

But on the second lap, I felt good enough so as to harbor real ambitions of closing the gap. That was stupid. Although, in my defense, I think I could have shaved several minutes off my time if I hadn’t been attacked by a few thousand inch worms. I’m STILL picking them out of my hair and, um, other places.

But at least at the finish, I got my Fat Cyclist hug. Remember in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, when Ruprecht the Monkey Boy (Steve Martin) hugs that woman from Omaha, Lady Fanny of Omaha? The hug gets pretty uncomfortable, and Lawrence Chesterton (Michael Caine) has to threaten him with the genital cuff.

It was like that.

no more plaid

I would like to point out that you all have been very, very bad friends.

Good friends don’t let friends walk around with their asses looking like inflatable balloon animals. Like Macy’s Day Parade floats. Like gigantic muffin tops. That’s right, baby got back.

I’m going to have to re-think the whole “Costco Plaid Shorts” thing when I ride my mountain bike.

Of course, I guess plain old skin tight lycra might reveal the reason you DID let me wear the plaid–My ass IS as big as all outdoors.

Nah.

the bees hate me

You know how you never seem to have the cameras rolling when you’re attacked by a swarm of bees? That’s so annoying.

You know what else is annoying? When your wife and 14 year old son make endless fun of you for being attacked by a swarm of bees. I mean, have they ever SEEN a swarm of bees? Or even more than just 2 or 3 bees in one place? I say No.

Elden was there IN the swarm of bees with me. You don’t see HIM making fun of me for running away from a swarm of bees so thick the sun was blotted out from the sky. This was wrath of God, biblical plague kind of stuff.

One second we’ve just climbed Clarks, and we’re heading across the saddle to climb to Jacobs, and the next second the sun is covered with a million sentient pieces of shrapnel, and we’re being pelted as we ride through. Kim asked me “um, didn’t you see them? Why did you ride into the swarm?”

Well, in retrospect, I can see how that question makes sense.

But in the moment, it went like this:

1. Just riding along.

2. Attacked by a swarm of bees.

3. Jumping off my bike and rolling around in the dirt trying to get them off me.

I realize that’s not a great explanation. YOU try getting attacked by a swarm of bees and then rationally explaining it.

I had enough trouble getting off my bike and rolling around trying to get the bees off me. Elden, in whom the bees seemed strangely uninterested, helped me swat at them, after we got out of the swarm. Apparently only a few of the bees were of the fully Africanized variety, because I was only stung 3 or 4 times, and only one of those stings presented any risk of actual death, or at least very heavy itchiness and some mild swelling.

Now that I’m not actually being pursued by the swarm, and can breathe and think normally again, I can see that maybe they weren’t entirely Africanized. They may have just gotten stuck in my jersey.

But I’m pretty sure they attended some Africanized bee training camps. Which we should totally bomb with cruise missiles. Today.

don’t make me be that guy

Last week I told you about waking up flat on my back in a gas station parking lot while paramedics cut my prized possessions off of me. According to the several witness statements, it happened a bit like this:

That’s State Street in Pleasant Grove, which must be a sister city to Golden Valley, where the Keebler Elves’ less desirable cousins live. I lived in Pleasant Grove at the time, and often rode my bike to work in Orem, about 6 miles south of my house.

I know that diagram, in all its glory, makes State Street look like the autobahn, but really, it’s no big deal. It’s six lanes, with a turning (chicken) lane in the middle, and very large shoulders where we cyclists can hang out. You know. To the right of that magic white line.

So as you can see from my very professional and descriptive diagram, I was just riding along, minding my business, heading to work. And, actually, that’s the last thing I remember.

What the several witnesses tell me happened is that the light in the intersection BEHIND me changed, and the traffic, heretofore stopped, was now not stopped, and a large delivery truck, the one so gloriously depicted in my diagram, swerved from that north bound left lane to beat the oncoming traffic and get to the gas station. Where I was.

I slammed into the passenger door, my head/helmet breaking the window, my flailing arm ripping the oversized mirror off, crumpling my helmet, my wheel, and the front of the frame. And then I woke up on my back.

And so the insurance adjuster for the delivery company comes to my office a few days later to discuss it. I tell him, dude, you don’t have to worry about me, I’m not one of THOSE guys, this should be really easy. Just replace my stuff and cover my medical bills. We’re good.

He smiled. But not one of those smiles that make you feel better. This was the other kind of smile.

“Well, my job is to decide what our liability it. You know, assign percentages of blame.”

But, but, your guy swerved across 4 lanes, right into me, while I was just riding along, on the shoulder of the road.

“Sure, but it’s never ALL one party’s fault. Maybe you should have been watching out more carefully.”

I shook him off. Dude, I said. My stuff, including my helmet, my bike, my messenger bag, my sweatshirt, can’t cost you more than about $1500.

“Oh, that stuff is separate. We don’t replace stuff. We decide how much you could sell it for today, and give you that.”

Wait, like my sweatshirt? You mean, you decide that I’ve had my sweatshirt for a year, and now I could sell it for $10 and that’s what you give me?

“You got it.”

And my helmet?

“Same.”

Okay, look, I don’t want to be that other kind of guy. I don’t want to retire on this, I don’t want the driver of the truck killed or anything. Just replace my dirt bag stuff and cover my medical.

He smiled that smile again. And now so did I, this time with HIS kind of smile.

In the end, I avoided spinal fusion surgery (against the surgeon’s advice, but since the prognosis was only like 50/50, I rolled the dice), and then bought a sparkling new minivan with the money his company gave me. Oh, and a new sweatshirt and helmet. My messenger bag I just had repaired. Don’t want to get too crazy. Cuz I’m not that guy.

accidents i don’t remember

I’m told that about 12 years ago I was hit by a truck while riding my bike. Although, I guess for all I know the scars and broken bones might have been caused by a frying pan fight with Kim, and after knocking me out with a bowling pin she drove me 3 miles down the road and pushed me out of the car. Except there were witnesses.

I spose it doesn’t matter. Well, it mattered to the insurance company. I’ll tell you about the insurance company tomorrow. Insurance companies suck. A lot.

Anyway, I woke up on my back in the parking lot of a gas station on State Street in Pleasant Grove, with an EMT peering down at me, removing my shattered helmet, cutting the strap on the Timbuk2 messenger bag I won at the 24 Hours of Moab, and then cutting off the sweatshirt I won at the old Provo Canyon race series. I protested feebly. I don’t win a lot of stuff, and they were ruining my legacy.

They loaded me in the ambulance, and I said “nooo, wait, I have to go to work. If Kim finds out I got hit on my bike, she’s gonna be pissed!”

Turns out she found out somehow, but she wasn’t pissed until the next day, when she went to run errands and left me home sleeping. When she came home and opened the garage door, I was riding my mountain bike in circles in the garage, trying to see how much it hurt to ride with a cut on my thumb that went to the bone, a concussion, a separated shoulder, a herniated cervical disc, a couple broken ribs, and no feeling in my left arm.

I gotta say, it wasn’t too bad. At least, I know I wasn’t a 10. I felt pretty good, riding circles in the garage. Until she commandeered my bike. It took me forever to find it.