http://www.cyclingdirt.org/rss/recent-blogs http://c0179261.cdn.cloudfiles.rackspacecloud.com/512917_r0zmz7sy7IRR9q6llcrd_m.jpg http://www.cyclingdirt.org/rss/recent-blogs en-us Thu, 09 Feb 2012 12:18:16 GMT Thu, 09 Feb 2012 12:18:16 GMT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/38649-Racing-for-the-Blue-and-Gold

A big part of what's made my college experience so enjoyable thus far is taking part in collegiate cycling. The collegiate mountain bike racing scene offers a great way to extend the mountain bike season a couple more months, along with being a great way to make new friends and just have a good time in general. The first race of the season took place a few weekends ago in Steamboat Springs. As the crow flies, nothing is too far away in Colorado, but small roads and mountain passes make for long days on the road. 

Putting it plainly, FLC has the best collegiate cycling team in the country. It's backed with strong sponsorship and is well organized thanks to the tireless work of Dave Hagen and the rest of the staff. Someone told me recently we have over 75 members across the four disciplines, and this weekend alone at the race in Sol Vista the team brought 40 racers. 

My collegiate racing experience didn't get off to the best start in Steamboat Springs. After a bit of a hectic morning, several teammates and I jumped on our bikes a few minutes before the start to try and squeeze in a quick "warm up." Unfortunately we ended up getting a good solid 30+ minute warm up, as we feverishly rode all around the base area looking for the the start/finish. There were no signs whatsoever. We ended up finding it a good 1/2 mile up a dirt road, but not until we'd missed the start. We quickly stripped off jackets and arm-warmers and went in pursuit. Working with my teammate Colton Anderson, we crested the top of the climb having caught all but three or four of our competitors. After descending back down and coming through the start/finish to begin the second and final lap, we were told we'd been disqualified. Supposedly we'd taken a wrong turn only a quarter mile back. By some twist of fate, our wrong turn saw us meet up with the leaders at the same time. We decided to keep riding anyway to get in a workout. (I was also not completely convinced we'd done anything wrong.) Early in the second lap I started feeling very good, and upped the tempo, pulling away from the leaders and eventually riding in solo. Unfortunately it didn't count. In the end nearly half of the field was DQed for taking the same wrong turn. It was a frustrating start to my collegiate racing experience, but I was encouraged with how I'd ridden.

The following day was the short track race. Luckily everyone managed to stay on course for this one, and Fort Lewis was able to sweep the A men's race. Colton grabbed 3rd right behind Skyler Trujillo who was 2nd, and I managed to get the win! Any disappointment from the previous day was completely washed away. The season was off to a good start.



The collegiate racing scene is often a very relaxed affair with an emphasis on fun. Here one racer shows off his homemade knee pads for the downhill race. And yes he raced in those shoes.



Fellow Texan Trevor Brooks had to borrow a bike for the weekend, which happened to be outfitted with flat pedals. His clever duct tape job harnessed a few more watts. 

The following weekend was the CSU race in Red Feather Lakes, way up by the Wyoming border. Like the previous weekend, the STXC went well for me while the XC did not. For this weekend, Howard Grotts joined the team which realistically meant everyone else would be racing for 2nd in the endurance events. I was very satisfied to grab that 2nd place to Howard in the STXC on Saturday, and Colton and Eric Emsky got the job done nabbing 4th and 5th. The XC course proved very, very burly, and strikingly resembled the rough and tumble singletrack of the North East. Dark forests, big burly rock gardens and deep creek crossings adorned this very tough lap. Unfortunately, Colton and my luck hadn't improved since last weekend's XC hooplah, both of us flatting near the midpoint of the race. After stopping and throwing a tube in I found myself in 11th place. By the end I'd made it back to 6th, already getting fired up for the race the next weekend. The team still dominated, going 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 5th, and 6th. 



On the long drive home we made a quick stop at a roadside rest in Salida. Howard made quick use of the apple trees there.



The Granny Smith's proved surprisingly good.

This past weekend was the Colorado School of Mines race in Sol Vista. If anything has told me that my race course preferences have changed in the last few years, it's how excited I was to race at Sol Vista. 

The A men did 5 laps of the 4 mile UCI course. By the time we'd crested the first 20+% jeep road start hill, I knew I had those rare "magic legs". Unfortunately that didn't last long. Going into the singletrack a racer from a rival team and I were fighting for position. In hindsight, we were both being too aggressive, and things got pretty physical (think Mark Renshaw or Robbie McEwen). We each have our own accounts of what happened, but we both ended up going down very hard. While he walked away unscathed, I came away with this...



If you can't tell, the bump with the bit of blood on it is not my kneecap, but a huge goose egg. Turns out I ruptured my Bursa sack, leading to some pretty impressive swelling. From that point on my weekend was a distinctly less jolly affair. As I sit here typing though, I'm happy to say that it's healing incredibly quickly, and I expect to be back on the bike in the next few days. 

In comparison to some of my other teammates, however, I was the lucky one. Near the end of the first lap of the XC, Gabe Murray went down hard, fracturing his wrist. He seems to be taking it well, and will no doubt be rarin' to go come road season (his main discipline.) In the STXC the following day teammate Aaron Canale's streak of bad luck continued (last month he chopped off the end of his finger in a track bike accident). Early in the race he was bucked off one of the jumps, going down very, very hard. It wasn't apparent that anything was wrong until I saw that the arm he was cradling was bent at a very unnatural angle. Regardless, he was in class on Monday with his still unset broken arm in a sling, six stitches in his knee, a taped up sprained ankle, and of course still healing finger. Why does the worst stuff always happen to the nicest people? In typical Aaron fashion, he just said: "I think this just means my mountain bike and I need some time apart for a little while." 

The great thing about being on such a strong team is that even when we have a bit of a rough weekend, there are still a host of incredible riders to pick up the slack. In the Men's XC, Howard, Rotem, Colton and Eric finished 1st through 4th respectively. We also took wins in the Men's Bs and Cs, and 4th in the Woman's As. Our dominance the following day in the STXC was almost comical. With at least three laps to go, only Rotem, Colton and Eric were left on course, all the other competitors having been lapped. (Howard had an early race mechanical issue). ]]> Sun, 02 Oct 2011 18:06:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/38649-Racing-for-the-Blue-and-Gold http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/38292-Living
Since getting into Durango this past Monday, I've been living the life. 

Last week Andy Schultz and his girlfriend Alison were kind enough to host us until I was moved into the dorm. Thank you two for being so generious and friendly! On Tuesday evening, I did the "Tuesday Night Worlds" road group ride. It was aggressive, hard, and very, very fun. Although only 1:30 long, we did two major climbs, both of which were tackled all out, every person for themself. On our way back towards town down CR 250, we had a slight tailwind and were utterly flying. I didn't once get out of the 52x14 (junior gearing), and was spinning over 120 rpm alot to stay in contact. Also, while descending off the first climb of the day, Old Shalona, I broke my personal max speed record of 54 mph, hitting over 56 mph. It was after this ride that I knew Durango was the place for me to be.

The following day Andy and I went on an epic high country ride with Troy Wells of Clif Bar (Todd's younger brother), Jesse DeKrey and Nick Frey of Jamis-Sutter Home. My dad was kind enough to help out with the shuttle, and early that morning we drove up to the top of Molas pass (10, 910 ft.). From there we headed up the Colorado Trail past Twin Sisters, and over Rolling Pass which took us way over 12,000 ft. We then descended down to Cascade Creek before climbing up to Sliderock Ridge. After that we descended down to Celebreation Lake, skirted Hermosa Peak and climbed up near Section Point. Finally we made the hour long slog up to Blackhawk Mtn., again taking us far above 12,000 ft., before finally descending down to Durango Mountain Resort. We endured two hailstorms, two nasty crashes and two flat tires, finishing over 6 hours later. It took a Honey Stinger waffle, pack of chews, Peanut Butter n' Honey Bar, and several gels to keep me going. It was one of the most memorable 50 miles of my life. To think that this was just the first adventure of many of it's kind to come again solidified the feelings I have about my new hometown.



High above treeline near the beginning of our adventure.



From left to right: Jesse DeKrey, Andy Schultz, Troy Wells and Nick Frey.




Troy grabbing a bite on top of Black Hawk while waiting for two of the guys to catch up.



On Thursday I moved into my dorm at Fort Lewis College. I'm staying in a suite with 3 others: Willy Zellmer, Austin Arguello and Kyle "Owen Wilson" Amberman. Austin is an all-around endurance athlete freak. He's been a professional cyclist for USA U23, Team Waiste Management, and Team Exergy. He's also a professional triathlete for Hammer Nutrition. Willy is one of the top junior road racers in the country, and races for the Specialized Devo team. Kyle is not a cyclist, but while the three of us get all wrapped up in our serious training business he's keeping the mood light and giving us some much needed perspective. 



Home of the best burrito on the planet.



Moved in. Despite the awkward fabricated-looking smile and pose, I am pretty stoked with my set up.



Out for a nice Valley Loop spin with Willy and Austin.



A privelege I didn't have as a child, BIKE RACING ON TV!!! Watching the USA Pro Cycling Challenge (Tour of Colorado).



Austin, Willy and I came in from our ride and found this. I'm not a gamer, but may have to broaden my horizons a little. Thanks Owen!



After a fun ride in Horse Gulch on Saturday, I was rolling back onto campus byway of the Factory Trails, and was psyched to come upon this SRAM 2x10 demo. That's right, my college has bike demos on campus.



Andy introduced me to a new trail in the Gulch a couple days ago. It's a bit secret, but definitely a new favorite. This little shrine of "winning" greated us at the highpoint.]]> Tue, 30 Aug 2011 15:16:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/38292-Living http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/31126-COMING-AND-GOING-Sycamore-Race-Report
What? It’s too late? Oh, alright, I’ll settle for wife, mother, and mountain bike racer. Or hill bike racer, given the dearth of mountains around here.

How did I get to be this old and not ever read W. Somerset Maugham?

"Tao. Some of us look for the Way in opium and some in God, some of us in whiskey and some in love. It is all the same Way and it leads nowhither."

Or to Riverside County, unlikely site of yesterday’s round four in the Kenda Cup West series.

Can anything good come out of Menifee?

This section of the 215 freeway is an advertisement for purchasing real estate in Ohio. Billboards for bail bonds, bankruptcy and divorce cast a shadow on abandoned housing tracts sprouting at random from the dust.

I often drive this route from races in the mountains above Los Angeles back to my house. This bridge always signals a return to San Diego county and greener pastures.



Passing under it going north yesterday, I was apprehensive about the race ahead. U.S. Cup Cycling posted some teaser pictures of a decidedly sandy start:


(c) US Cup Cycling 2011

Auspicious? Oddly, yes.

Who knew that off the Eastridge exit, behind the warehouses, and past the piles of concrete lay some of the rip roaringest single track of the season? Yeah, sure, you had to ride past disemboweled couches and rotting mattresses to get out to the actual course, but who’s counting?

You think I'm exaggerating.  Ok, then, here's a shot of the Racers and Chasers hospitality truck staking out a prime spot in the parking lot:


(c) Robert Herber 2011 racersandchasers.com

After the garbage gauntlet, however, lay a section of JLo curved trail. The speedy OHV berms on the Sagebrush course got rained out, but these turns were just as fast, and entirely single track to boot.  Wheee! 

Past the Magic Mountain section was a moderate pitch for which I was perfectly geared. Go, go, go.  That too, was followed by a delicious single track descent into a hidden dell.

Once into the preserve, the horizon of houses vanished, and in all directions were green hillsides awash in yellow flowers. And still, every climb was rewarded with brakeless, endless downhills.

Heaven.

In Riverside.

I arrived early enough to preride the course before my afternoon start. Even if I hadn’t, the tricky bits would have been telegraphed by clumps of spectators clustered in the grass. The more people standing around, the more prudent it would be to slow down.

A significant advantage of urban lap races is accessibility for fans, but I am still rattled by an audience, barely an arm’s length away, waiting for wreckage. No pressure.

There was one problem I just could not sort out. A slight rolling downhill led to an eighteen inch step up onto a flattish boulder. After barely a bike length, there was a horizontal trench gapping to the next rock. There was itty bitty, teensy weeny rock wedged in that groove, but really, you had to hop yourself over it.

The second rock was tilted, and the hill dropped away, so that you couldn’t see what lay below. And even when you knew it was there, the slanted rock landing provided no comfort.

Here’s Lauren Gregg making her way over it:



Notice how her back wheel is lodged in that rut? And how if she put a foot down on either side, she’d pitch over and hit her head on a rock? Publicly?

On my practice run, I rode up to that lip no less than four times and slammed on the brakes.

There was another racer there having the same balky problem. As we discussed our gutlessness, another rider approached, at speed, and we stepped aside to let him through.

“He’ll show us how it's done.” Skuld rider David Hekel sailed over it, wondering aloud what us looky loos were doing standing around. He stopped and coached me across the rubicon. I couldn't not do it in front of multiple witnesses.

I have a bad habit of wanting to keep up with the boys. I passed this on to my daughter:




This is very much like the pictures of me when I was a baby, always wanting to play along with my four brothers. This gets me in trouble.  I almost repeated my Fontana fall trying to keep up yesterday.

After the Dell trails, we ripped up and down fire roads for a while.  I got sandwiched between two other riders.  Not wanting to get left behind, I let my vision go all fuzzy, trying to trick myself into going faster. And maybe kind of didn’t see some sand in the bend just before a boulder crossing.

Sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiide. I swear to you, my back end washed out and stayed there. I think I went twenty feet dragging that tire. Nice little adrenalin boost for the next climb. We all bunched back up at the base and I said goodbye, “I think this is where we part ways.”

Click. They shifted gears simultaneously, and off they went.

Toodle, toodle.

Some of the climbs took forever, but the lure of approaching descents kept me pushing hard. I usually get lapped by all the men on my second lap, but I was greeting friends well into the third.

A Perry song rang in my head. Hecklers in the back, I can hear you.  Don't judge.

Baby you’re a firework
Come one show em what you’re worth
Make go oh oh oh
As you shoot across the sky

On my last lap, fewer racers on course meant getting some of those downhills all to myself. Boom, boom, boom.

If you ride a single speed, and no one sees you, is it still cool?

The first two times over Big Bad Boulder, the person in front of me came to a dead stop. Even if I braked, I’d hit him, or a spectator. I held my breath and kept my line and dropped over.

Ah, but the third time. The crowd had retired to the venue for cold beverages. I shot across both rocks, launched over the lip, and no one saw. It was very, very cool.

After the boulder, it's a quick trip back to the finish.  I somehow came in pretty far behind the geared women. Still, it certainly didn't feel like two hours, and I pushed hard the whole way.  

The fun course inspired some other impressive efforts.  Ty Kady blew past me on his way to the 30-34 year-old win, and Justin Mann celebrated the one year anniversary of breaking his neck by notching his third straight victory.  Despite this leisurely start.  Is that the secret?


(c) Allison Mann 2011 allisonmann.net

I won my category as well, yet again the only entrant. But I worked hard for it, and will accept those series points, thank you very much.

I caravaned home with some of the SDBC team, and we stopped in Temecula for the recovery meal of champions: In-N-Out.

Someone came up to our table and asked if we had raced Sycamore.

What?

We looked around. Grubby, sunburned, still wearing jerseys, race plates on the bikes outside. But what really gave us away, I think, was manner in which we were inhaling our double doubles. Jason, you done with those fries?

I got home an hour later and surfed the fridge for more food.

I hope the other single speed women return. The next time I see my bridge, I’ll be finally heading to race in the mountains, round five at Big Bear Lake. Maybe they’ll come for the Tao of the forest.

I may not close the distance between our times even up there, but I tell you what, I’m feeling pretty hungry.
]]> Tue, 05 Apr 2011 11:36:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/31126-COMING-AND-GOING-Sycamore-Race-Report http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/30749-TAKING-IT-ON-THE-CHIN-Fontana-Race-Report
“Some great dirt out there, so don’t use your brakes. Just rail the berms,” Larry Longo advised.

Larry has been racing, and calling races, since well before I even thought of donning a helmet. So he ought to know.

Tacky dirt? At Fontana? Mutually exclusive, usually. The Fontana course is famous for being hot, crowded, and dusty. And not just ordinary dust, either. It’s the consistency of baby powder, inches deep, obscuring pointy rocks and generally making people miserable.

I dread Fontana.

Even though the promoter parses out the fields into multiple start times on different days, there are always way too many people on a steep hillside that isn’t conducive to passing. If you falter, there is a line of fifteen people behind you cursing your existence.

Fun.

Fontana also features a really long climb at the start. Really. No, really. If you don’t believe me, check out this video. One of Cyclingdirt.org’s first recaps, and in my opinion, still one of Colt’s best. The reward for making it up The Wall? Smog and suburban homes as far as the eye can see.

Despite this critique of urban racing, Fontana still draws the best of the best in Mountain Bike World. The central location and national series points lure some of my favorite racers into chasing each other lap after fiercely contested lap.

Here’s the start of the Pro Men on Saturday.



Clearly, the intensity meter was ticking red, and, for the first time in memory, it rained.

Instead of the usual advertisement for global warming, the temperatures held at 60 degrees, and the lingering mist kept the trails damp all weekend.

Yes.

For the first time in, well, ever, I lined up without a single jitter.  I was SO happy to be in that moment, about to share some more with everyone else who loves doing this, and get some great bike riding in, too.

I charged up the dang Wall, pushing my bike after that first left, but not getting too far back of my field. I followed some of these women for most of the first lap, studiously trying to be patient while being caught behind some conservatives.

Single track down, single track up, repeat, end with a long flat manic spin along a grafitti tagged culvert. Lap one, check. Never felt better.

Here’s another Larry-ism that I heard him counsel the Beginner category with, while they were waiting for their start, “if you don’t feel like you want to quit, you aren’t riding fast enough.”

Huh.

I’ve made a career out of being the girl who doesn’t give up when the circumstances clearly call for it. I’ve spent a lot of time “riding fast enough.”

I’m tired of that story. I'd rather take after one of my girl-crush racing heroes, Willow Koerber, who recently posted a timely and inspiring piece about bidding farewell to suffering.  

Lap two.  Second time up the Wall.  My legs are begging for mercy.  Don't care.  GO.

Remember the picture above of the Pro start? When I reached the top, the Cat 1 men, a field equally large, and largely of that caliber, started lapping me. Wow, that was crazy. Sometimes I’d pull completely over let them by, and sometimes I’d ride hell bent for leather to stay ahead of them.

I’ve said before, the only thing worse than being stuck behind someone is BEING that someone. Once, I misjudged the gap between me and a gentleman trying to catch his field. I sped up, but he kept gaining on me, and I started futilely looking for a place to change lanes.

On the first descent after the Wall, there is just nowhere to go. Steep hill on the left, bushes all the way down.

So I’m riding beyond my ability, distracted, and running on a type of dirt I’m not familiar with.

You know where this is going, right?

Right over the bars.

There was a giant boulder on my left with a tight, narrow turn at the base, followed by a slight rise. I shaved around it, but was carrying too much speed to get through the corner.

Slam!

I haven’t fallen in a race since I can’t remember when. My last blog post even bragged that I was retiring my Crash Test Mommy nickname.  

What just happened?
 
Stunned, I tried to finish descending before another swarm of Cat 1 men buzzed up behind me. I sprinted out the rest of that single track toward the short paved section before the water tower climbs.

Remember that last bit of trail before the asphalt? That steep dirt drop that’s about four bike lengths, pretty much straight down, flat and sandy at the bottom?

Bravado and nerves combined to inspire me to go over the lip too fast, and I again didn’t make the turn..

Hey, where did my bike go? I superheroed through the air and skidded across the dirt.

This time, I didn’t get up.

I rolled onto my back, figuring I’d ponder the meaning of life for a few minutes.

What the heck?

I’ve safely gone down way worse than that completely non-tricky, garden variety, powder puff drop.

Like this one:


Photo: U.S. Cup

These are the pro women, but all the categories tackled this just before the finish line.

Man, I love this stuff.  I usually took this line, straight over the rocks, expedience winning out over brains:


Photo: U.S. Cup

Here’s another hero of mine, Georgia Gould, demonstrating how it ought to be done:


Photo: U.S. Cup

Larry was right.

It took me a little while to admit this to myself, but I simply pulled my brakes too hard on that beautiful, sticky dirt. 

I was used to slip-sliding my way around the Fontana course, but this time, one flick of the finger on the levers caused my tires to lock down faster than I expected.  Amateur.

I don’t think there’s any kind of learning other than the hard way.

The Thursday before the race, I watched my eleven-year-old go through this. Evan has been studying tae kwon do for three years, and has advanced to the level where they pound on each other pretty hard.

During his weekly practice, he was sparring as part of a belt test. His opponent was little and swift, and soon cracked a spinning kick right upside my first born baby’s jaw. There was a collective intake of breath. Five other matches were going on, so the room was lined with parents and siblings. All of whom turned their head toward the sound of that strike.

“Gloves up, Evan,” Sabumnim said quietly.

Evan wobbled, and held his shaking arms in front of his face.

Short Kid thwapped a fist against Evan’s helmet.

“Gloves up, Evan.”

Apparently, this fight was going to continue.

As a rule, the parents in attendance respect the invisible wall between the chairs and the floor, but I couldn’t remain seated.

“Come on, Evan,” I urged. Audibly.

Tears pouring down his face, my boy started swinging. And even landed a couple. Proud and choked up mama.

It was an eternity before the whistle blew. I knew that he’d never forgive me if I went over to him, so I just watched as Sabumnim checked to see whether Evan’s upper and lower teeth still lined up.

He was sheepish about crying, “Mom, it was just that the wind was knocked out of me.”

Yeah, that’s it. I just got the wind knocked out of me.

As I contemplated getting up, the course marshal came over to where I was still counting my limbs.  She insisted I move over, off the landing strip, lest I get run over by people actually riding down the drop.

So, I got  up.

Apparently, this fight will continue.

In a post race interview, Georgia claimed that she “pretty much felt slow and awkward in every single part of the course.” Riiiiiiiight. I actually WAS slow and awkward the remainder of the race. But never once did I wish I was anywhere else.

Despite a decent, thirty-seven minute first lap, I rolled in past the two hour mark. Good enough for first, since the two other women I race against weren't there. And you know what? I’ll take it.

I might still die of embarrassment, though.


]]> Tue, 29 Mar 2011 10:29:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/30749-TAKING-IT-ON-THE-CHIN-Fontana-Race-Report http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/30419-TIME-TO-BUZZ-A-TOWER-Bonelli-Race-Report
But last Sunday morning, slogging up hills at Bonelli Park, I glimpsed some patient souls tossing hooks into the reservoir below. Since my race started exceedingly early, mist was still rising as boats drifted silently across the mercury colored water. Meanwhile, my breath filled my ears with a roar of complaint, and every pedal stroke hurt.

You know, maybe I should switch sports. Sit quietly in thin early light, wait for something to happen. Hope a serendipitously hungry fish somehow finds my bait.

Retirement definitely crossed my mind when I tried out the opening climb earlier that morning. I barely made it up a bike length before I spun out and had to get off.

Oh, dear.

I’ve had a rough month. No, really. Far more difficult matters than not being able to get up to Los Angeles in time to preride.

Still, not knowing what was beyond that climb threw me.

At this level, it is foolish to waste valuable time learning a course during the actual race. And by this level, I mean lining up with the Category 1 boys and girls, the highest amateur classification available to people like me.

Six years ago, for all the fame and fortune that came with it, I my first ever race was with the Beginner Women 30-39 age group. Sagebrush Safari in east San Diego County. I was off the back by over 45 minutes. I think I was even maybe the last finisher overall. I’m afraid to check.

Still, at the end of the season, I drove up to Nationals, held that year at Mammoth Mountain in California’s eastern Sierra. It was Alison Dunlap’s final national championship race. Well, until she came back to race cyclocross, anyway.

Who does this? Who starts mountain bike racing at the age other women retire?

I asked around as we waited in the staging area. The woman on my left had won the race the year previous. The woman on my right named her children Annondale and Marin, after bike manufacturers. Oh. That’s who.

Despite my inauspicious spring, I still managed to beat them both, taking third place behind two Tahoe roadies.

Wearing my medal and the glow that came with it, I wandered around the circus of vendor tents, admiring the giant trailers with names of pro racers painted on the door. Mechanics tuned bikes that cost more than my car.

I overheard Marla Streb showing off her SSWC tattoo. I interrupted as politely as I could, congratulating her on her win at the Single Speed World Championships. I find her life and career so inspiring. She waved off my praise, saying that I could be just as fast, even though I had just started.

Yeah, right.

But it did make me wonder what riding a single speed would be like, and why it would cause people to chase the obligatory inking that is visited on each year’s winner.

I think we all remain safe from Kathryn getting a tattoo, but I have managed to have a grand time on my own single speed.

This year marks the birth of the Women’s Open Singlespeed category for the U.S. Cup, and it has enticed pro cyclocross racers Dorothy Wong and Tanya Bray to take a run at the series. After a lot of “wins” due to being the only female single speeder, I’ll be finishing behind those girls for some time to come. Still, I am happy in their aura.

Except when I’m not happy.

And Sunday morning, the first real race of the season, I was desperately looking for my misplaced mojo.

I won’t go into details, but I’ve spent weeks in a personal underworld involving family members, funerals (plural) and the California Welfare and Institutions Code Section 5150.

First call for staging.

I started rolling toward the start.

With my misery index already topping out, I just couldn’t face running a course that I hadn’t been managed to preride, the first hill of which was so hard I’d have to push my bicycle.

I heard once that preachers really only possess one sermon. The good ones just keep finding new ways to deliver it. My own testimony contains a single word: finish.

This strategy works best when one actually starts the race.

I drove all by myself to Mammoth six years ago, but this is a new day. Gretchen and Denise saw me crying over my bars and patted me on the back until I could advance a few more feet toward the gate.



Crowded in with the other women, Christine wished me well. And Dot always has a smile on her face. Their kindness kept me from bolting.

“Punchy.”

Every race preview and report included this description of the Bonelli course. Endless short hard climbs, littered with rocks, switchbacks, duff, and the bumps of fresh cut trail.

Weirdly, I managed to keep Dorothy in sight for much of the first lap. I think she was just being nice to me. We wove our way toward the first real downhill.

There is an exposed hill one has to ascend to reach it, and I have non-fond memories of it. When I raced in the easier categories, my start time meant I’d get to the top at high noon. More than once I overheated on that trip. Once I even asked a course marshal for his personal water bottle.

I had to run the last few feet but still made it over the hump without hanging my head.

For the first of lap of any circuit race, there is always a cattle drive mess because every entrant is on that same lap. Later, the fast boys finish, and the other fields get stretched out. This hill was true to form.

I waited for the crowd to thin, and pointed my super fabulous American Classic front wheel toward the bottom.

This downhill is SKETCHY. The line switches from left to right and back again, and the pitch is steep. On the left, deep stairs, but on the right, the rocks move. Not good.

I flung myself over the lip, and had to pull off some high speed lane changes when I caught some more conservative people. Actually, the speed wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy my need for a death defying run. The next two laps, all I could think of was getting back there to try it again.

Every hill sucked. Every one. I hated them all. I fought off the desire to quit every other minute. At one point the course loops cruelly past the start. You can see the finish, hear the announcers, but no. There’s a quick left that brings you to the steepest climb, followed by more winding climbs. This smile was faked for Allison Mann’s camera.



Even promise of downhills paled in the face of a course that even the pros admitted was hard. What kept me on the bicycle was not wanting to disappoint the cloud of witnesses whose support has gotten me this far.

The guys at Q Bikes in Clairemont have meticulously maintained a succession of bicycles over the years. Weary of watching me ride ill fitting or heavy steeds, the owner conspired with 3dyn to craft me a custom frame. Every other part was donated, or bought at a sponsorship price.

I now ride bike that costs more than my car.

One of the shop guys gave me his Magura brakes with carbon levers. On group rides Paul doesn’t say much. Except for years he’s commented on my technical mistakes. Since he’s still the only person I know that can ride up a gravel bank and across a double set of railroad tracks, I still pretty much live to hear him say “good job.”

Which he has offered in my direction a few times in the last year.

There was a section on the course that very much reminds me of The Maze, a possibly poached trail out by Miramar that I’ve chased Paul through more times than I can count, trying not to get lost. I love the Bonelli version, a winding track through the brush, where each turn links to the next without any advice as to what is coming next.

Pretending I was trying to not get dropped on the shop ride gave me a boost of speed. I pulled up behind a Category 1 gentleman who was interfering with my daydream. It was hard to pass, and I didn’t want him behind me on the long straight descent that was coming up.

“Dude. I know you are faster than I am, so hurry up. Go.” Then, worrying that I’d insulted him, I added, “Honey.” Which may have irritated him even more. But he whooped loudly as we both flew down what resembles a really long playground slide. Wheeeeeeee! So maybe we’re good.

Fishing. The bite happens TO you, and all you have to do is reel the thing in.

My world record large mouth bass came in the form of the hard technical downhills. If this was all the joy I was going to wring out of the morning, I was going to get my money’s worth.

I started sprinting to the top of each climb just so that I wouldn’t get stuck behind people.



They really were this steep, and if about a minute into this video, you can see how fast.

On a training ride a while ago, Paul hauled us out to some random north county canyon that I didn’t know existed. The entrance was a sneaky, imperceptible trail, hidden between trees, that jumps down off a sidewalk with no notice. Whoa! Eroded and tight, with random three foot drops, a blind plummet to the bottom.

“Geez, Paul. You’re supposed to be impressed that I didn’t fall on my head.”

“I’m not. I expect you to make those, now.”

Oh.

There is a direct line from my personal suffering to the abandon with which I approached the Bonelli descents to a personal best performance on that course to finishing only thirteen minutes back of a professional cyclocross promoter.

The minor miracle, the fish that jumped into the boat, was that a photographer actually captured it on film.



Props to Incline Photography for the best shot, ever, of me on a bike. And a damn fine bicycle at that.

“Mommy, it looks like you’re inside a video game.”

And that’s exactly what it felt like.

My little brother was in town last weekend and we went out to the Tilted Kilt to watch UFC 128. I accept that mixed martial arts is barbaric and possibly crass. I get that. But I could think of nothing I wanted to do more with James than to watch incredible athletes beat the stuffing out of each other.

The training they put in, the absorption of blows, the body chess, the courage they muster to step into a cage with a gorilla: these inspire me.

Shogun was up against a newcomer, Jon "Bones" Jones. Bones looked like he was spoiling for a fight. Shogun for all the world looked like he was hoping things went well. Guess who won in short order?

In between fights, James asked me whether I’d ever turn pro. As those ranks are populated with Olympic level athletes fifteen years my junior who haven’t started families yet, that would be a no.

However.

Standing on a podium with Dorothy and Tanya to accept a third place medal that I rode my heart out for is close enough.

I didn’t understand the transaction that took place at Bonelli until much later. At the time, I was content with the mutual admiration society that is cross country racing, enjoyed the friendships I am so grateful for.

Racing had seemed so irrelevant in the days leading up to the race. I experienced a level of sorrow and darkness that defies description, understanding and, possibly, redemption. My famously chirpy bright side attitude failed like Japanese seawalls in the face of the tsunami.

“This has broken me,” I e-mailed someone during the worst of it.

And that remains true. But when hope fails, living one’s actual life begins.

Shogun hoped things would go well for him and what he got was survival.

From high school track to college basketball, my athletic career has been littered with the award certificates that read, “Most Improved Player.”

I want one that just says, “Player.”

Maybe that can be my new fight name, because this is the end of the Crash Test Mommy era. I’m retiring that jersey, which belongs to someone throws herself futilely at walls.

Kathryn’s new sermon?

Bring it.
]]> Wed, 23 Mar 2011 13:02:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/30419-TIME-TO-BUZZ-A-TOWER-Bonelli-Race-Report http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/26797-12-Hours-of-Temecula-SECOND-TIMES-THE-CHARM
This was my explanation to people who questioned my bike choice as I pushed my single speed up the same hills over and over yesterday. Trudge, trudge.

There was a over thousand feet of climbing per lap yesterday, and many times there were six or eight of us companionably hauling our bikes toward the heavens. Three long climbs per lap, followed by illegally fast ridgeline descents. At the top, racers would surreptitiously eye each other, trying to decide who should go first down the hill. Even worse than getting stuck behind a slow person is BEING that slow person.

While this nonverbal ranking was going on, I got to enjoy the view for a bit. Green hills in all directions, sparkling blue sky.  High seventies, hard packed trails, Tinker Juarez doing his robot imitation while the rest of us look on in wonder.  Southern California racing at its best.  

Back to the cheese.  In the mists of prehistory, when I was riding a shifter, it seemd that gears were designed to render terrain irrelevant, enable a consistent forward motion. Without such luxuries, I've had to surrender to the trail's idiosyncracies, beg the earth for help, try to eke out every inch of momentum on the downhill so I could coast some of the next hill section.

Because I'm trying to work less hard going up, I have been forced for years now to ride beyond my actual ability going down. Bombs away! A few times, in those hilltop evaluations, I dared myself to go first, and didn't get caught.  Yes.  Thank you.  Appeal.

I haven't done a 12 hour since my maiden voyage last summer, and took too much time off this winter. Colds, work, rain, my prototype frame being recalled to get a paint job. How far could I carry my holiday pounds? The laps were 9.2 miles long; to finish nine of them, I'd have to do each one under an hour and fifteen minutes, and that included refilling bottles, installing lights, reapplying sunscreen.

The long day started early when my friend Amy arrived at my house while it was still dark. We loaded up three bags of food, two boxes of miscellaneous gear, a gallon of water, and my giant 29" wheel into the cab of her truck. And that was just my supply pile.

We started the hour drive to Vail Lake, but then we both neurotically double checked, in a sudden panic, "do I have my shoes?" Most other forgotten items can be borrowed, but not usually hard soled footwear with clipless cleats on the bottom.

Amy was racing on a four person team, so went off to join them at their camp spot while I staked out some grass along the finish lane. A long parallel row of flags marked off the chute up to the timing table, and it was lined with pop up shades, barbecues, chairs, cots, bikes, coolers and hundreds of racers.

I faced my folding chair toward the tape, and obsessively rearranged my gear some more.

The energy was incredible at the start, crisp morning, huge crowd of people cheering and ringing cowbells, shiny spandex and assorted mountain bikes as far as the eye could see.

There were about fifty kids from the high school league in attendance, which was very inspiring. Any future Olympians among the lot? I started riding when I was 36; what would it be like to put in twenty years before that?

Aaaaaand, we're off.

I felt great. I have an incredible bike. I love these trails.

Lap one, an hour five riding time, even while forcing myself to go slow. Lap two, an hour five. Lap three, an hour five. Lap four. Lap five. Why am I doing this again? About six hours in, the novelty wore off. Completely.

I wanted to do a lot of laps, since I paid for all twelve hours, but I also wanted to not over do it. The last time I did nine laps, I was incredibly sick afterward.

One of my times through the camp area, Amy was waiting for me by my as yet unused chair. "Want any water? Food?" No, I'm good. "I think I'll just try for eight, Amy." She nodded. I want to be known for being a strong rider, not for my weak stomach.

Lap six, I wasn't feeling so hot. I slowed down. Maybe I'll stop at seven laps. That's a solid effort, right?

Someone e-mailed me asking for advice about doing marathon distance events. I haven't gotten back to him yet (sorry, Andrew), partly because I wanted to see how this day went.

Here's my take. Don't count laps you haven't done yet. Don't dread the next five hours. Don't try to assess whether you can go another twenty or thirty or two miles.

Just ride the hill you're on, that one, and only that one.

Suffering that you choose really only qualifies as effort. That's all it is, effort. Distance racing isn't about how much you can take, or how tough you are, it's about being grateful for the fact that this particular misery is entirely optional.

Ride happy. I did. I loved it. People would ride past, note the orange "solo" tag on my seat, and inquire after me. "I'm good," I'd say.

Lap seven, incredibly, under an hour. That put me at 6 p.m., with three hours left to do two laps. Cake, even in the dark. I had both handlebar and helmet lights, and what I couldn't see, my body would remember.

At the top of the second long climb on the eighth lap, I got really dizzy. For those of you who were there, it was the one after the road with the deep beach sand, margarita alley, the hill with the smooth, off camber ledge descent.

I stopped for a while, took the battery pack out of my back pocket so I could lay down on the ground, and looked at the stars. Of which there were many, all of them spinning.

I had three layers of jersey on, and stayed pretty toasty climbing up, but now I could see my breath, and feel the 40 degree cold needling its way into my bones.

"You ok?" disembodied voices would float toward me, attached to invisible riders represented only by their lights.

"I'm good."

Death grip on the brakes, I inched down a line that I had killed earlier in the day. Top of the next rise, I had to pull over again.

The trails up there are pretty narrow, dropping away steeply on both sides. As the race director warned at the morning meeting, "hit one of those turns wrong and you'll wind up in Temecula."

There wasn't a safe space to park, so I put my bike in the bushes and sat down next to it, hanging my head, waiting for my stomach to settle. I got colder and colder and started thinking about the people who died descending Everest in 1997. John Krakauer's book "Into Thin Air" documents how the climbers reached the summit, but succumbed to cold and exhaustion on the way down, one of them just sitting until he expired, unable to get up.

Melodramatic, I know, but I honestly couldn't move. More lights went past. "You ok?"

"I'm good."

My happy mantra became a desperate lie.

But what could anyone do? Short of a helicopter, I was the only one who could get myself off that hill, and the escape route had to be ridden, because it was too steep and narrow to fit both a bike and a hiking girl. Wearing hard plastic shoes.

Down a section. Breathe. Wait for my head to clear. Wait for more guys to pass me. Down some more.

I reached the fire road at the bottom and headed for home. After pushing myself all day, wondering how far I could go, there was no doubt I had to skip the last three miles of single track. However, that meant that even though I rode most of it, lap eight wouldn't, and shouldn't, count toward my total.

Even more beautiful than the stars were the lights of the campground. I wheeled under the tape, laid down my bike, put on my jacket, curled up in my chair, and tried to be discreetly sick. Eventually, I managed to pull a towel out of my bag and put that over my shivering self.

Finishers rode past, their lights shining repeatedly in my face as they went by. Some guys across the way discussed fajitas and studiously ignored my retching.

Hell had, officially, frozen over.

After about a forty minute slide toward hypothermia, I felt a hand on my head. "Kathryn. Put this on."

It was Hans, giving me his down coat. He had run his own solo race that day, and then supported his wife Gretchen, who was part of Amy's four person team.

"Come to the camper van. It's warm in there. You can lie down."

The act of getting out of the chair made me not so discreetly sick. How did I let this happen twice?

Despite Hans' encouragement, I truly could not get up. He covered me with a blanket and waited.

"You know, Kathryn, I could carry you."

Hans is a Navy SEAL, and there is no doubt in my mind that he could have slung me over his shoulder and jogged back to San Diego.

"Thank you, Hans, but I'd rather die right here on the grass."

I finally hobbled to the van, curled up on the bed wearing three jerseys, a jacket, and two blankets.  I still shook for an hour.

People came in and out to check on me, a haze of voices. I heard the race director on the p.a. system counting down the last seconds before nine p.m., the cutoff hour. Dang. Done at seven laps.

I dozed.

I woke to Hans and a friend debriefing their races. Guy was talking about how he used to be sick at endurance events, too. At this, I perked up.

The only way he solved it was to buy a custom drink powder mix and eat nothing, not even a gel, all day. "Weren't you hungry?" I asked.

Nope. And he won his category with thirteen laps. Thirteen. All by himself. That is 119 miles, for those of you without a calculator handy. Thirteen thousand feet of vertical gain, more than two miles straight up.

I eventually felt better enough to venture outside. Everyone was huddled around heaters, clapping for the awards presentation. I found Amy and the rest of her victorious team, cheered for them and the other people I knew on the risers, grateful to be upright at last.

There had been one other single speed solo woman chasing me all day, and even though Hans checked the standings for me, it wasn't clear whether she had completed any laps after I bailed out.

I was genuinely happy for my friends, but waited anxiously for my category to be called. "Solo women's single speed, in second place...." I was shamelessly relieved to hear her name announced, and not mine.

For my efforts I was presented with not only a medal with the number "1" on it, but also a shiny green sprocket, the extra prize given to the winners of the mens and women's solo single speed category, laser etched with "12 Hours of Temecula" along the rim.

The real gift, though, was the kindness and support of my fellow riders. Amy packed up all my stuff. Gretchen made me black coffee. Everyone acted like riding until you puke was actually an achievement, instead of some weird digestive failure.

I need to go to google Guy's drink powder. Because, even though while I was curled in fetal position on top of a hill in the dark in the middle of nowhere I swore I'd never, ever, ever race a 12 hour again, there is a course out there that owes me two laps.]]> Tue, 25 Jan 2011 22:17:00 CST http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/26797-12-Hours-of-Temecula-SECOND-TIMES-THE-CHARM http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/16516-In-Defense-of-Page
This past weekend, the cyclocross community suffered the massive tremors (or really, minor rattles) caused by the tension between Jonathan Page and Tim Johnson during the USGP races in Madison. What went down out on the course is a truth molded by the story-teller of the moment. So far, velonews.com has the most balanced account of the transgressions, but the true controversy seems to be contained in the post-race interviews and comments from the riders and, perhaps more poignantly, the reactions of fans across the country.

Some commentators contest the methods used by the participants that seem to be liberal interpretations of the rulebooks. The contact between riders is not illegal (to my knowledge) but presents the ethical dilemma of determining what constitutes "fair play." The answer to this particular dilemma is one best left to the elites of the sport; my mid-pack B finish will not be severely affected by having an elbow thrown at me or my line cut-off in a corner (though it may result in a brief chuckle).

But the majority of the attention on this controversy is not directed towards the actions, but rather the reactions. Many believe that Page's post-race comments are little more than grandiose whining over being dominated by the Cannondale-Cyclocrossworld team members. Others are ready to swear off their personal support Planet Bike because they feel Page is a poor representative of the sport. In any case, Page's frustration with the racing tactics from the USGPs this past weekend resulted in, well, frustration towards Page.

I'll be honest, when I first saw Page interject into Tim Johnson's interview I was ready to lead the witch-hunt to decry his name as a pariah of the sport. But there was something unconscionable about that action. The truth is, despite the rhetoric about being a sore loser, Page's reaction to the race showed a very endearing quality. Page was invested in that race, and in the larger construct of the sport of cyclocross, in a way that I (and probably most sports fans) wished more athletes would emulate. In any competition, I don't want to see a group of dandy gentlemen scattering along a field holding conversations about who should lead into a corner. I want to see athletes who are willing to take the risks (within the rules!) to put themselves in contention for the win. I want to see the frustration, the anger, and the aggression that comes from feeling cheated out of a result. I want to see it, because it is the epitome of a purely human response we yearn for in our spectating.

It is easy for us to cry "villian!" from the safety of our homes, but in this case we are rejecting the essence of what drives us to watch a group of athletes ride around a field for an hour. The cathartic feeling of simply watching a leader come across the finish line after soloing to victory is not lost on us, the spectator, yet we are convinced the subsequent finishers be content and docile to their substandard placing no matter what occurred throughout the event. Sure, learning how to lose is an important quality, but it does not mean a rider has to be detached from his result. Let us not be fools to think that rivalry and competition is limited to the boundaries set by a clock.

Thus, I will continue to support Page in his endeavors, not because I want to revel in controversy, but because I know that in every emotional and frustrated interview is the potential for the exhilarated, magnificent pride that will come from the cherished win. And that, my friends, is what makes sport worth while and Page's actions forgivable.]]> Tue, 28 Sep 2010 02:46:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/16516-In-Defense-of-Page http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/15695-Guerra-and-Strigel-Win-at-the-WORS-Alterra-Coffee-Bean-Classic Nathan Guerra (Mr. Tree / Power Bar) raced to his second career victory in the Wisconsin Off Road Series BelGioioso men’s elite field on Sunday, once again claiming the top of the podium at the Alterra Coffee Bean Classic. Abigail Strigel (Trek Stores of Madison) returned to the top step in the women’s contest after missing the last race. Strigel dominated the women’s elite field with a margin of over 5 minutes on second place and claimed the prize offered by local organizers of a $100 to the first BelGioioso Elite racer to the top of Crystal Ridge during the prologue lap. In the men’s field, former WORS Overall Champ and cyclo-cross racer Brian Matter (Gear Grinder / Trek) claimed the prime.

The Alterra race, originally scheduled for July, had been postponed by massive flooding in the Milwaukee area. A month later, the trails were dusty and the sun was out in force.

“This race is always hot, even when it gets canceled and rescheduled,” commented ladies winner, Abby Strigel. “I was really thirsty. But, this is one of my favorite courses. There’s so much singletrack. I love it! There was a lot of climbing too. At the beginning, Lisa was awesome. I thought she was going to get me. I got lucky on the ‘King of the Mountain’, because Lisa’s fast! But, other than that, it was a great race for me.”



Ladies winner Abby Strigel (Trek Stores of Madison) is chased by second place Lisa Krayer (Adventure 212 / Specialized) halfway up Crystal Ridge. Photo by Melissa Kennedy.

Strigel is being pushed this season by Lisa Krayer (Adventure 212 / Specialized), who finished second. The two are fiercely competitive on the course, and highly complimentary of each other off the track.

“I just looked at the time gap, and it was five minutes - Abby’s amazing,” was the first thing Krayer said during her post race interview. “The singletrack is tough. I think the other struggle was that I felt really uncomfortable on my bike today. This course is fun to ride, but tough to race.”

The course at Alterra was a mix of relentless, exposed gravel climbs up the Crystal Ridge ski hill with tight, twisting singletrack. A weekly time trial at Crystal Ridge, hosted throughout the summer by Milwaukee’s Metro Mountain Bikers, helps set the stage for this yearly showdown between raw power and home-course advantage.

“In the first lap, Nathan [Guerra] and I were just riding, no pressure, and we turn around in the singletrack and we were like ‘Where is everybody?’”, joked second place finisher Darrin Braun. “We’re locals.”

“This race is a home course,” said men’s winner Nathan Guerra. “I always have family and friends here, so it feels pretty good to do two-in-a-row here. I felt really good today, and Darrin [Braun] and I had fun racing together. We we putting little attacks in the singletrack on each other the whole time. It was tons of fun.”



Nathan Guerra (Mr Tree / PowerBar) leads Darrin Braun (Adventure 212 / Specialized) into the second lap at the WORS Alterra Classic. Photo by Niki Frazier

Guerra and Braun (Adventure 212 / Specialized) rode together throughout the race, opening a sizeable gap on the nearest chase group. On the final climb to the top of Crystal Ridge, the two crested the first series of switchback together when Guerra opened a gap on the steepest grade of the climb. Braun hit the descent just seconds later, but the gap continued to open as Guerra pushed the pace in pursuit of the win.

“I actually crashed once over in O’Malley’s woods over there, and I went down,” confessed Guerra. “I was like. ‘Oh no! Is he coming?’ But, I didn’t see him coming, so I jumped back on the bike and tried to keep it steady. I was able to ride in smooth, and didn’t have to kill myself on the final climb to put my arms up.”

With three races left in the WORS Series, the men’s Overall is still hotly contested. In the women’s Overall, Strigel and Krayer look nearly unbeatable in 1st and 2nd, respectively, but the final podium positions are very much in play. Each of the contenders interviewed said that they plan to finish the final three races of the WORS Series, and the racing should be fast and tight to the season finale in Sheboygan on October 10. The next race in the series, Treadfest, will be held on September 12 at the Grand Geneva Resort in Lake Geneva, WI.
]]> Wed, 01 Sep 2010 23:36:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/15695-Guerra-and-Strigel-Win-at-the-WORS-Alterra-Coffee-Bean-Classic http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/13173-Big-Bear-Shootout-Fast-and-Loose I'm sorry. Kind of.
.



If you were taking a high line around the ponds on Plantation, and two crazy single speeders splashed through the middle and drenched you, I do apologize. Mostly.
.



Because that was the most fun I had all day.
.

I've squeaked past Brian Itzaina in a couple of previous races, but he was having none of it at Big Bear on Sunday. He got past me at the top of the first long climb, and then nipped in ahead of me onto the Plantation single track. He has great bike handling skills, so it was all I could do to hold his wheel through the turns.
.

And then, we got to the swamp. The mud, the muck, the saplings, the riders parked at random next to puddles.
.

We went roaring through there, with Brian taking crazy lines and me diving into the water right after him.
.

At a recent race, I was poaching some shade under a vendor canopy. "Anyone sitting here?" I plopped down.
.

"Hey, why do you race single speed?" someone asked. I never caught his name.
.

Before I could answer, another anonymous racer quipped, "Because she's part of a freaky cult."
.

I sure wasn't missing that derailleur when I was pedaling out of three feet of water up onto a slippery bank. I knew exactly what gear I was in, exactly what pressure needed to be applied to keep from spinning out.
.

I rode around a gentleman I'd spent some time climbing next to. "Wish me luck!" He laughed.
.

I followed Brian down the granite-y bits onto the fire road.
.

He's 20. Did I say that?
.

It will be a couple more decades before he signs up for the responsibilities that keep me conservative on loose descents. Ok, he's just faster, all right? He inched away.
.

Earlier, while we waited for the other categories to start, I chatted with the guys in mine, Sport Single Speed.
.
There is, as yet, no women's category for single speed. I don't mind too much; a first place medal when you're the only entrant is a bit tinny.
.

Jason Butler, team director for SDBC's mountain division, was encouraging me regarding the upcoming national championship. Where there is a women's open category, and where I will probably be lined up with spritely teenagers, and who knows who else. There were eight women last year.
.

How many will come for the 2010 contest? Betsy Shogren, east coast legend? Or maybe the defending champion, who spent a month at altitude acclimating, just for that race?
.

I could take it all, and come home with a stars and stripes jersey, or I could be giving myself pep talks at the back.
.

"Better to be lucky than fast," Jason offered.
.

I was fast and lucky on Sunday.
.

Brian snapped two teeth off his rear cog and had to walk the last mile.
.

I knocked four minutes off my personal best time on that course, came in 8th out of 10. If I'd done one more US Cup series race, I'd have gotten to stand up and get the award for fifth place in the overalls for Sport Single Speed Men.
.

I love Big Bear. It was the location of my first Cat 3 win, my first Cat 2 win. I'll never win racing in my current category, but in the ongoing test of wills against myself, it was a good day up there.
.

Next race: USA Cycling's Mountain Bike National Championships, Granby, Colorado, July 17.
.

Wish me luck, and you can be an adjunct member of my cult.
]]> Tue, 22 Jun 2010 01:01:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/13173-Big-Bear-Shootout-Fast-and-Loose http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/13139-12-Hours-of-Temecula-One-Lap-at-a-Time-Sweet-Vail-Lake The 12 Hours of Temecula race wasn't on my schedule for the year.
"Will we see you there?" he inquired.
Innocuous, really, but the exact same words uttered by John Hinke swayed me into driving up to Oregon for the Spring Thaw.
The race was Saturday, June 12. I registered on Thursday.
"Are you allowed to rest? Or do you have to ride your bike the whole time?"
I tried to explain the concept to a non-racing friend. Yes, you can stop as much as you want. But whomever completes the most laps between the hours of 9 a.m. and 9 p.m. wins, so the idea is to keep going.
I've raced a few 12 hours as part of a two person relay team, but I've never done one solo. How long would I last? Would it be miserable? What should I eat?
I offloaded the contents of my refrigerator into a cooler, brought a can of electrolyte powder and a case of Gu, seven gallons of water, spare shorts and socks, nine bananas, six bagels, a quart of homemade espresso.
I was too busy sorting all my stuff and babbling nervously to friends to properly warm up, but no matter. I wasn't planning on setting any land speed records on the first lap. When the hordes headed for the hills, I drifted to the back, forcing myself to temper my enthusiasm.
The course, held in the brushy hills behind Vail Lake Resort, was about eight and a half miles long, featuring long fire road climbs and fast, technical descents. Rocky across the ridgetops, twisty through the bushes, with a few stairstep steep drops to keep you awake.
I knocked off three laps pretty easily, since I wasn't going all that fast and 25 miles is a pretty standard length for me. Lap four was somewhat more difficult. My body was confused. "Hey, aren't you done now?" I've never ridden more than five hours in a row, and even those were punctuated by some serious chatting.
Erik, who unknowingly got me into this, invited me to hang out in the Canari tent. He and Kathy had set it up ever so handily next to the timing table, restrooms, and swimming pool. Friends and members of the Canari Queens, Skuld Racing, and San Diego Trek wandered in and out, tiptoeing around the piles of helmets and shoes.
I stopped briefly after every lap to refill my water bottles. As people realized I was there alone, I was soon relieved of all chores.
Hans, from the Navy Seal team, in between his own efforts, made a special trip to get cold water from his cooler. Someone's husband whose name I never learned offered to lube my chain. Three, THREE guys installed my lights for me, as the race officially ended after dark.
Five laps. Six.
Ok, that's a pretty decent result on a single speed. I was starting to have to push the bike up grades that were visually level, and even when I was pedalling, it felt remarkably like I was standing still.
But it was still only late afternoon, so I headed out again for lap seven, somewhere beyond the pale of fifty miles.
I had made the mistake of eating half a slice of white bread, deviating from my previously liquid diet. I had to stop SO many times and hang my head. "You OK?" people asked as they pedaled by. Uh huh. More or less.
I made myself look around and enjoy the view. Here I am, riding my bike all day, and most people in the world don't have enough to eat. Here I am, soaking in the country air, enjoying these hills, the puffy white clouds, turning the cranks with both legs. There was a gentleman on course with one leg in a brace, pedalling only with the other working leg. One of Hans' team members trained in Afghanistan by riding up and down the air strip. Sixty miles at a time.
It is a luxury to actually volunteer for suffering.
After lap seven, which I finished around six p.m., I allowed myself to actually sit in a folding chair inside the tent. Would I get up again? Hard to say. There were still three hours remaining, plenty of time to walk the whole course once and, if I worked really, really hard, ride two laps.
"I don't know if I can do two more. It's only 17 miles, but that feels like forever." I teared up a little.
"You're just tired. Do a parade lap and hang out with us," someone consoled.
"It's your first solo. If you don't try for both, you'll always wonder what you could have done."
Angel. Devil. Devil. Angel. Which is which?
Here's the thing. Only laps that are finished before nine p.m. are counted. If you ride past the timing table at 9:01, that whole trip around was pointless. I knew I could do one more, but what if I tried do two, and didn't make it back in time?
At the start of lap eight, I rode up the first hill with another solo rider. We discussed the rock and hard place choice of whether we should celebrate with a leisurely spin, or risk pulling in late.
With the bread slice no longer bothering me, I rode away.
As the sun started to drop toward the horizon, many teams and solos had already called it a day. Very few of the hundreds of entrants still out on course. Truly solo now, I enjoyed the sensation of riding with just me and the trails and the twilight.  Oh, but wait, here's Tinker Juarez again.  He passed me three times, on his way to fifteen solo laps.  That's only one behind the winners of the men's pro relay category.
All day I'd been forcing myself not to worry about future laps. "Just get through this climb. Just finish this climb. Fifty more feet and you can rest. Ten more pedal strokes."
If I looked ahead to the twenty or eleven or even three more climbs waiting for me, I was sorely tempted to dip into the pool. Better yet, the beer cooler.
"Stay right here, in this moment, and don't you dare move." Oddly enough, it pretty much felt like I wasn't moving, anyway.
I reached the "Tunnel of Love" downhill for the eighth time. A smooth slot that curved through bushes along a hillside, it required no pedaling. And if I stayed off the brakes, I could fly down the whole thing, swinging from side to side through the ditch, riding high on the banked turns, allow myself a little air on the jumps.
I have a soft spot for campy 80's movies. I crack myself up, and all that. Remember the scene in Dirty Dancing where Patrick Swayze pulls Jennifer Grey onto the dance floor? "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."
I got passed over and over that day as I made my slow and steady charge. Pro relay teams, strong solo riders, everybody tore by me at warp speed.
But no matter who was on the hunt behind me up to that point, I dusted them on that section.
"Nobody catches Mama on this downhill."
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
For those brief moments, the line between earth and heaven blurred.
At the end of lap eight, I skipped my customary visit to the tent. No stretching, no high fives, no new water. I checked in at the timing table, made the turn through the chicane, and then went right back out.
Committed, now.
I made it through the trickiest sections before hard dark.
I've only ridden with lights twice before, and it isn't something I enjoy. For some reason, if I can't see the trail, I can't feel it, either. It felt like the whole thing was oiled.
But I was comforted by the sight of other dots of light bobbing around the canyon. Like the first stars emerging in the night sky, the cadre of the faithful hanging on until the very end gave me the inspiration I needed to finish.
I rolled across the line at 8:40 p.m.  Done, and done in.
Nine laps. New course record.
I still can't believe I ate the whole thing. It did take all day, though.]]> Mon, 21 Jun 2010 09:09:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/13139-12-Hours-of-Temecula-One-Lap-at-a-Time-Sweet-Vail-Lake http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/12823-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-Withdrawal-Symptoms

[EDITOR'S NOTE: All pictures are copyright A.E.Landes Photography. Do yourself a favor and head on over to his web-location to view some of the best cycling photos, ever! He also does weddings, though we hope this will soon become his side job.]

Monday morning I awoke effortlessly at 6:30 AM. The time certainly wasn't my choice, but after a week of rushing out of bed to chow down on camp food, you begin to pick up a few habits.

Even a few days out from the event, I find myself wanting to play the role of Jack from Lost, frantically trying to convince everyone to return to the "island" of the Seven Mountains campgrounds. The Trans-Sylvania Epic was mountain biking in its purest form, and after a complete cycling immersion I find it more and more difficult to convince myself the real world day-to-day grind is sustainable. This race was the gateway drug to a dangerous [and arguably more expensive] addiction to stage racing, and proved to be a renewal of my love for the sport.

I will try not to dwell too much on the details of my racing, because for me this event was about more than results. It's not that I didn't care, it's just that by the time I started to find my legs it was too late to change the GC. I secured my second-to-last finishing place within the first three days, but whittled away the significant deficit between myself and the next higher rider by the end of the week [from over 2 hours to just under 25 mins].

For the short recap, the beginning of the week was marked by having zero power in my legs. In addition, I fought back severe cramping for the first few days, that is until Rachael Mirvish provided me with a weapons-grade electrolyte mix (as well as company during my darker days). By the end of the week, cramps had gone bye-bye and I was flying! In those seven days, I went from having the worst form ever on a bike [and swearing off riding forever!] to scaring myself with how well I was riding.



Some of the days were less enjoyable:




Sad Tim is sad.



Others were freakin' fast:






I think my mustache gives me lift.




And, though I failed to notice, some of the days were in black-and-white:











The riding was nothing short of amazing, but this was expected. The truly incredible aspect of the event was the organizational prowess of the Dynamic Duo of mid-Atlantic bike races, Ray Adams and Mike Kuhn. These guys toiled for hours each night to make sure the race went off without any major snafus, and their hard work paid off; everyone was ecstatic with the event, and no one died (double success!).



As Zach Adams put it, the Trans-Sylvania Epic was a summer camp for big kids, with a bike problem, and maybe a drinking one, but mostly a bike problem. I can't wait for the next time I am able to keep Eagle lodge awake with late-night banjo tunes while happening upon a one-man rave. I could, however, do without the hundreds of bugs which kept me up at night, or the small mouse which ate my best Clif Bars, but these were minor incidents compared to the incredible atmosphere provided by some of the genuinely good and funny cohorts in this adventure. Most of these people even have blogs, and are probably providing more interesting content than me, so go ahead and check them out.






Mike Wissell, who confused the Epic for a duathalon at times.







Peter Keiller, leader of the Misfit Psycles.






Tanya Hanham, perhaps my favorite Canadian.







Rachael Mirvish, most smiley cyclist ever.






Mike Festa, the self-proclaimed "roadie P.O.S."





And, lest we forget, the already infamous Rich Dillen, who you can see in 3-D in his CyclingDirt interview.



As for me, I'll be looking forward to seeing all these fine faces next year, and for years to come. Until then, I get to stare at my pretty little medal to remind me of the killer week spent at the TSE.

]]> Wed, 09 Jun 2010 21:21:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/12823-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-Withdrawal-Symptoms http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/12636-Strigel-undefeated-and-Matter-takes-the-sprint-at-WORS-Big-Ring-Classic Thu, 03 Jun 2010 19:53:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/12636-Strigel-undefeated-and-Matter-takes-the-sprint-at-WORS-Big-Ring-Classic http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/12120-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-IV-The-Checklist
Am I ready? I seem to be asking myself this question more and more as the event looms.

With less than a week before the start of the Trans-Sylvania Epic, I made an empty attempt at preparing for this magnanimous event with a checklist:



Regardless of how well I feel I am riding, I can't seem to garner the will to consolidate these items quite yet. It would seem too real, too immediate. I trusted my fitness in the past few months, but do I trust it now?

For quite a while now, I resolved to a theory that went something like this: you won't attain anything in a race that you can't create in training.

Although a seemingly logical assertion, this line of thought is simply boring and tends to ignore a blatantly human element in the equation. We don't race to reaffirm a wattage or a heart rate, and we are more than a number of accumulated miles and intervals. Sure, training is a way to "build fitness," as the common adage states, but it has a separate (and much more interesting) function. Training is reconnaissance; training is a way to throw yourself headfirst into the walls of your fitness, if only to know where they stand. Then, you can imagine the repetition of training as the monotonous rapping of a small chisel against these walls, creating ever so gently the soft cracks in the foundation. When the tune of the race reaches its grand crescendo, at the very time you find that wall again, the hours spent rapping and cracking those walls reward you: the walls are but ruins, small stones, dust for you to blur past; it is during the race that you destroy the constructs of your restraints.

It may only be a thought in its infancy, but this new theory is much more rewarding than the first. For three months, I have been rapping at my own walls. I found the limits of how long I can sustain without food, or water (both situations were accidental, but important lessons nonetheless). I found the limits of how long I can sustain myself without a day of rest, and the limits of my optimism when fitness is more elusive than palpable. I found that the extra time spent on my bike has given me extreme precision with my technical skills, and that these skills can save energy, or embarrass full-suspension riders, depending on how I use them. I found out that not everything will work in your favor, that the winds will not always be at your back, and the sun will not always be above your head. I found out that if experience means anything at all, it means you won't be shocked when these unique problems arise. Oh, I have been rapping at these walls I found, and slowly breaking them down.

And yet, in spite of all my preparation, I still can't seem to reconcile the magnitude of this event. Seven days. Seven tough days. It's a wall that training can do little to prepare you for. But this is not a debilitating barrier, oh no! Rather, it's a barrier that produces one dominating thought: Well, let's see what we can do.

In the end, this race is like any other. It is a test of potential and will, a silly way to validate our fascination with a sport hell-bent on breaking us down to the bones. When the day ends, the only thing left to do will be to smile, mockingly, with the knowledge that even at our worst moments, we remain triumphant in our accomplishments, not because we succeeded in them, but because we strived to achieve them.

Am I ready for the Trans-Sylvania Epic? Who knows. But I can affirm I am trained, anxious, and captivated, a mix of states which, for me, promises nothing less than a spectacular, unforgettable experience. My experience with training taught me a lot about myself, and was rewarding for more than just the fitness. With each week the lessons accumulated, the skills sharpened, and the walls cracked away to reveal more potential than I knew was possible...

Now, it's time to start checking off that list; I'm ready.
]]> Tue, 25 May 2010 01:01:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/12120-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-IV-The-Checklist http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11856-Wicks-and-Strigel-power-to-wins-at-the-WORS-Crystal-Lake-Classic Mon, 17 May 2010 20:19:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11856-Wicks-and-Strigel-power-to-wins-at-the-WORS-Crystal-Lake-Classic http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11736-Michaux-Maximus We here at TBS Racing Inc. enjoy taking our time when reporting our racing experiences. It isn't that we don't want you to be up to date, it's just that we're pretty lazy sometimes. But alas, we have been racing! Here is a picture to prove that Denny and I [Tim] at least started the Michaux Maximus this past weekend:

This picture is a good representation of our different racing styles. Denny likes to hammer from the gun, I prefer to go all Zen on long events.

Now if you are unfamiliar with Michaux, let me bring you up to date with a quick synopsis of the events and area. Michaux is a mountain biker's race. Now, I don't just mean that you race Michaux on a mountain bike, but rather it takes a true mountain biker to genuinely enjoy the event. The trails are about the toughest you will find across the country, and the unforgiving undulations and geographic qualities of the area create many casualties of both flesh and metal alike. Forty miles of Michaux is guaranteed to beat you up proper, regardless of how your legs are feeling.

So, blah blah blah, these trails are freaking tough. You get the point? Good. Let's move on.

For the first time this year, I opted for a camelbak to accommodate my hydration needs. Denny made the same choice, though I poked fun at the obscene size of his camelbak by stuffing a crankset and bottom bracket in the back pocket before the race, "just in case." Little did I know, the joke would be on me later in the race. The temperature was supposed to reach 85 degrees that day, so our warm-up strategy was to drink a bottle of water and sit around until the race started. We knew it would be a long day on the bike, and the start of the race would do little to determine our finishing places, so warming up was decidedly overrated.

The race commences, and I casually move up the field as Denny hammers his way towards the front. I let him go after a few minutes, and would catch up with him shortly after as he stood on the side of the trail yelling some obscenities about how the race sucked. And it did. The first hour was brutal with the high temperatures, and the trails just kept shooting up and down the slopes of hills. I kept muscling along at a decent pace, and eventually made it to the first water station (approximately 10-ish miles into the race).

I took my time at the station; I had no idea where I was in the field of riders, and I wanted to make sure to refuel correctly before moving on. I felt fantastic leaving the water station, and proceeded to move at a good pace up some technical rollers/climbs. After that, we hit a fun [read: sketchy with loose rocks] descent which rattled me up, but I was still able to gain some time on riders. Unfortunately, one loose rock decided on a trajectory aimed at my crankset, and hit with enough force to snap the ring at the bolts and bend half of the ring at a 40 degree angle. I wasn't depending on the big ring for much in that event, but those parts are not cheap to replace. Even so, I was in a fantastic mood; the trails were amazing, and I was riding well. No complaints, yet.

I spent less time at the second water station, stopping only for a bottle refill and a banana. I learned that I was actually doing quite well in comparison to the riders in my field. In hindsight, it may have been better not to know his information, but the ego boost was helpful. I moved on through to the next section of trail only to be rewarded by an incredible ridge trail with a breathtaking view. From there, we cut into some fresh trail that quickly worked its way into my favorites. The leaves and ferns created an almost eerie green aura that immersed you as you hit a rocky, switchback trail descent. The atmosphere, along with the quality of trail, will stick in my mind for years to come. Unfortunately, I started to feel sluggish at the bottom of the descent, and realized I would have to lower my pace if I wanted to finish. Too little too late. I cramped hard toward the end of the single track.

Now, when I get cramps, they are no insignificant ordeal. My cramps are the ones that seize the entire leg in a death grip, immobilizing you for minutes at a time. Luckily, we were almost at a road section. Unluckily, this road section was a large climb that I was unable to ride due to the cramps. Even when the road leveled off, I was unable to push the pedal around without my muscles flaring up in anger. After a while of hiking up the road, Denny caught up and tried to offer some assistance, but there was little to be done at this point. We were told at the second aid station that the next water station was only nine miles ahead. According to my math, I should have reached the water station somewhere towards the top of this climb. I told Denny to go on ahead, and I continued my sluggish climb up the road. When nearing the top, I was greeted by a gentlemen with a radio informing me the next water station was another 8 miles ahead... or so. This distance was a severe miscalculation by the race promoters, and meant that the final water station came only three miles from the finish line. I couldn't pedal, and I lost an incredible amount of time walking up the climb. There was no way I was going to walk another 8 miles; my race was over. I waited for the sag wagon to pick me up, and returned to the registration area to shed the chamoix and relax before Denny finished his ride.

I spent a brief amount of time calculating my estimated finish position (had I not cramped of course). Based on the people I was riding with, and my initial pacing, it looked as if I could have put in a sub-five hour time. Man, that would have been awesome! Denny ended up coming in around 5 hours and 40 minutes, which is no small feat for how tough the course is, and how bad he was feeling. So, damn good job Denny!

Despite not finishing the race, I had an incredible time riding those trails and walked away with a smile [and a new T-shirt]. Back to regularly scheduled training for the month of May, as the Trans-Sylvania Epic is getting closer and closer by the day!

adieu.]]> Sat, 08 May 2010 20:20:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11736-Michaux-Maximus http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11656-Schouten-and-Strigel-win-at-2010-WORS-Season-Opener Tue, 04 May 2010 19:19:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11656-Schouten-and-Strigel-win-at-2010-WORS-Season-Opener http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11636-Idyllwild-Spring-Challenge-Mountain-Mama







Technically, he can, while my two older children cannot, because they do not have actual birth certificates. After the recent election, I doubt that their Certificates of Birth Abroad would qualify them.

But really, can my ambitious boy lead the nation someday? Who knows. At the moment, he thinks he can.

I never thought I could ride a mountain bike down the face of a five foot boulder. But at Saturday's Idyllwild Spring Challenge, I did. And jumped over creeks, rocketed down gullies, bunny hopped logs and splashed through creeks.After months of sedate urban lap races, I was finally back in the mountains.

I've never been to Idyllwild before, and drove nervously up the hill Friday night. My maiden voyage on the course promised a welcome infusion of technical single track, though, bought and paid for with nearly 4000 feet of climbing over nineteen beautiful view miles.

The tireless race organizer, Katie Hedrick, helpfully posted topos and trail descriptions on the Idyllwild Cycling site. The morning before the race, I got a big cup of really bad coffee from a little diner, and pored over the contour lines. Up. Down. Right. Left. Up. Up. More up.

I am not a pure climber. I have a lousy strength to weight ratio. In a sport where hill ability is measured in mere grams, elite female racers underweigh me by fifty pounds just getting out of bed in the morning. In terms of wind resistance, my long legs do provide an edge on long flat stretches; I have effectively neutralized that advantage by riding a low geared bike.

And then there's that training thing with three kids and a job, real estate issues that necessitate both parents working, health issues, and pretty soon, I've talked myself out of public office.

Enter something called "ability belief." If you think you can't, you won't. Ever.

Superstitiously chanting engine songs may not guarantee a first place medal, but it doesn't hurt. I may not have preridden the course, but my husband did teach me to read a back country map. That, I can do.

So I mosey my front tire up to the duct tape starting line with a pretty big crowd of women, including two (two!) other single speed women. Abundant sunshine, cool temperatures, and the intoxicating scents of pine and sage wafting over the Spandex. Can we go yet? We made the right hand turn out of Hurkey Creek Campground, down along a creek bed. When the track started popping Sagebrush style moguls, I knew it was going to be a good day.
I took off, doing my best Sue Fish moto impression. I was well ahead of the pack.
For about three minutes. Then we started winding toward the summit.
Dorothy Wong, pro cyclocross racer, passed me going uphill. She was legitimately running with her bike slung over her back, not employing my patented slow speed twinkle toes jog.
Bye bye, Dot. A dedicated advocate of women's cycling, she has doubled the amount of female cyclocross racers in the last year, and has set her sights on getting more women out on mountain bikes. Watch out, world.
The other single speed woman passed me next, riding her bike up a hill that I had to hike.
Great. Oh, andlooky here, there go a batch of geared women.
Course strategy caffeined int0 my brain, I repeated my think-I-can lyrics.
Patience, patience, patience.


Lesson learned from last week, I got off and pushed the bike well before I tipped over from exertion. The first long single track climb finally ended, we cruised along Johnson Meadow, and then the fun began.

I was not disappointed. With names like Tunnel of Love and Exfoliator and Rage Thru the Sage, those trails demanded every ounce of skill and courage I possesed, and then some more after that. Rocks, turns, drops, stumps of death, and ruts that could swallow my van. When the going wasn't tough, it was don't-try-this-at-home fast. Fast, I tell you.

Honestly, ask anyone who rode with me in 2005 how frightened and clumsy I was. There's a ledge drop by my house that I used to sit at the top of for long minutes, trying to make myself ride down it. I took a girlfriend there once and she cleaned it on the first try, on her first bike ride, ever. It was another year before I could make myself roll over the lip.
The magic thing about racing, the intangible something that keeps me coming back, is the way it transforms that fear. Am I going to give in to it and waste the entry fee, or am I going to let go of the brakes?

In his discussion of ability belief, author Gavin de Becker says this, "no single influence is more powerful than social proof, seeing someone else succeed at the thing you might have initially believed you could not do."
I have followed so many people down hills I could not would not never have ridden in real life. In a race, if someone sails over a Jaws style rock garden, I don't have time to think about whether I should follow. Over the years, I have come to love double arrow signs.
Take me home, country roads.
I eventually passed most of the people who dusted me at the start, came in second to Dorothy, and ahead of most of the women of any age on any bike riding that same course. As far as the business end of the Idyllwild Spring Challenge, I pretty much rode like a rock star. If I do say so myself. Just this once, I promise. Because no one was there to see it.
On a loop that long, you
 often end up riding by yourself. You, yourself and you... and your memories of every hero who ever rode in front of you.]]> Mon, 03 May 2010 22:22:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11636-Idyllwild-Spring-Challenge-Mountain-Mama http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11602-Black-Mountain-Race-Report-Not-So-Fast Black Mountain XC
San Diego, CA
Sunday, April 25





No, that's not my little sister. Put your hands together for Rachelle, who turned in an impressive 1:07 lap time at the Black Mountain XC race on Sunday. On a single speed. She demolished the entire field, men and women, in the beginner category. Oh, wait, she was the only entrant on a single speed bicycle in that class.

I raced with the Sport men; we slogged two ten mile laps. Robert Herber, the race director, created a category for women's single speed, so Rachelle and I shared the podium to receive our respective blue ribbons. She promised to upgrade to Sport. And then there were two...
I confess that, not having any women to compete against usually, I play possum on mass starts. I'm usually lined up with thirty or forty guys, every one of whom is determined to on be the first one to the single track. I'd rather let them go on ahead than mix it up in the rolling scrum.
However. The race was only half an hour north of where I live, so all the guys from my bike shop showed up to spectate the start. One of them took a picture of us crowding onto the baseball field at Black Mountain Open Space Park.
We sprinted across the wet grass, took a sharp downhill left through the Lusardi Loop Trail gate, and tore down the fire road to the entrance to the single track. I made it into the first half of the pack, and got to enjoy bombing down a rocky trail. Due to the long line of bikers in front of me, I couldn't really see where I was going. I could definitely hear the gentlemen breathing hard right behind me, though. Do I get bonus points for not nudging Jeanne's wheel?
After the brief downhill party, we were treated to riding up and down power line access roads. A couple of them were so long, I almost had time to finish writing the novel that's been rattling around in my head for the last decade.

Aware that my bike shop friends, as well as title sponsor, would be milling around at the start, I pushed hard to finish that first ten miles. For which I was rewarded with a debilitating case of vertigo. My brain doesn't like it when all the blood goes to my legs, and pulls rank by turning off my vision.
The only way to get the lights back on is to put my head down around my knees. Which wasn't too hard, because I was already pushing the bike.

More than one person commented on how miserable I looked when I lapped through. There are even pictures, which you couldn't pay me enough to post here. The second time around, I hopped off the bike well before I started to hyperventilate. Oddly enough, dismounting earlier left enough oxygen upstairs for me to actually run up a couple hills. Counterintuitive note to self.

I actually finished miles eleven through twenty in less time than it took me to complete the first ten. And, I was only a minute or so off the back of the Sport men.
I paid a $40 entry fee for those two hours of suffering, about $2 per mile. At the finish, I certainly felt I'd gotten my money's worth.
Thanks to Racers and Chasers for putting on another quality local event, and for all my friends and family who came to cheer me on]]> Fri, 30 Apr 2010 15:15:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11602-Black-Mountain-Race-Report-Not-So-Fast http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11505-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-III-Abstract-Thoughts with the text, as they have nothing to do with the writing. They do, however,
hold significance for the Trans-Sylvania Epic as an event. These photos were
taken during a pre-ride of the incredible RB Winter stage, and it felt sinful
to not include them. I will provide a more in-depth opinion of the RB Winter
trails on my personal blog, but for a summary just know the area is quickly
evolving into a favorite riding spot of mine.]
Every year, scientists work diligently to quantify training.
Their work manifests in the latest training techniques involving power meters,
heart rate zones, and the latest training crazes. They try to put a formula to
training, to describe the ebb and flow of fitness in the most mathematical ways
possible.
Regardless of the advances over the past few decades,
training remains a process which, at times, defies the science. Numerous
variables interact to produce fitness, making it near impossible to hone in its
specific qualities. What works one season may prove ineffective in the next and
great advances in fitness may be derailed with simple mistakes.
To better [read: abstractly] describe my recent sentiments
towards the concepts of training, I must put my faith in the articulate writing
of a favorite poet of mine:
Ineluctable preoccupation with The
Verb gives a poet one priceless advantage: whereas nonmakers must content
themselves with the merely undeniable fact that two times two is four,he
rejoices in a purely irresistible truth(to be found,in abbreviated costume,upon
the title page of the present volume). (Foreword to E. E Cummings’ collection, “is 5”)
In this foreword from his collection of poems titled “is 5”
(consequently, this is the “irresistible truth” mentioned), Cummings reveals
the artist’s ability to look beyond the simple equation to arrive at a deeper
and more honest understanding. I’ll go ahead and avoid the literary criticism—mostly
because I would fail miserably at it—but a strong parallel can be found between
the roles of the poet and the coach based on this revelation.
If you have any familiarity with my short series, you will
remember that I am training for the Trans-Sylvania Mountain Bike Epic using a
specific training plan from Chris Eatough Coaching. Following a training plan has
been a rewarding experience, but the training plan is only one half of a very
nonlinear equation.
Never underestimate the role a coach plays in training. The
coach has the indispensible ability to analyze your training from an unbiased
perspective, a luxury which eludes the athlete. The coach can tell you when you
are going too hard, or not pushing hard enough, and adjust the approach
accordingly. When training gets rough, the coach bolsters your confidence and
provides the insightful and motivating words to keep you on track. The coach
balances the complex and dynamic formula of training to maximize your fitness.
In this dynamic, the interaction with the coach is pivotal to the athlete’s
success.
Let’s take this discussion away from the abstract. About two
weeks ago, I reached a level of fitness I had only dreamed of before. I
followed the training plan, and it paid off big time. At our local Tuesday
night short track races, I was hanging with riders who in years past would
leave me behind on the first lap. During my workouts, I dominated the shorter
intervals which were problematic for me early in the program. My fitness was
radically different than ever, but I made subtle errors which would cost me
dearly: I failed to give myself adequate rest. When an easy ride was
prescribed, I tended to ride with other people, which resulted in a bit harder
efforts then I needed (in hindsight, running my 53 tooth chainring for a
cyclo-cross ride was not the best idea). I thought I was taking it easy, but I was too biased by my fitness to see that I was
simply breaking down.
Thursday’s workout impressed me, but Friday I woke to very
heavy legs. My easy ride that day was punishing; every small incline stressed
my system maximally. Sunday’s race came along, and I could barely hang on to
the pace from gun. That was one of the few times I appreciated having multiple
flats; no way could I last that race. The sudden loss of fitness demoralized
me; I reached burn-out.
Luckily, I had the support of my teammates and our team
manager to help through the minor stumble and remind me that I am fit, and that a little rest will get
me back on track in no time. But, had there been someone other than me taking a
discerning look at my training, I may not have had to undergo that experience
in the first place.
The coach is indispensible to the athlete. After this short
derailment of fitness, I am convinced of this truth, and intend to seek out a
full-time coach after the completion of the Trans-Sylvania. Until then, I will
take what I learned through my errors to ensure I do not waste a training plan
which has already given me enormous gains in fitness.]]> Sun, 25 Apr 2010 01:01:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11505-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-III-Abstract-Thoughts http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11320-Windy-Windy-Windy-Santa-Ynez-Race-Report Wed, 14 Apr 2010 12:26:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11320-Windy-Windy-Windy-Santa-Ynez-Race-Report http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11311-New-Zealand [Editors note: For the last 10 days, Cyclingdirt has been off the grid, exploring in New Zealand. We've been working on some Mountain Bike projects down here, but also taking a little time to see the other side of the world. Here's a look into the South Island, as told by Debbie Merzbach.]

An important notification-- this post is going to be obnoxiously long. You might say to yourself "why are there so many landscape pictures?" Perhaps you should consider the hoards I had to omit.

We beat the sunrise to the Auckland Airport Tuesday morning. Airport Security, to follow up on my anticipations from last post, is staggeringly relaxed. I still had to check a bag because indeed, hiking poles highly resemble spears, but no form of identification was ever requested, and our boarding passes looked like receipts one would acquire from purchasing a pack of tic tacs at a convenience store. I accidentally placed a full Nalgene onto the conveyer belt at the Security checkpoint and lunged after it, wishing to avoid the diatribe on liquid explosives. Some people stared. In their world, if it looks like water, it probably is. Additionally, Colt was encouraged to bring his lighter on board as carry-on instead of stowing it below the deck.

We drove about three and a half hours to Nelson Lakes National Forest, made final calls in the age-old "Having More Stuff Vs. Carrying Extra Weight" discourse (remember now, I am the offspring of a man who considers the mass of a Tupperware container to be frivolous), and took a picture in the parking lot, just in case it was the last one ever.
You know how, in real estate, when someone's trying to sell a house that has a lot of problems, they say it's "quirky?" In equivalent jargon, let's call our rental car "adorable" instead of "too small for human beings."
It's usually unwise to plan to hike on a travel day, but we'd had no problems getting to the trailhead. So we tramped along the Travers River for 10k and found our first hut squatting on a flood plain at the base of some foothills. Here's sunset over the mountains we would reach and begin to ascend the next day.
We were blown away by the conditions of and amenities provided by the huts. My water filter usually gets to be the star of the hike, with prime backpack location and all. It was rendered entirely useless by the sinks and taps inside each hut, which were spaced, on average, five hours apart. They had stainless steel counters, bunks with matresses, tables, candles, picture windows, porches, and typically a deck of cards and a National Geographic or two.
I kept thinking about hiking all day in the states and being elated to reach a ten-by-twelve box with a tin roof, rats, and one face open to the snowstorm that is inevitably raging outside.

This photograph was taken from a wire bridge over the Travers River.I have no recollection of passing this waterfall.
We spent the entirety of a morning following the river up into the mountains.
Colt inserted himself into the pool below this waterfall. If you look closely, you can see mini-icebergs.
Our accommodations were located halfway up Travers Saddle in this grassy field, which provided magnificent views of the surrounding peaks. Towering above us was the East face of the next morning's climb.Five stars
Flashback to this guy. (Appalachian Trail, Maine, circa October 2009)
Now this is some of my favourite stuff to see on the trail. The sight of it makes me positively giddy. Here is why: 1) nature has transfigured itself to resemble an expansive play-doh machine/spaghetti-maker. The earth expands during the day when it's warm. When the ground freezes, it compresses and squeezes moisture out through pores. 2) The product is called hoarfrost, which in my mind evokes images of prostitutes running around the Arctic Tundra.
There wasn't actually a trail up the mountain. See, the range is both volcanic and glacial. You can tell the volcanic part because of the brilliant colouring of the rivers, which could have only derived their pigment from sediment associated with things that spew lava. The glaciers, on the other hand, dumped lots of rocks in their wake, and the mountains were shaped by the moraines they left. Near the summit, you get a lot of boulders and scree, so the Department of Conservation goes around sticking poles in places they think you might like to walk, and you do a sort of connect-the-dots pattern up to the top.


Travers Saddle day was our longest. By the end of it, I had passed through a number of biomes, consumed multiple cookies, and swam sans apparel in a tumultuous river. The crowning glory of the lavish huts was the woodstove. We had brought only dry goods, since descriptions of the huts excluded the detail that, if you wanted, you could cook up a pasta primavera as long as you supplied the ingredients. A Briton also staying in the hut was fascinated and infinitely entertained by my practice of crunching into dry Ramen.
This was the third night of our trip and also my favourite, for the most part because we met a woman who brought us pancakes in bed. She had arrived earlier in the day after having paddled about 15k across Lake Rotoroa. Being a native (she lived in the nearest town), she knew a lot about the area and happened to be one of the nicest people I've ever met. She took me to the waterfront and told me that she had once been terrified of eels, but that feeding them at this lake had helped her overcome her fear.I can't say I'm totally cured.
Here's the sunrise over Rotoroa, whose name means "Long Lake". Legend has it that a Maori Chief passing through the area dug out the lake using his walking stick and then filled it with water and food. I don't know why he chose eels instead of, like, cake, but who am I to question his decision?The basic geography of the circuit was this: two rivers (the Travers and Sabine) lay parallel to one another and were separated by a mountain range. Therefore, we had two alpine crossings, a portion of the second of which is the subject of this photo.Here's Speargrass Hut, where we stopped for lunch on the third day.The hike was 80k in length, but without having known the terrain beforehand, it was difficult to budget time in advance. A certain two-and-a-half hour mile on the Appalachian Trail in Maine last fall had thoroughly invalidated my ability to predict how long it would take to complete a given distance. We had six and a half days to get in our 50 miles on this trip, but it only took three.
Although the tramp professed to be a circuit, there was some road walking that wasn't counted in the mileage tally, so we hitched back to the car with some people who owned this camper van.I guess feeding the eels is the big thing down here, because the camper-van guys wanted to do it, too. I don't get it. We drove to Nelson that night and stayed at a Backpacker's ("hostel" in US terms), where they gave us ice cream and hot chocolate pudding (I'm not sure how the latter works out syntactically, but it was like bread pudding made with brownies). We didn't have shampoo, so I washed my hair with hand soap, and I saw Colt innovatively filling a mug to do the same.
Here's a remote beach we visited the next day.The waves had meticulously carved huge caverns out of the cliffs. We considered camping within them, but then the tide began to rise and screaming ensued.
We saw a jellyfish. Nice break from eels.There was this huge cathedral in Nelson
The next night, we stayed at a different Backpacker's which must have, at one point, been some sort of manor overlooking the city. There were enormous stained-glass windows in the lobby. One steadfast rule of backpackers is that they have to contain every weird or eccentric item any resident has ever come across. Another rule is that someone from Spain or having dreadlocks has to play Green Day's Time of Your Life on the communal guitar at night, and everyone in the building has to emerge from various niches to sing along.Here's a view of Nelson taken out on the porch.Colt and I did a mini-tramp up to the "Centre of New Zealand," which it actually is (well, within a few metres). Here's looking out on the harbour.Oh, and Colt gave me pig-tails. Hello, sixth grade. Missed ya. He also spent the better part of an hour wooing locals with his superior climbing skills, doing the very thing the monument was designed not to enable.
The communal kitchens are a huge asset to the Backpackers;' all you have to do is buy basic ingredients and they have stoves, fridges, utensils, plates, and general seasonings.This isn't a great shot, but here is the cave bathroom, inside of which the shower can be found attached to a stone archway.We drove back to Christchurch the day before we had to leave and found this little "Holiday Park" 20k outside the city. It had A-frame cabins for 45 NZ dollars a night, plus a positively archaic trampoline where we whiled many hours.After we returned the rental car the next day, we walked a few k's down the road and deviously snuck into the International Antarctica Museum. Seventy percent of all Antarctic voyages depart from Christchurch. You can walk into this room where they simulate actually being in Antarctica, and you can smile on a snowmobile as your friend takes a picture of you and the museum staff jack up the wind speed and the temperature falls to -17 degrees Fahrenheit. Colt was so hungry when we finally got home that he tried to eat Pig.
There IS a grocery shortage in Flat 7A, so we're going to go do something about it.
Doritos Came To NZ Last Week; Everyone Is In An Uproar,
Debbie
 ]]> Tue, 13 Apr 2010 19:19:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11311-New-Zealand http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11227-Party-Party-Party-Santa-Ynez-Race-Preview The cross country and downhill races provide an opportunity to qualify for Nationals, so you can still expect people to take their time on wheels pretty seriously, despite the distraction of vendors and bonfires.
I have a reservation at a motel in Buellton, but I think I'm going to camp at the venue. Wedged in between the grape vines and the Chamberlain Ranch, the meadow next to the course will be colorfully filled with several hundred tents.
Blessedly, it might be too early in the season for the traditional earwig infestation. Last year, some guys loaned me their pickup truck bed cover for added protection under my sleeping bag. Then there was that time some other guys zip-tied my rim brake cantilever together the morning of the race. Or when friendly mountain biking firefighters explained how AV and SV nodes work so I could control my heart rate better. In 2008, a professional trainer whose name I'll never know took it upon himself to help me recover from heat exhuastion.
If I were to give the full Oscar list speech of everyone who's looked after me during this strange stay-at-home-mom turned bike racer trip, the stage light would start blinking and you'd all wish you were at the after party.
Did I tell you about the first time I raced Santa Ynez? Five years ago, my third ever race. My craigslist bicycle ripped off the roof rack an hour after I left San Diego. While I was doing 85 miles an hour on I-5. The officer who ran the traffic break didn't have the heart to ticket me. He recovered the carcass from the middle lane and I tearfully drove home.
When I got there, my husband transferred my saddle and pedals to his own bike. He took the front wheel off so bike could fit inside the car, and I started off again. After preriding the course, I absentmindedly left that front wheel leaning against a tree somewhere. Half an hour before the starting gun, and I still couldn't find it. The parking attendant loaned me his. It had a hybrid tire, the kind with a bald road tread down the middle. So I raced on an unfamiliar grip shifter bike with a tractionless front wheel and brakes that only sometimes worked. Ha ha! No wonder I ended up covered in blood and dirt. In the Beginner women old lady age group.
But I finished. After the race, the Red Bull girls handed me a sample, and I sat under Bachelor Andrew's giant outdoor deck thing, alternating sips of energy drink and free Firestone beer. An announcement came over the loudspeakers that someone had found a lost wheel.
New to the sport, I sat by myself and watched people mill around, discussing every last singletrack switchback climb. They leaned on bikes worth half a year of my mortgage payments. They populated a parallel universe of athleticism, kindness and intimacy with Earth's terrain. Could these be my people, someday?
I've never raced well at Santa Ynez. Since it is early in the schedule, I'm usually struggling at the back of a newly upgraded category. Beginner, Sport, Expert, I pretty much roll in late. Sometimes very literally when the cows come home. I lost precious time once in a stare down with a giant horned bull.
This year is my first full season on a single speed, though, and I've never been readier to throw down. Except I'm the only woman in a field of guys, and will probably maintain my consistent losing streak on those golden hills.
But after I finish, and I will finish, I'll tip back the glass of inspiration this venue never fails to deliver. ]]> Wed, 07 Apr 2010 16:06:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11227-Party-Party-Party-Santa-Ynez-Race-Preview http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11176-The-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-Take-II-Where-the-Rubber-Leaves-the-Road When I began this training endeavor for the Trans-Sylvania Epic, an amalgamation of thoughts surfaced in my head. For the most part, I was
overwhelmingly excited. Many years have passed since I followed a dedicated
training program, and I yearned for this level of commitment. Chris Eatough’s
training plan (found on http://chriseatough.com/)
provided the main impetus to reach this commitment. Additionally, it solidified
my overall focus of the year towards riding, rather than working. However, a
small contingent of my thoughts was doubtful of my abilities to stay focused. I
still had to prioritize my academic work to ensure graduation, and the monthly
bills remained a constant reminder that paychecks remain an important survival
tool these days. Balance would prove to be a tricky quality for the next few
months.
With that said, getting into the training routine was much
simpler than I imagined. There certainly have been a few days where scheduling
and prioritizing rides provided a level of difficulty, but the transition into
training is still a rewarding process. Too often, we get muddled down in the
systematic repetition of the day-to-day. Training forced me to break up
monotony of work and class to focus on an activity which was inherently
enjoyable. In the past few years, a good week of riding contained three or four
rides at most. Now I am riding a minimum of five days out of the week, and the
difference is extraordinary.
In the past four weeks, integrating the training program
into my lifestyle produced more than a few qualitative changes. The general
benefits of consistent exercise are well documented in scientific literature,
but the effects are hard to internalize until you actually experience them. The
greatest improvement for me remains the reduction in stress; despite the time
commitment of training, I consistently get more quality work done on days I
ride due to my increased focus. In addition, my overall demeanor shifted in a
very positive direction. For cyclists, there is no greater feeling then
performing well on the bike, and the general well-being seeps into the everyday
outlook with great regularity.
But the true test of an effective training program is not
the side-effects of exercise, but rather the changes that occur while on the
bike. Last year, my peak fitness occurred in conjunction with the Stoopid 50
race, during which I shocked myself with how well I was riding. After only four
weeks a training (science people call this a “mesocycle”), I find myself
already nipping at the heels of that level of fitness. Three and four hour
rides are very natural, even when sustaining a healthy pace, and my general
riding feels “lighter,” as if the slopes deviated to a shallower grade and the
rocks eroded a few edges. The only level of fitness yet to surface is my
top-end, which remains a bit weak. In particular, the shorter intervals in the
training are punishingly difficult for me, and my legs try to cease on me about
75% of the way through. But to put it in perspective, I am only a month in, and
two months away from the start of the Trans-Sylvania, so to expect a
finely-tuned high-end fitness is a bit absurd.
The increased consistency of riding clearly benefited my
riding fitness, but there are elements of early-season riding which don’t come
quite as quickly. The one thing the early season has not graced me with is
solid trail skills, or at least smart decision making. On more than a few
occasions over the past three weeks, I made a few less-than-choice lines. The
riding was smooth, but the lines were not. Our winter weather was not conducive
for trail riding, which forced more competent trail skills to atrophy. Unluckily
for me, the Pennsylvania rocks reminded me of why going too fast too early is
an unwise move: crashing hurts, and crashing on rocks hurts more. Thankfully,
there have been no catastrophic errors, and I hope to keep it that way.
Aside from refining my line selections, I also learned the
importance of nutrition, and it was a lesson one learns only from making stupid
decisions. Learn from my mistake: a muffin at 9 am is not sufficient fuel for a
three hour ride starting at 3 pm. I was able to finish my ride before experiencing
a completely incapacitating bonk, but the last half hour was just plain ugly.
With the hard lessons learned, and a few bad crashes out of
the way, I prepare to enter the next phase of training. This week, which was a
lighter week of riding to focus on recovery, left me itching for more riding. Intensity
and volume get ramped up in the next month, but I remain anxious to get started.
The legs are already feeling mighty strong, and I hope to prove they have even
more potential in them than imagined. ]]> Fri, 02 Apr 2010 11:44:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11176-The-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-Take-II-Where-the-Rubber-Leaves-the-Road http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11020-Shiny-Happy-People-SDRP-Race-Report Hapless. Still. The strange gravitational forces in my van momentarily ate my sunglasses. Then, at the starting line of the Racers and Chasers series final, I snapped the arm off my cheapo aviators. One does not race in San Diego without shades, even in March.
Full service race direction: I waved my broken glasses at the starter, and he walked over and handed me the Rudy Projects off his own head. And the promoter's mother, in between registering people, watched my three children so that my husband could race, too.
The visionary behind the San Diego series, pro racer Robert Herber, must have preternatural charm levels, because he's managed to secure some amazing venues. In addition to Vail Lake and Cahuilla Creek, he's put on races in Balboa Park, Elfin Forest, and today's spot, the San Dieguito River Park.
Located in a northeastern corner of the county, SDRP includes not only the riparian wonderland, but a mixed use blend of dairy farms, orchards and lawn factories. When not winding through the valley, the trail climbs along the hillsides to well placed lookouts. Someday, these trails will connect the ocean beaches to the slopes of Volcan Mountain, in San Diego's back country.
The Cat 2/3 race went off at 9 am, just as the mist was burning off the fields and the light tempted one to stop and take pictures. Sixty-five clear degrees. The course, especially on a single speed, wasn't tremendously noteworthy. Straight bumpy singletrack, followed by straight, sandy fire road uphill. Out, back, repeat, ten miles per lap, two-way traffic throughout.
Given the young trails, though, there really wasnÂ’t any other way to run it. The unique location, and the privilege of racing in the Park, more than made up for the course limitations. The single track chicane at the start single filed us all pretty quickly, but not a grumble was heard. Soon enough, the categories sorted out on a gravel chute underneath the arms of orange trees. Right turn along Bandy Canyon road, single track, shoulder, up the hill. Those of us breathe hards at the back had to say awake on the climb, as the leaders came hurtling past on their way down.
The mood was a strange mix of intensely fought individual races and cheerful goodwill. Hey! Look at us! There is mountain bike racing in urban San Diego, even if it is in a valley.
We all rolled in and huddled under the port-a-shades, while the mercury rose and the Pro and Experts set off for their thirty hot, exposed miles. You know you are among friends when the senior park ranger races too, sporting a red plastick mohawk on his helmet and stepping up on the second place box for a medal.
At awards, the director threatened to upgrade all the series winners to a harder category next year. I protesteth. No WAY do I want to go that far on a single speed. “Ok," he relented, "if you are the only one in your category, you don’t have to move up.”
Whew. Torture averted. Now, where to put my engraved beer mug?
?
?]]> Sun, 21 Mar 2010 13:13:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/11020-Shiny-Happy-People-SDRP-Race-Report http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10930-Bonelli-Race-Report Friday night relationship thriller (don't try this at home):
"Uh, honey? I sort of lost track of the race schedule, and I need to go up to LA on Sunday. Can you watch the kids all day? Oh, and I need to go to the bike shop on Saturday, too, to get some parts."
Big race, all the pros, yadda yadda. Would you like me to leave you the zoo pass?
I'd venture to guess that most people who show up at these races have to wheedle and trade their way there. Fifty-two bucks, and I didn't preregister, so I didn't get the In-N-Out coupon.
Racing is expensive, in more ways than one, and it motivates all of us to leave a lung on the course.
The newly dug trails at Bonelli provided lots of opportunities to do so. Jeremiah Bishop, interviewed here after his race, called it "a power course, like Madrid." Yeah, like Madrid.
Six big hills per lap, three laps for Cat 2 Singlespeed. 6 x 3 = 18. I think in Spain there is more wine. And fewer clouds. The pros all had to endure gray skies on Saturday, but the 1, 2 and 3's racing today were treated to weather that befits the course preview picture.
And Colt? I tried to say hi after my race, but you were literally running every time I saw you. I wanted to thank you for the preview. Without it, I'd have shown up with wayyyyy too big a gear. Even with a 22 on the back, I was running as much as you were. Only you have better shoes.
The night before the race, I received my ritual mocking from the bike shop guys when I handed over my 19 and begged for something easier. There was no easy gear at Bonelli. Remember my snide comments about the pavement at Sagebrush? I wanted to kiss the road, today. Yay, spinning!
The downhills were steep, fast, and rocky. I lost one of my two water bottles on the first descent. Ruh roh. I had turned down someone's offer of feed zone support, thinking I had enough on board. On lap two, I actually stopped at the top of a climb and begged a bottle off one of the course marshalls.
I finished that second lap at around an hour and a half. Wait, am I not done? No? But all the guys are... Moly, they were strong.
Back up, back down, up, down. Why does it always feel like more up than down? Doesn't that defy the laws of physics? I think I got carpal tunnel on those descents. Most days, I am way too intimate with the brake levers. This love affair ended badly, because I could not control the handle bars without using all ten digits. A bit more excitement than I'm used to. My kingdom for rear suspension.
Beautiful day, fun course, great people. What more could a girl ask for? (Tubeless tires, and a better wheelset, and lighter brakes and legs like Heather Irmiger and...)
No, I'm happy. I felt really lucky to be out there, at all. (Thank you, husband.)]]> Mon, 15 Mar 2010 01:01:00 CDT http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10930-Bonelli-Race-Report http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10915-Better-Late-Than-Never-Sagebrush-Race-Report It has stormed nearly every weekend since January. I am not making this up. I went back to work full time recently, and now have a vested interest in my San Diego sunshine tax. It poured again the Saturday before race day. I was in my bike shop when the water started whipping sideways. Safely behind the windows, the mechanics laughed at me.
“Have fun tomorrow.” Bwaaa haaaaa haa.
The tourist board must have bribed the heavens, because Sunday dawned crisp, clear and beautiful. A couple hundred racers stripped off extra layers and lined up for the Kenda Cup West opener. Long time classic, the Safari boasts an old school course in the San Diego back country. As part of the Cleveland National Forest, the area is used mainly for motorized off highway vehicles. The groomed trails are sweeping, steep and perfectly bermed.
Sagebrush was also my first ever race five years ago, Beginner Women 30-39, check it. I came in last, 45 minutes behind the leader. Auspicious. Allison Mann started riding about the same time I did, and is now making a good showing on the pro circuit.
I know this particular bit of information because Justin Mann chatted with me while he used a power saw to free my bicycle. I had cabled locked it onto my bike rack, and forgotten the key. Thanks, Justin, for giving up a bit of your warm up to allow me to race, at all.
Allison would go on to finish second, beaten only by Pua Suwicki. Having tired of the beatings I got racing Cat 1 last year, I threw myself in with the singlespeed men. (I keep asking Tom Spiegel for a women's category. If you leg mark it, they will come.) I sprinted to the first corner, enjoying a brief turn at the front. Bye bye, boys. Have fun storming the castle!
The infamous two-mile paved climb did its usual job of revealing who enjoyed a polar bear off season. Soon, all the categories were hodgepodged together, fast Sport women inching past the back end of the men, and beginners lung busting past us all. (No one told them about the hike-a-bike.)
I blame my slowish start on Jeret Peterson. More than one evening this year, when I was supposed to be riding the trainer, I was parked on the couch, drinking red wine and watching the winter Olympics.
Jeret Peterson’s signature “Hurricane” ski jump launched him 55 feet in the air, where he proceeded to flip upside down three times, while spinning in a complete circle five times. Two jumps, seven total seconds in the air. Mesmerizing. He missed gold by less than a point. This year’s Safari pro winner, Sid Taberlay, allowed no such margin. The Sho-Air rider beat Olympian Jeremiah Bishop by over two minutes.
I reached Four Corners and cautiously pedaled onto the singletrack. Would it be a saturated, sloggy mess, like last week? Some years, the trails are so dry that the grit acts like ball bearings. Then it is terrifyingly fast. For me, anyway.
What I found was Goldilocks dirt, not too wet, not too dry. The extra tack helped me ride higher on the berms. I am a reluctant leaner, and the traction training wheels helped a lot. Anybody remember the off camber right turn going down to the road? The one before the boulder drop? Last year, I flew off my bike and landed in a bush. This time, I whipped around it without too much brake-age, even. YEAH.
The road leading up to the hike-a-bike featured the usual soul sucking sand. I didn’t even attempt to ride the bottom section of the hill. The beauty of a singlespeed is that no one raises an eyebrow when you get off the bike. During a particularly steep pitch, I straight armed my handle bars and put the bike up above my head. Huff. Puff.
“What’s coming next?” one of the repentant beginners asked forlornly.
Rather, who is coming next?
Sid rode blithely past our cohort of pushers. On his second lap.
“Only three of us saw that, right?” No one has to know.
I had a lot of time to look around, getting up that hill. Hello, Mexico. A lucky birder might even glimpse a golden eagle. These raptors close their talons with 1200 pounds per square inch of pressure; the human jaw can close with just 600. I can explode a bike tube with only 60 psi, if I don’t install it right.
Sid wasn’t the only bird of prey out there. Bobby Langin Sr. smoked the course in under an hour and a half, winning the Cat 1 50-54 age group. Christina Probert-Turner, 43, finished ahead of all expert women, of any age.
I managed to not come in last, as is my habit at Sagebrush. Because it is such an early season race, it has been the maiden voyage every time I upgrade. This year I placed seventh out of eight, but the at least the losing streak is over. Running one gear, and a splashing through a hundred mud puddles, I still shaved an hour off my beginner time.
My legs felt good, finally, by the time we reached Paved-Climb-to-Four-Corners, the Sequel. I traded leads with a gentleman in an yellow commuter jacket. It was so fun, I can’t even remember who won. I adore the Sport singlespeed starting position. There are always people to catch, and to run from. No more races against myself at the back of the elite women. Are we done with asphalt yet? Oh, looky, it's the Kernan trail. The final downhill. Imagine your favorite long drop, and then double the length. And add mud. The Kernan trail is where I met Stan Ford. He would feature in any Oscar thank you speech I might give. I was preriding it five years ago on a used FSR, six weeks after I started riding a bike at all. And preriding is an exaggeration of my ability at the time. I was huddled under the trees half way down, trying to muster up the courage to get back on, when Stan and his friends rode by, balanced on their pedals as gracefully as figure skaters on blades. I contemplated knitting as a new hobby.
Back at the parking lot, he said sternly, and I quote, “I better see you at the race start.”
I’ve seen him at many starts, now, as he wages his ongoing battle against Bob Blattner in Cat 1 60+. Bob’s 1:42 beat some teenagers riding the same distance.
Dreaming of Kernan is now how I motivate myself on the climbs. It did not disappoint. The only time I put a foot down was when I happened upon some beginners standing three abreast on the crest of the steepest grade. There was some grumbling, later, about the people parked at random on that section.
Human cyclocross obstacles? I have not forgotten what it was like to linger at the top and wonder how I was going to get down, when even walking seemed impossible.
This year, I delightedly passed about twenty people. Double yeah. But that ephemeral joy isn’t what makes racing worthwhile. That honor belongs to all the people who have blown past me over the years.
Watching others push the limits of possibility shrinks my own demons. Sid, you can ride past me any time. Allison, best of luck. Annabelle Nenninger, welcome back.
Speaking of incredible athletes, did you know the winner of the 50K cross country ski race won by 3/10 of a second? Some of the downhill skiers rejoiced at merely getting down the slopes of Cypress Mountain, at being there at all.
I felt the same about my race. I rode hard, I rode clean, and for the first time on that course, I didn’t bring up the rear of my category. On my home course, and at home on my singlespeed. Good times.
See you at Bonelli.]]> Fri, 12 Mar 2010 22:53:00 CST http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10915-Better-Late-Than-Never-Sagebrush-Race-Report http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10865-The-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-or-How-Im-Learning-to-Stop-Fearing-Training-Programs
I was not planning on racing much this year, not at first. Being in my final semester of undergraduate education, I have more than a few responsibilities bearing down, and my bank account is still angry at me for going to Cyclocross Nationals. My situation did not seem very conducive to committing to competition. Plus, I am far from a phenomenon, so few people would miss me on the local circuits. Racing is (or rather, was) the last thing on my mind.


I soon realized how absurd, and boring, this choice was. Just as your elders will never be able to stop naggin' you (no matter your age), I will never be able to turn down competitive athletic pursuits on bikes (no matter how poorly I do).So, almost as quickly as I decided not to race, I reversed my decision to the polar opposite conclusion. Not only was I going to race, but I decided to participate in some of the largest events of the year. Luckily for me, the most tempting event was going down right in my backyard, or at least within riding distance of it.


The Trans-Sylvania Mountain Bike Epic is the newest of the multi-day mountain bike stage races to hit the Ameri-lands. Located in the central Pennsylvania regions, the event hits some of the finest trails available to Appalachian dwellers. But instead of spitting more words to tell you how awesome this area is, let me show you through the magic of photography.











Just a small peak of the incredible riding available to us, riding you can now enjoy in its full glory. The event tackles a vast range of terrain, from the typical rock strewn Rothrock singletrack, to the finely groomed rollers of Raystown Lake, and everything in between. Trans-Sylvania is based around spectacular riding and a great camping atmosphere; all you have to do is get on a bike and ride for a week. Even as a local, this event is impossible to pass up.


Relocate yourselves to the Trans-Sylvania web-location to get all the nitty-gritty info on stages, logistics, and non-racing fun going on that week.


Finishing this event will be no small feat, especially for me, which is why I enlisted the services of the off-road endurance legend, Chris Eatough. Using his expansive experience in endurance mountain biking competition, Eatough started his own coaching service to pass on his sagacious wisdom to the rest of us.




Complete details can be found at the following web-location: http://chriseatough.com/.


In addition to one-on-one coaching, he has created race-specific training plans, available at a flat rate, to help the average rider compete and complete to the best of their abilities. These plans are designed to fit easily into the typical rider’s lifestyle of work and family commitments while providing the most effective means for competing in specific events. Lucky for me, Chris has developed a plan specifically for Trans-Sylvania, meaning my list of excuses for lack of preparation is severely diminished.


The first week of training will be a little altered, however, as I made a last minutes trip to Colorado for the week. Thus, all of my riding will be on this fine machine right here:









I think this is the Beta version of Di2…



… I will at least have Nordic skiing to replace some of the volume I’m losing on the bike.


So, armed with an event of the Epic variety, and a training plan of the professional variety, I find myself ecstatic to get this year going. Over the next three months, I will chronicle my experiences of training with Chris Eatough’s program in preparation for the Trans-Sylvania Mountain Bike Epic. But don’t let me go it alone! If you find yourself getting the itch to participate in this fantastic event, but don’t quite know how to prepare, head on over to Eatough’s home on the web and get yourself an affordable copy of his plan for Trans-Sylvania. Then we can share our experiences. It will be like a sing-along blog, but with less singing and more singletrack (ride-along blogging? I feel so revolutionary).


In any case, I hope to see all your pretty faces in center regions of Pennsylvania for the Trans-Sylvania Epic starting May 30. If you show up, come on over and introduce yourself. I shouldn’t be too hard to find, I’ll be the guy who looks like this:





Winter facial hair may not be representative of Summer facial hair; look for a banjo for confirmation of identity.]]> Tue, 09 Mar 2010 16:17:00 CST http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10865-The-Trans-Sylvania-Epic-or-How-Im-Learning-to-Stop-Fearing-Training-Programs http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10743-Sagebrush-Course-Preview If my brothers and I ever pony up for the DNA test, I could tell you which Ojibwa tribe my great-grandmother belonged to. The legend goes that the tribe honored my half-breed grandfather by attemping to burn down his house when he died.
My Kumeyaay spirit sisters overlooked my unenrolled status and left me an arrow shaped gift out on the Sagebrush course last week. Granted, it was made of stiff plastic, but it did a marvelous job of clearing mud from my cleats.
I'll take it as an auspicious omen for the Kenda Cup West opener tomorrow. The Sagebrush Safari features an old school course way out in the San Diego back country. Despite the remote location, all the big guns are lining up to ride the flowing, bermy OHV trails. Jeremiah Bishop, Sid, Tinker, and Pua will probably finish their twenty-five miles in the time it takes me to slog my nineteen.
Is White Lightening a publicly traded company? If it is, buy shares. Or an extra large bottle. Despite claims that the course will have shed today's rain, I still recommend lubing your pedals. Heavily.
When my new friends from SD Trek and I rode the course last week, the mud on the Kernan Trail descent was six inches deep, with a slurry creek running down the middle in some places. Slip N Slide on a bike.
Be one with the earth, knobby braves. You'll be coated with it by day's end.]]> Sat, 27 Feb 2010 13:38:00 CST http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10743-Sagebrush-Course-Preview http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10060-Happy-2010 I hope you all enjoyed a great holiday break with family, friends, and lots of riding! I'm in the airport now on the way back from a great week of rock walls, mountain roads, and desert single track out west. With the start of the new year, Cyclingdirt will begin the next chapter of our off-road coverage. We'll be looking at training, tech reviews, behind the scenes tours, riding spots, and of course the Cyclocross season is still rolling over in Europe!
So enjoy the start to the new year and get ready for some excitement!
-Colt From Cyclingdirt]]> Sat, 02 Jan 2010 09:10:00 CST http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/10060-Happy-2010 http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/9962-Merry-Christmas Ten months ago today we went on the air with our first video. Now, a few thousand videos, 40-some weekends of coverage, and countless hours later we've come a long way. To help celebrate the new year, we'll take a look back over the next six days at some of our favorite moments of 2009. Enjoy the nostalgia, because with the start of 2010 comes the best coverage we've ever had!
Thanks for all your support this season, from all of us here at Cyclingdirt!]]> Thu, 24 Dec 2009 19:08:00 CST http://www.cyclingdirt.org/blog/9962-Merry-Christmas