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Thursday, May 12

PMBAR '22: The Post-Dumbling

Where to start?

How much does a lack of comprehension cost one at PMBAR?

Let it be known that I used to take great pride in being the first one done with a test or such things in school.  I mighta got a 97% when I coulda got 100%, but I was the first one to get it back to the teacher's desk, strutting up to the front of the classroom in my Pony's making sure everyone knows who's the boss.  An A is an A, and why not be the first A?

As I've gotten older and my attention span has withered, my reading comprehension certainly hasn't improved.  Add to that the fact that I can no longer read the passport over and over again as I climb up Black thanks to my eyeballs going to shit, so I really, really should s-l-o-w d-o-w-n.

But I don't.  As my friend Stabby once said, "Always be in a hurry so you'll be good at being in a hurry when you have to be in a hurry."  He mighta been talking about sex.  Dunno.

Anyhoo, since the trail we shoulda took was one we did last year at PMBAR (with the same route leading to it), it didn't take me too long to figure out that we were twenty five minutes faster to the same point than taking my dumb route (to find a CP that wasn't where I thought it was).  In the end, we finished thirty five minutes behind first place.  What does that mean?

Would our overall pace had been higher without the extra five to six Pisgah miles?

If so, had we caught up to Joice's team, would we have "raced" or been demoralized by the thought of "racing?"

Perhaps our pleasant quitting pace put us in an unfamiliar world of riding within our limits, thus saving us from a potential meltdown?

Thursday morning quarterbacking ain't worth it.  It is what it is... as much as it pains me to know that twenty five minutes faster woulda put us in the top ten overall.

Dammit.  I'm gonna have to slow down a bit with the map/passport thing next year.  That said, it can be sooooooooo hard to head up Black Mountain on single speeds at PMBAR.  You can only turn over a 32 X 20 so slow, and getting around traffic burns 1.5 more matches than trying to sit in.  

Side note: My 19th PMBAR, 17th time on a rigid single speed.  DO I quit at 20 total or 20 total on rigid or never quit ever?  If Watts keeps saying "yeth," I may never know when to stop.

That clanking noise that I had ALL FUCKING DAY LONG?

I literally did most of my strapping of things to my bike that morning, so I wanted to believe that some bit of it was the cause.  I squarshed my top pipe purse in my hand while riding, moved some items around inside it, held onto my number plate, tightened my light that I didn't need, fondled my thru-skewers... water bottle cages, plugger mount, saddle strap... drooper?  I just couldn't put a finger on it.

I lived through the day, and had too much beer to contend with it that night.  When I woke up the next day, I had to know.  Start taking off PMBAR needed bits one by one... what changes have I made since Moab Rocks when my bike was quiet?

Oh.  Duh.

Here's how the Vertigo Meatplow V.7 was set up last year:

What's different from last year?

Just this pink top cap.

Near as I can tell, my little "invention" that I dubbed the Stem Boner™ (combined with the pink top cap) was the problem. 

The Stem Boner™ in its early prepubescent days, back in 2014 when my computer was just a time piece and the bottle opener only served to protect it in a crash.

I have a couple spacers that I add on top of the stem with the mount for a Wahoo to make a more stable place to strap my top pipe purse.  I also use a small section of steer tube to keep it all in place... and I'm guess the bottom of the pink top cap had a different bottom profile than whatever I had on there before (it wasn't pink), and that allowed for the chunk of aluminum to bounce about and clank clank clank.

So my life and/or teeth were never at risk, but I did have the pleasure of dealing with the fears all day long.

Which was nice.  When it was over.

Just like PMBAR.

Which is over.

Till next year.

And one more thing...

PMBAR is never over until it's over... which it is now... but it wasn't two hours and thirty eight minutes after the start when I didn't take that turn down Laurel Creek.  I need to member that... and also practice my reading skills.

Wednesday, May 11

PMBAR '22 (part three of some more)

I considered Ohio Josh and Kenny to be "competition."  They seemed to be the types of guys who become quickly familiar with new trails (they've both frequented Pisgah in the past).  Wherein, I'm the guy doing his nineteenth PMBAR and still making rookie mistakes.  They give me the piece of data that I didn't wanna know.  They're 24 miles and 2 CPs into their day, and Watts and I are just a couple tenths of a mile short of 30 with the same amount of CPs.

We had done 5-6 too many miles, and as Watts would unfortunately realize later, those weren't just "miles," they were "Pisgah miles."  There is a harsh conversion there.

At least we're now both on the same page.  Let's just ride, eat, drink, try and have "fun," get all the checkpoints, and mebbe next year is "our year."  Fuck this year.

1206 garvel and passing more and more people that are like "what are you guys doing here?"  They should know by now what we're doing here.  I'm an idiot.  Bathroom to fill water bottles that should be completely empty four and a half hours in but aren't.  Up Wash Creek, up Spencer, checkpoint three, down Spencer... I think Watts says something sad about his sprained sometime ago but not healed wrist.  Down to Fletcher and scratch my head about what "something something yards down Fletcher from something something" means and here comes the single speeders Harper and Henderson coming down from Fletcher(da fuq?).  They tell us there's a single speed team just ahead, which is everything Watts and I don't wanna hear.  We stopped "racing" hours ago.

Now we're all up in it with those two and headed back outta North Mills.

"What's faster, all gravel out or Lower Trace?"

I'd already crunched those numbers, and the best bet for Watts and I was the gravel by a skosh, but the real advantage is that you can drink on the way back down to the bathrooms for a refill. 

"Faster and more efficient to take the gravel, but Watts and I are going down Trace for more fun."

They end up at the bathrooms about thirty seconds behind us.  So much for my research. 

I've barely drank a half bottle since the last time we were here an hour and a half ago.  Nothing unusual for me.  Unhealthy?  Yeth, but unusual, no.  Scott Harper is asking me whether or not it's worth it to do the Pilot Cove checkpoint for the two hour time bonus.

Our "competition" is asking me for advice?  As a friend, sure... but as someone who has spent the last eighteen years doing this race and earning what I know about PMBAR with blood, sweat, and tears?

♪ I ain't saying you're a gold digger... ♪

"Ummmm... I dunno.  After looking at the map and seeing that it's moved from where it normally is, I think mebbe."

♪ Eighteen years... eighteen years. ♪

"Hey, what's the best way to get back to Pressley Gap to the finish?"

♪ Eighteen years... eighteen years. ♪ 

I know the Kanye song is not really applicable here, but at least it replaced whatever annoying earwig I had at the time.

So, now we're climbing up 1206 with these two ding dongs (I mean that affectionately), and near the top, I can see the familiar sight of a single speeder doing the "dead man walking" cadence.  In a manner of minutes, I can see that we caught Nico and his partner (Nico, is a local now, and I've got him pegged for the SS podium).

Great.  Now we're three teams of single speeders fighting for mebbe the last step on the podium but prolly more like 4, 5, and 6, but who really knows?  I've decided Watts and I are doing this CP as a loop, and either the other two teams decide the same or they just follow the guy who's already fucked up big time once today (and so many times in the past).

When Watts and I hit the steeps going up Pilot Cove, each team had one rider far ahead of us and one far behind.  We're just moving along at a happy place.

"Hey, Watts.  Good news..."

I figure if we gotta be at least a couple hours and two climbs from the finish.  With each team having a weaker link and plenty of the day to get weaker, we just have to maintain and eat and stuff on the last two climbs to...

To what?

Preserve our precious fourth place?  Who cares?

I guess we do.

Gauging Station Rd to the Advanced Wheelchair Ramp to Clawhammer (mostly) back down to the climb up to Hot Dog Gap that I'm now all too familiar with (from the total time to the turn by turn to the views to the three ouchy parts) to the final descent.

We're not a minute into the last trail before Watts reminds me that his wrist is "owweee."  I can't imagine how bad it's been all day to ride a stupid turgid fork in Pisgah for... a bunch of hours?  Dunno.  I turned my Wahoo to just display nothing but the map hours ago after I fucked up.  Let's just say a lot of hours.  I checked up on Watts every few minutes and pointed out the wrist-friendlier lines when I could, just hoping the other two teams wouldn't catch us.  The whole time, I'm still focused on the "clack-clack-clack" noise and thinking that whatever it was that was about to fail on my bike was waiting for the moment when we would be at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, that is when the most unthinkable disasters would descend upon us.*  Vividly picturing a snapped handlebar or fork and my face sliding down the mountain into a pile of rocks oh so close to the finish of my 19th PMBAR...

But nothing untoward happens.  We finish... and there's a whole lotta people already at the finish line, at least in my mind.

Chris Joice walks up and congratulates us on our finish.

"Second place single speed."

Huh and also what?

Post-dumble dump tomorrow (or soon).

*Very borrowed from "A Christmas Story."

Tuesday, May 10

PMBAR '22 (part two of some more)

I wake up at 4:40AM to the sounds of a hootie owl.  I'm sure the scars from running late to the start last year (my bad) led to my inability to fall back asleep.  Eventually I do, but as soon as my dreams get interesting again, my alarm goes off at 6:15AM.

And because of last year and despite doing nothing the previous night to get ready, I'm 95% kitted and coffee'ed up before 6:50AM.  Dumbass.

At least the payoff was that Watts and I are able to be front row for the passport distribution.

8:00AM on the dot, and my tiny little old man hand has a passport in its diminished by age grip. 

I turn my back to the melee, skim the rules, flip through the checkpoints, come up with a plan (don't call me rash), and we're off on our way up Black Mountain.



I feel like all those moments took fifteen minutes, and we had to have been on our way behind so many teams, but I find that we're in good company.  I'm not going to take the time to name drop them all, but they're usually the pointy end of the field.  Now that I've settled into the idea that we're in the right group, it's time to start casting doubts on everything I thought I knew.

I don't think I saw any mandatory check points in the passport. ¿QuĂ©?  Mebbe it doesn't matter.  Mebbe one of them isn't worth the two hour bonus (four CPs to finish, the fifth is worth two hours taken off your finish time).  I run them down in my head...


Something something South Mills... something Trace... something Slate Rock... something Fletcher so many yards down from something... one right in the butthole on Squirrel... one at the Pilot Rock/Laurel Mountain...

If you counted to six, you're already smarter than I.  

"Watts, I don't think the one up on Laurel is worth it.  It's an over two hour investment for us."

"Okay.  Fine."

These words mean nothing to him.  I know he just hears buzzing noises.

We soldier on up Black Mountain, complaining about being fat, not having any matches to burn, how we don't wanna be close to any other single speeders and please don't let us catch up to Chris Joice and his partner (our pick for the SS win) because actual "racing" sounds totally demoralizing.

We get up to Hot Dog Gap, stop, and with my fingers free from the bars, it's much easier to count to six.  

"Watts, I think I made a check point up.  I gotta check the passport."

"Okay.  Fine."

Dammit. 

"Well, the good news is..."

Watts would later point out that I say that a lot... "the good news is..."

As if everything I do wrong has some sort of silver lining.

Speaking of good news and things I do wrong, my bike is making a clacking sound with every bump I hit.  Since I've just strapped and mounted a bunch of things to my bike just this morning, I try to isolate the noise, but to no avail.  I even check things that were fine for three days of Moab chunk gnar.  I'm left with no option other than to assume that this claxon of doom is telling me that something made of crabon fiber would like to stop being a useful bike part at any moment.  This does nothing for my confidence going down anything steeper than a wheelchair ramp.  I like my teeth where they are.

Into the butthole of Pisgah, hit the checkpoint, take off, head towards Cantrell... and there's no tire tracks turning right and down. 

Odd. Woulda thought some folks would head down to South Mills that way.  Meh.  That just confirms that my Plan B is everyone else's Plan A, so we continue "down" Squirrel.

Squirrel to Mullinax to South Mills to Bradley to the check point.

Except it isn't there.  I swear it's always right here down past these weeds near the crick... but it's not.  We wander around for just a bit.  I pull out the passport for confirmation. I get the opposite.

"Watts, the checkpoint isn't here (sic obvs).  It's at the bottom of 5015."

"Okay.  Fine."

"We mighta lost ten minutes," I lie.  He won't know.  I feel the need to protect him from the sad truth.  He'll probably know soon enough.

Up Bradley, down Bradley, get taken out by a mountain laurel and thrown to the ground.  Rip my left knee warmer, which would probably make me sad, but I have another pair of the same brand with a ripped right knee so okay.  

I pad my lie to Watts and bump up my estimate of our losses to twenty minutes.  I really have no idea... until we get to the bottom of the trail we shoulda taken earlier and start running into people we should (in theory) be beating.

Niko, excite to see Dicky "in the wild."  Me, sad to see Niko "in the wild," knowing that he probably looked at the passport for ten or fifteen minutes before starting, and now here we are even Steven (not Stephen, he's still ahead of us) at our second check point.  

So as Watts and I trounce our way up Bradley Creek outta checkpoint two, I know that as we stomp through the seventy odd creek crossings and step over (or under) ninety downed trees to get around people we "should be beating already," he's gonna know how poorly my decision making has impacted us.

"I think some of those people mighta came straight down Turkey Pen and mebbe they're just four check pointers, so we're not doing so bad," I lied.  Again.

I know Watts won't connect the dots that we woulda saw tire tracks on the way here had anyone actually done what I just said, so mebbe his morale was still salvageable?

Then we ran into the back of the Ohio single speeders, Josh and Kenny.

No offense (it will make sense in tomorrow's post), but that's when I checked out for the rest of the day.

Monday, May 9

PMBAR '22 (part one of some)

I coulda started writing about PMBAR on Sunday.  Coulda, but I didn't.  I came home to no wife, no dog, very few responsibilities to tend to other than down-gearing from the event... yet I couldn't write a thing.  I chose instead to rest my body as well as my brain.  They were both toast.

This was probably the first time our Friday worked out as sorta planned.  We managed to get into Brevard early enough to get a couple beers at The Pisgah Tavern.  Then began the debate over foodings... and should we ride or drive... and then we drove... and then thirty seconds after we got to Oskar Blues, a massive storm blew through that crowded everyone into the non-windward side of the covered seating area... even closer to a band that decided that adjusting the volume to accommodate the huddled masses in front of their speakers was not in order.  Nay, perhaps they raised it even.

Did I mention that I was stressed out these past two or three days because Watts had been exposed to Covid, and we had no idea if our PMBAR was over before it started?

Nah, why would I?

So, no dry tables and no chance of standing in line in the pouring rain at the food truck and no shot at getting back to the van to head somewhere else to fill our empty bellies (which wouldn't have mattered anyways, as we quickly found out that most of Brevard lost power during the storm)... until the dark skies cracked back open to reveal the sun...

and the lorb jeebus once again promised us that he/she would once again not ruin PMBAR for us as she/he knows we are fully capable of doing that ourselves.

Double rainbows, sunshine, beers, and the least lesser-appealing thing on the menu...

Chicken Nugs because red meat stuck in your colon does not count as 'glycogen stores" IMHOMO

Flat-billing flat-landers in a lumpy Waterworld.

Watts, emboldened by the fact that he'd alluded Covid yet again, now wanting to see if he's super-immune to pinkeye after using a brewery toilet.

Back to camp, ride over to registration (because it's only 9:10PM), grab a beer, hangout because it's still too early to give in, and back to camp (again).

Return to home base and find the gift that Jarz had left for us (unbeknownst gifter to us at the time).  Exercising our ability to sometimes recognize that sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, we cooler the beers and head to our respective beds (mine being a cot under Bill Nye's awning).

Somewhere along the way whilst having a beer at either The Pisgah Tavern, Oskar Blues, or at registration, Watts said something about my tendency to make rash decisions at PMBAR.  I immediately punched him in the face and also immediately regretted it because of his tendency to voluntarily expose himself to pinkeye.

"Okay, mebbe I make rash decisions, but I can usually unmuddle my mind as the day goes on, making course corrections from our path of self-destruction that I came up with in the first five minutes after the race starts."

At least, usually.

Wednesday, May 4

Why Warts Dixon and I should be feared at the PMBAR '22

Fear.  Feel it coursing through your veins.  It's palpable.  Feel free.  Take a moment.  Palp it.

You know you want to.

I'll wait.

Ok.  

That was long enough.  If I can't watch you palp, what's the point of me waiting longer than I already have?

There are so many reasons why the semi-formidable and entirely self-destructive duo known as Revolting Easy (I guess, name in progress?) should be terrifying everyone at this year's Pisgah Mountain Bike Adventure Race.

1. We're due... right?  I mean, I myself haven't won the single speed class since 2014, and together, Watts and I have never been off the single speed podium, and we even eked out a fourth overall last year.  We're like the Cleveland (former) Indians, except we probably woulda realized how wrong the "Indians" mascot/name was a long time ago.  We're sooooo fucking due... although a few more years of near misses and Charlie Sheen and Tom Berenger will play us in the motion picture (we called them "talkies" in my day), 'Major Fuckups.'

Watts will be played by Tom, as he is more hirsute than I and has a greater chance of ending up with someone as classy as Rene Russo.  Charlie will play me since I also lost touch with reality in my mid-40s, and the happiest I've ever been was when I was a garbage man.  I smell Oscars.

Take a moment.  Smell it.

2. We could potentially ruin your day.  Perhaps you think we know where we're going (Watts definitely doesn't) or what we're doing (I definitely don't), and you decide to go along and try to follow us*.  Laughable.  This will be my eighteenth PMBAR and my eighteenth opportunity to make all new mistakes or perhaps revisit some of the classic ones.  If you end up in our company, at some point you'll hear me singing The Final Countdown.  Watts will be just out of my earshot using every swear word he knows and coming up with his own original, internal, profane colloquialism... except his internal dialogue always spews out of his mouth.  He'll be talking about that scarring life experience from when he was eight years old and saw a masturbating clown (not as part of his performance).  Or you could just wait until I hit the tenth hour of the day and watch me disintegrate into the ether.

Do you like watching pet euthanasia or when a sea lion gets eaten by a killer whale on the Discovery Channel?  Then in that case, you should definitely follow us for a show.

3. Speaking of "try to follow us*," I dare you.  I haven't done a PMBAR with any sort of suspension since 2004 (and 2014... dammit), and I don't know if Watts even knows what "suspension" is and/or what it does.  Read any of his suspension bike reviews on Bike Tumor, and they usually say something like "the bike had too many confusing parts and not enough canvas bags hanging from the handlebars but I guess it was fine.  Just fine."  The thing Watts and I do have going for us is a deep-seated self-loathing and an unsettling desire to hurt ourselves.  We will climb fast... at least for the first four or so hours.  That said, we will go down the mountain slowly.  Like sloth with a bad limp slow.  Like watching paint dry after taking a Delta 8 slow.  Like House Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack slow.  Seriously.  We're terrible.  Even if you can stay with us on the climbs, you're going to be waiting for us at the bottom of every descent.  That seems like a terrible idea.  We.  Are.  That.  Bad.

4. We tend to bring others down to some point that's so low that it lies just below the earth's mantle.  Watts and I live here, nay, we thrive here.  Just being around us the evening before the race, and somehow the beers will appear before you.  You'll want to say "no," but realistically you know life isn't going to be this good again for more than twenty four hours.  You'll see Watts and I laughing and cajoling and think, "this is the best night of my life," but we know that this is the best night of our today, and since we're only guaranteed the now, we always tend to choose to roll the dice on tomorrow.

"Snake eyes are good, right, Rich?"

"Yeth, Watts.  Now let's wake up hangover and eat nothing but gummy bears washed down with a couple bottles of creek water for the next twelve hours and see how that goes."

This will be our sixth PMBAR together, and six is my luck number, but I think Watts's favorite number is nine, so I don't know what to make of that.

See you on the other side next week.

Wednesday, April 27

Captain's Blog: Star Date: 420:69

Agreed to a weekend camping/riding trip.  Like bikepacking AKA Amateur Homeless Personning but with cars and bikes and less sadness and arguing about FKTs and also more fun.

But the day one ride didn't start until 5:00PM, because... burrito?

Photo from day two because who wants to start with the first photo from day one?

Someone told me that they stopped making Snickers with "veins," but since this one was an expired bar I found in the trash at work, this may be pre-deveining.

I spotted Neko Mulally's much-hyped Frank the Welder frame in the parking lot at Ingles, and I noticed this IS NOT the rocker that is on it everywhere else on the internet.  I posted it on my IG story, but PinkBike must not be farming my socials for content.

I FINGER THE PULSE OF THE "INDUSTRY."

Now Venmo me at F.Reynolds@warthog-orgyfart.edu 

I told Stephen he was in the Wheelie Hallway, but apparently he doesn't believe in magic.

Turd does magic...

As did/do Bryan (not Brian).

Rides that start at 5:00PM require more thought than I thought with my thought part.  I'd eaten two Pop Tarts at 7:30AM, a fake chicken sammich at 11:30AM, a Snickers bar in the Ingles parking lot, and a beer while setting up my hammock before the ride. 

Around 7:00PM, I was ded enough to try that maple syrup "gel" I brought home from Moab Rocks...


Yuck.  It tasted just like maple syrup because surprise surprise it is maple syrup and it comes out in the consistency of maple syrup so beware if you have facial hair and also poor aim.

I told Turd that watching his attempts to make fire was like watching Survivor except the contestant dies from no fire.

I left Pisgah shortly thereafter.  I'm a rule-follower.

Pizza and waterfalls on day two.

I dug a hole on Saturday by not eating enough before the ride, recovering with beer and one standard can of Spaghettios Avec le Balls de Meat, and sleeping in a moist hammock.  I spent Sunday crawling outta that hole.

Yeet.

Yut.

Womp womp.
 
I did a whole lotta Saturday's ride deep in the red because "training," and then tried to keep it muy tranquilo mode on Sunday... which is pretty hard to do when you're going up the steeps on Daniel's Ridge or trying to keep the poop in your butt coming down the gnar.

PMBAR is less than two weeks from now, and it's hard for that to sink in, being that we just did it in October, and the scars have yet to fade.  I am combinations of excite, indifferent, blindside, confuse, and anxious.  At least I'm getting another chance to make all new mistakes this year!

So that's good, no?

Someone remind me how to ride a turgid single speed again please and thank and bless.

Wednesday, April 20

Downcountry For Old Men

Credit Dr. Mike with that title (although I've been trying really hard to get his new nickname 'Prison Mike' to stick).
It feels like only yesterday that I was quietly complaining (dare I say "whimpering?") about my inability to gel with shifty bits on my squishy bike with too many clicky buttons.  Then throw on top of that my demoralizing ride a week ago in a haze of disappoint caused by my new-to-me allergies.

Last weekend, Bill Nye wanted to do some of the same trails I'd just ridden a week ago in my enfeebled state.  I was all about that because it would give me some back-to-back particulars to compare in order to establish which of these possible scenarios I was facing:

1. I sucked at bike cycling last week and am continuing to stay in the suck.

2. I sucked at bike cycling last week and am finding my way outta the suck.

3. Last week was some strange anomaly, and I shouldn't dwell on it any longer.

4. Gears are dumb and should be binned at the first possible chance.

Grab the Epic EVO, park at the ranger station (again), over to Clawhammer (again), and give 'er.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh...

Much better.  My heart rate gets all up in the 170s and touches into the 180s and I set a PR going up all of Clawhammer...

Which I realized is sorta irrelevant because I can't remember how often I'd been up Clawhammer since getting a Wahoo, and also I definitely didn't have one the last time I raced up it, so there's that, and also also why would I have ever been in a hurry?

But it was encouraging nonetheless.

And the other thing...

This bike... it's... working for me.

I cleaned the climb going up Upper Black (except the two sets of stairs), and managed to get the two uphill log-overs that I could only handle one of occasionally on the single speed... and just had a jolly good time climbing up things that normally befuddled or put me in my walking place.

And FWIW, by golly this bike cycle is fun to ride down a hill.  I know... full suspension.  Whodathunk?  

This bike with "only" 120/110mm of travel with what I'll call "newer than I'm used to" geometry is sooooooooo confidence inspiring.  I'm becoming... smitten?

I wish it had a bit more front travel... without being heavier.

I wish I had room for a 185mm+ drooper post (lucky that I could cram 175mm in there)... without losing the ability to have two bottles WHERE THEY BELONG ON A BIKE.  

I wish I had a Fox DPS rear shock... without me having to buy a new shock for a bike I already love.

I wish I could find some grips I like for it... without having to spend $30+ to figure out what I like.

I wish I'd get off my ass and figure out what tires I should have on it for optimal all-purpose fun times... without giving it any more thought than I have already.

I got those tires for the Vassago Meatplow V.8, and honestly they were a lot of tire to swing around on a single speed when you're a four apples tall man as strong as a bunch of carrots.  That's over 1,900 grams of rubber knubblies, so I replaced them with a Forekaster 2.6/2.35 dropping more than 3/4 of a pound of rotating weight making me feel as strong as two bunches of turnips.  I put these tires on the Epic EVO a few months ago, because... burrito? 

I've got lighter/faster tire combos hanging in the closet... but that DHF is so inspiring.

But I'm also tryna save something good good for my first squishy SS shot at Breck Epic.

These are the simpleminded things I think about when my gutters don't need cleaned, a leaky shower door lingers in disrepair, or why I don't like red bikes...

Oh yeah, 

I wish the bike wasn't red/orange or whatever you call it.