- Bad Idea Racing - HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

Any and all internal buzz created by last week’s win in the Cohutta 100 is gone. The good feelings only last a couple days and then I get focused on whatever’s next. PMBAR is just next week, but I never really think of it as a race. It really is an adventure followed by a lot of beer and cheering on the other people who finish well into the night. I know it’s a race, but with everybody running around hilly-nilly in the woods you never have a clue how well you are doing. With last year’s introduction of time bonuses we still didn’t know how we placed until an hour and a half after we finished. We were in fourth place, but when a team came in exactly an hour and a half later with all five checkpoints (we snagged the four required CP’s) we were tied for fourth. It was decided that since they hit five CP’s the tie breaker would go to the other team, a couple of guys with gears. Pussies.

Well this year I’ll be back. I have finished the last two times in fifth place (04 5th of 25 teams, 05 5th of 50 teams). The first time I raced with a guy from Ohio who lost his partner days before the event. I was actually just gonna volunteer for the event, but I decided to help the guy out. He was a tall, lanky feller on a Marin hardtail. I showed up with my Spicer SS and my recently built (and poorly tuned) Ellsworth ID. I had never ridden my SS in the mountains, and I figured it wasn’t a good time to start. We weren’t exactly matched, and my bike rode like shit. I hadn’t had a chance to adjust the rear suspension or the fork, so I bounced all over the trail. I also chose to carry 150oz of water because my partner was a self admitted “heavy sweater”, and he only had a 70oz Camelbak and a water bottle. It was a long day in the woods, and I think he wanted to die on our last push over Black Mountain, but we did alright for a pair of strangers.

“Dude, your shorts are small.”

Last year I did the race with my good friend Josh the Wonderboy. We were both on SS bikes, but Josh had yet to relinquish his girlie suspension fork (he’s a man now). We had an epic day, and had I not made a wrong turn we would have finished 20 minutes earlier and there wouldn’t have been a stupid tie (doh!). We got to descend Pilot Rock (one of the nastiest descents in Pisgah) in a thunderstorm. I will never forget that as it was way off my cool chart. It was raining so hard we passed another team that had decided to just stand on the side of the trail to wait till the storm let up. Candy-asses.

“Do you want to live forever?”

This year I am coming back with a stranger. I will be racing with Scott Wolfe of Brevard, NC this year. We tried to hook up for a few rides this year, but it never panned out. PMBAR will be our first ride together. How can that be a problem? He rides SS, I ride SS, it’s all good. I thought I was worried about it at one point or another, but when it’s all said and done it’s just another bike ride in the woods. Screw it.

Well, I am looking forward to this tomorrow:

Yeah, its one of those freeride video things, but there is still a place in my heart for screwing off on big bikes.  Just cause I ride a rigid single speed doesn’t mean I don’t have some respect for those folks who throw their bodies off cliffs and rooftops.  One of the nice things about getting rid of my freeride bikes is that I am no longer tempted to see how high of a precipice I am tempted to launch my human form off of.  I relied way too heavily on my big squishy bike to save my ass, and I think my skills suffered a bit because of it.  I do miss the sheer speed that can be attained on a seven inch travel bike, but I can now go half as fast down the same trails and be twice as scared.  Which way gets me more for my money?  If you are a Charlotte local c’mon to the show.  The money goes towards an organization that wants to do no more than make more trails for you to ride on.

I finally got around to cleaning up all my shit from the Cohutta race and putting it in its proper place.  My spare tubes are all sticky with Gu, and my messenger bag smelled like a two day old steak.  I love getting ready for a race, but I approach the after-race tasks with a certain amount of reluctance and apprehension.  I can admit it, my shit stinks.

I almost forgot, Happy B-Day Mom!!!

Adam reworked the photo a little bit for me. I think I need to go helmet shopping. The battle axe would probably be a pretty good idea. I wouldn’t need to carry anything else with me. If I need water or some mechanical assistance I could just wait for the next rider and force him to come to my aid by threatening him with a horrible, yet glorious death.

Here are a couple good examples (from my comments section) of why I bother with this blog:

“I am an addict I admit it. I look forward to reading your post, eating my breakfast at my desk and glancing over my shoulder to make sure noone at the office sees a half naked man bleeding on my monitor. It isn’t necessarily just your abillity on the bike that get’s me excited about riding and reading about riding but the fact that you portray the true reason we all subdue ourselves to a slightly dangerous sport for hours on end. . . For the pure love.”

“You should see my smile :). I’m very proud of you!! Your dad is too!!! Love your write-up. Thrilled with your WIN! LOVE…Mom”

Now I’m not a Budhist or anything of the sort, but this is what life is about. Do your best to give out some energy, and you will get some in return. Surround yourself with good people, and good times will follow you wherever you go. I hate to sound all wishy-washy, but a lot of people spend way too much time focused on the negative to realize how good things could be. Granted I believe that 10% of all people in any cross section of society are total assholes with no hope for salvation. It’s the other 90% who just have to remind themselves that life is only as bad as your current problem that you’re fixated on.

I am definitely looking forward to getting some energy back next week when I get to read all the tales of mice and men from the TI2. I think anybody who can ride gravel for 300+ miles across Iowa is a whack-job and definitely a cat I would hang with. I generally pick races where there is at least SOME good trail to ride, but these brave souls will have no singletrack love to save them. The only reward at the finish line will be a raw ass, a handshake, and a guaranteed seat at the feasting table in Valhalla. Whack-jobs, all of them.

Whatever possessed God in Heaven to make a man like Rambo?

“In town you are the law. Out here it’s me. Give me your tube, a CO2, and some of your Cliff Shots, or I’ll give you a war you won’t believe.”
 

Cohutta 100 aftermath

Well, looking things over I didn’t get off too badly. In no order of importance:

-One scraped and stiff knee
-Multiple scratches on my right arm (evidently my arm didn’t like quartz either)
-One bruised hip
-One chaffed nipple (either from a wet jersey or a brush with danger on the Quartz Trail)
-One blood blister on my right pointer finger (pointing will be kept to a minimum for the next week)
-One punctured 2.0 UST Scorpion (I just bought the damn thing)
-One 25 gram CO2 MIA

I am not so sure the fanny pack has found a permanent position on top of my ass. Zach (3rd place) was wearing what he called his “sausage jersey” and it held his bottle firmly in place all day. On the other hand, I had to cinch my waist pack kinda tight to keep it from moving around. This meant when I had to pee, I REALLY HAD TO PEE. I am easily annoyed by any bouncy protuberances, so I already have a pink women’s jersey (size small) on the way. Drinking is such a pain in the ass. I am starting to think that riding around hydrated is over-rated.

I couldn’t be more pleased with the Meatplow. I was being chased by a couple 29′ers that were even lighter than the “plow”, but I have to say that 26″ tires must be better because I beat them (anyone without a sense of humor can leave now). My bike makes me pretty happy. I just wish I would’ve gotten two bottle cage braze-ons. Fashion before function, right?

By the way, just about everybody I talked to after the race agreed that there was a medium sized mammal nailed to a tree at shoulder height right next to the trail @ the 90+ mile mark. Just about everybody I talked to was relieved to know they weren’t the only one to see it. Freaky shit, I tell you.

Also by the way, when I wrecked on the Quartz Trail I was listening to “I’m Gonna Keep on Loving You” on my MP3 player. What was that song doing on my playlist???

I had a lot of thoughts out there on the long sections of fireroad. Why did I decide to do five more hundred mile races? Why did I pay for two more already? When should I retire, get fat and drunk, and rest on my laurels? What is the point to all this? Good Lord, I hope there is a point to all this. I remember how cool racing was when I really sucked. I felt a sense of accomplishment from doing longer races and just missing out on the beginners’ podium. Just surviving Emlenton’s 18 mile loop back in 1993 was a great moment for me. Now I am out riding alone for hours being chased down by second place and looking over my shoulder every five minutes. I felt as paranoid as a strung out junkie (or at least as paranoid as Hollywood makes junkies seem). It’s hard to relax and enjoy a moment when you are trying to win. Yes, sucking is better than this new world I live in.

I think having this ding-dong blog has elevated peoples’ expectations. Danielle Musto (who stayed in our hotel) told me that the Lumberjack promoter sent out an email letting everyone know I am coming up for the race. I looked at last year’s results, and I don’t plan on making any impact on the podium. I do fantasize now and then, but I hope to just have a good time riding some new trails. I think people need to lower their expectations a little bit so I can have an easier time living up to them. How about just expecting me to show up, finish the race, impress people with my tolerance for light beer, and go home? I know I can do that. Every dog has his day, and I used mine up pretty early this year. I have definite concerns about doing the first two hundies in a three week span and the last two on back-to-back weekends. I don’t think it is such a good idea, especially for someone who has to make a living on a bike in between races.

It was really good to see a lot of familiar faces and to meet some new ones. I think the people that I get to know at these ridiculous events are part of the reason I can’t quit. They are definitely a wonderfully perverse piece of the cycling pie, and I really enjoy being part of a community of people who realize that living a regular life is just too easy.

Two weeks till PMBAR. Awww who cares to call it that? Let’s go back to calling it the Death March. That just makes the event sound so much more enticing. I wish Eric would have called it “The Tortuous and Sadistic Death March Through the Pisgah Forest of Horrors and Pure Evil”.

“Here’s to the TSDMTPFHPE, beer, and good times.”

Namrita got this photo on the final turn before the finish.

Too frickin’ sweet.

Thanks Nam

Cohutta report below

So in Dicky’s Dirty Little Box we go. Dave, Rebecca, and I headed to Tennessee for the Cohutta 100. It was going to be our first hundred ever so none of us knew quite exactly what to expect. After a smooth road trip, a pleasant registration process, and a crappy meal at an overpriced BBQ place we settled in for the night. We were supposed to wake up at 5am, but I couldn’t sleep after 4am so I got up, sat in the tub, and ate a peanut butter and banana sandwich. We were sharing a room so I couldn’t think of anything else to do kill an hour. I ended up waking them up anyways with a couple gurgled base tones I emitted while soaking in the tub, and since I was ready first I went over to Hardee’s at 5am for coffee.

We got to the start much earlier than necessary, but at least I was relaxed at the start. Dave was slightly more nervous as his brake lever got squoze in the car and his pads were touching. A little work with a credit card and some nail clippers and he was rolling. The race started with a road climb that was just gradual enough to hurt the single speed class. The top three SS’ers ended up right together in the woods and we pretty much stayed that way until Zach made a move which I followed. I passed Zach and never saw him again as he flatted somewhere towards the end of the first singletrack. The first 15-20 miles of the race was behind me and I was about to enter the fireroad section.

It started to rain as I exited the single track and I was content with that. Rain would keep it cool and maybe piss a few folks off. I tend to prefer harsh conditions, so I was pretty stoked. The fireroad sections rolled up and down mountains the size of which I had no idea they even had in Tennessee. I stopped at aid station one and grabbed my drop bag, pounded a Boost and peed for what seemed like an hour. I was obviously over-hydrating. As the race hammered on the rain increased and at some point I lost my big 20 gram CO2 I thought I had wisely secured.

“Have you seen me?”

Well poop. My next CO2 was in a drop bag at rest station 3 so I was going to have to go @25-30 miles without any air. We were just on gravel roads, but since I was holding the lead I was pulled up tighter than a bull’s butt in fly season. Up and down the fireroad I pedaled and coasted occasionally seeing a geared rider going by or dropping by the wayside. I pulled off my gloves as they were feeling like a hindrance and I had a fresh pair at station 5 if things cleared up. I filled up with Heed at station 2 and made my way to station 3 shivering and soaking wet on all the downhill sections. Station 3 was around the 50 mile mark which meant no more counting up, but counting down the remaining miles. It was a hard mental push to get through the first fifty. I got my caffiene, a Boost, a CO2, and some encouragement from Namrita. As I was peeing a SS’er rolled up and I acknowledged that I had been caught. If he had made up some ground on me to this point I felt for certain he was going to get me.

I left him at the rest stop and rode on waiting to be passed for over ten miles. My mental game was toast, and I felt him breathing down my neck the whole time. I had no idea who he was but he had a nice ti 29′er, with a Pace carbon fork, and Industry Nine wheels. This was probably not his first race and I felt like Death was chasing me. As I closed in on station 4 I started feeling crisp and I thought maybe I could hold him off. I blew past the rest stop and kept moving towards station five and my final goody bag. Along the way there were a bunch of people on horses going the other way so I had to stop and wait for them to go by. I kept thinking about the recent Paris Roubaix where some of the leaders got stopped by a train and the race changed instantly. Once I got moving again I just kept hammering to station 5. At one point I pulled out my film canister to pop some electrolytes, but when I got the lid off I hit a bump scattering my pills like a relative’s ashes. I had another canister at station 5 so I tried not to mourn the loss of my little encapsulated friends.

Woo-hoo! My goody bag was ready to go. The volunteers told me I was in second place and they were talking about how crazy SS’ers are. I took off my knee warmers, arm warmers, and my jersey (I figured it was a good Viking move) and stuffed them in my bag as I pounded more caffiene and Boost. My odometer read 80 miles, but the volunteers said we had 25 to go. Ouch. Can you say psychological damage? I had just got done convincing myself I had 20 more in me and now I needed 5 more. Double poop. I tucked my fresh gloves in my waist pack and rode off. I accidently left my electrolyte pills because I was too busy listening to the volunteers, but by the time I realized it I was too far away to go back.

I would say the next eight miles flew by, but that would make it sound too easy. It was just as miserable as all the other miles except these were closer to the finish. I think this portion of the course had an 18% grade road section if I remember right. I rode the steepest sections, but it cost me some mental points. I got to station 6 and they said there were only twelve miles to go on the singletrack with a two mile climb to start. I poured out the 22 oz bottle of Heed I just had them fill and flew into the woods with a dry pair of gloves and a smile. The climb was life sucking, but not deadly. At the top we entered the Quartz Loop, so named because of the abundance of shiny, white, sharp rocks. I guess fate thought that it would be a good idea to remind me of my mortality as it put me down faster than I could say “Be sure to drink more ovaltine”. Quartz is an uncomfortable rock if you ever get to make its acquaintance, and I would suggest not falling on it if you can avoid it. I checked my bike over and it looked as if it faried well in my tumble. My knee on the other hand had those deep white gouges in it that you know if you stare at them for 30 seconds they will fill with blood. Since “I don’t have time to bleed” I kept on my pursuit to the finish line. It was really hard keeping a flow on the slick singletrack, but I kept it upright and moving. I looked down at me knee after riding for awhile and saw a decent amount of blood running down my leg. I figured I would make a striking image coming to the finish line, shirtless and covered in blood. Sweet. I remembered Dave had said something the night before about a trail named Thunder Road Express being the last three kilometer technical descent before the finish. I figured once I got to the TRE there was no way I was going to let anybody catch me.

I got to the TRE, and it was on like ping pong. I bounced and jostled down the trail for about a mile until I smacked something hard. The kinda smack that you just know probably wasn’t a good thing. I kept on humping my way down the trail refusing to acknowledge my problem. When I popped outta the woods I could feel that my rear tire had lost a substantial amount of air. I rolled across a huge bridge where a volunteer directed me to turn right up the road. I asked her “How much further.” “A mile” she said. Triple poop. I leaned way forward on the saddle and spun the bike up to 14mph towards the finish. I just about got wallered up with tears thinking that I might lose the race in the last mile. I watched over my shoulder, and the finish came up quick enough with a right and a left and I was home.

I crossed the line in 8hrs 42min. My ride time indicated I was never off the bike for more than six minutes the whole time. Ouch. So I won the SS class of the Cohutta 100. It was fun and I set the SS course record (by default). I think I was 12th overall. Mark Hendershot won the men’s race, and Karen Masson took the women’s field (and also spanked me by a few minutes). Good times, good prizes, and good (cheap) beer. If I could just cut out the pain aspect of the whole 100 mile deal this type of race could be a lot of fun.

BTW: Both Dave and Rebecca finished and had a good time. Dave just missed the podium by flatting (on the same downhill section where I almost completely flatted) and he was passed while swapping the tube. Doh!

I am leaving for the Cohutta 100 tomorrow at 9:00am.  I feel like I am well prepared (as well as I get) and I got my schizzle straight.  I think 100 miles will be a good distance for me as I can usually hit that mark in a 24 hour race feeling pretty fresh. So see yinz later.

“Umm, I beg your pardon.  Were you speaking to me?”

Well obviously I changed the “look” of my blog. Not so much out of want, but more because I couldn’t figure out what I was doing so I found a happy place and stayed there. Speaking of a happy places the picture I put at the top of my blog brings back a really good memory. It was taken a few hours after I finished the Trans Rockies. The finish line at TR is a mixed bag of emotions. On one hand I couldn’t be happier as I just finished, but on the other hand I didn’t know where my luggage was or where exactly on God’s green earth our hotel was. I found my luggage a few blocks away, and by luggage I mean my bike case and a 80lb bag of shit. After I found my luggage my teammate and I rolled around looking for directions to our hotel. We had a variety of answers from “around the corner” to “around five miles from here”.

Poop.

There must have been three taxis in Canmore and the veteran racers were smart enough to call them before we did. We waited for quite awhile at the curb until our taxi showed up. I can’t remember how we got our bikes and our bags out to the hotel, but we did and that’s all that mattered. The first thing I did was break down my steed and pack it away because once I hit the beers there was a chance I might get irresponsible.  Actually being irresponsible was one of my most ascertainable goals for the evening.  After packin and cleaning up I went over to the office to use the payphone to call my wife. I got a million dollars worth of change and as luck would have it she wasn’t home to take the call. I asked the front desk helper person (what the hell do they call them?) where I could buy some beer. She said “look behind you”, and as I turned around it was like one of those movie moments. The harps started playing and just above the roofline of the hotel there was a huge billboard that rose majestically to the heavens proclaiming to all the world BEER(just like that, in large capital letters with a golden glow). I was two hops, a skip, and a jump away from ice cold happiness (I would know as I hopped, skipped, and jumped the whole way). I picked up a Chicago Suitcase full of Canadian hops and ran back to the room to take in the view. Granted it was the beginning of a long night of celebration and attempts to get people to wrestle me, but this was the most content I would feel all evening.

Good times, good times.

I only got a short ride in Saturday, and if I can say so without sounding stupid, the trails are getting tooo dry in Charlotte, NC. The top bit of soil on the trail is turning into an unpredictable powder. How unpredictable? I got put on my ass twice in an hour and a half. I only recently got to assess the damage: 3 good scrapes, multiple bruises, and one busted Atmos. I was testing my new “fanny pack” ( I prefer to call it a waist mounted hydration accessory), and at least it stayed in place and held its contents when I went ass over tea kettle. I guess that makes for a succesful test for a hundred mile race.

I decided to pitch some gear outta my waist mounted hydration accessory. I got rid of the tube, the pump, and some little odds and ends. I now have room for some Gu’s where the tube was and who needs a pump anyways? I found this fat 20gram CO2 cartridge that came from I don’t know where and I am gonna run with that attached to my seat tube and a tube under the seat.

Am I stupid enough to try and do a 100 mile race on one CO2? I am stupid, but not that stupid. I will be sending a tube and CO2 ahead in each of my three drop bags just in case.

Am I stupid enough to be running around with one of these without even trying it first?

 Yeah, I am. I think faith and divine providence will see me through. Chance favors the prepared mind and my mind is prepared to leave some things to chance.

I will leave you with a little Ronnie James Dio today:

Race for the morning
You can hide in the sun ’till you see the light
Oh we will pray it’s all right

Gotta get away-get away

How hard could it be?  I tried to book my ticket to Utah for the E100 yesterday.  I have a US Airways Visa and we use it for all our purchases in order to get mucho mileage.  I have been to California twice, Costa Rica, and Moab on my free miles.  I have never had a problem using them except when I went to Costa Rica in 2004.  I had to use 50,000 miles and travel 1st class to get the dates I needed.  When I signed up for the frequent flier program it only took 25,000 miles to get a ticket.  Yesterday when I tried to get my ticket I found out that all the seats available for 25,000 miles were taken, not just on my dates of travel, but all the way till February.  Every airport within 4 hours had the same situation.  I tried to talk to a human on the phone to see if US Airway’s policy had changed, but by the time I started asking for honest answers she stopped talking.

TD- “I just want to know if this is new policy”

USA-”No sir, it is not.”

TD-  “It doesn’t seem like I can get anywhere for 25,000 miles.  Is this the way it’s gonna be for now on?”

USA- silence 

TD-  “Are you still there?”  “Hello?”

USA-  ” Yes” 

TD-  “I am not mad.  I just want an answer” 

USA- silence

TD-  “Are you still there?  Hello?  I can hear you breathing.  Are you done talking?  Can I speak to someone else?”

Maybe she didn’t like the fact that my wife and The Boy were laughing in the background.

It basically ended after I gave up asking if she was still there.  She couldn’t hang up on me, but she wouldn’t talk either.  It was really weird.  I was not irate and I said several times I was not mad.  I just wanted some straight answers.  I’ve always believed that when you are geting screwed by the man there is very little reason to fight it if the man is holding all the cards.  Just bend over and take it. 

“I’d like to say Andy fought the good fight…“

I called back a few times and got different people and the same basic run-around.  I wasn’t getting anywhere unless I coughed up 50,000 miles that I don’t have.  I am short by 9,000 miles.  Jerks.  Looks like I am paying for a ticket.  On another note it seems like there are no longer direct flights from CLT to SLC so I get to enjoy the finer side of travel.  Nothing like killing multiple hours in an airport drinking overpriced beer and watching people walk by.  Unnnghh.  I’ve said it before, the easiest part of endurance racing is everything that happens after they say “Go!”.  All the BS it takes to get to the start line is a pain in the ass.

The Shawshank quote is an excerpt from a bigger piece of dialogue from M Freeman :

I wish I could tell you that Andy fought the good fight, and the Sisters let him be. I wish I could tell you that - but prison is no fairy-tale world. He never said who did it, but we all knew. Things went on like that for awhile - prison life consists of routine, and then more routine. Every so often, Andy would show up with fresh bruises. The Sisters kept at him - sometimes he was able to fight ‘em off, sometimes not. And that’s how it went for Andy - that was his routine. I do believe those first two years were the worst for him, and I also believe that if things had gone on that way, this place would have got the best of him.