Reality Blights

I used to consider myself a happy person who had occasional unhappiness or allowed dark moments to slip into my skull from time to time.  Recently, I recognized that I'd reversed this trend and become an unhappy person with occasional moments of joy.  My worries and anxieties of all the possible futures, concerns for my family's general welfare, and work-related stressors had eaten into my potential for joy that I could be experiencing in the moment.  

It has sucked.  I preminised no return of the salad days.  

I tried flipping a switch based on not one bit of self-help advice on some random day last week.  I now have a mantra that I say to myself (or sometimes out loud if I'm alone) any time I find myself in some downward spiral of doom thought.  It's an unfortunate choice of three words, being that they're the title of not just one but two pop songs that if I heard them on the radio, I would toss said radio out the window.  

I know, what's a "radio?" 

See kids, music that someone else chose for you used to come out of a small but sometimes big box and...

Anyways, I'm not sure how I slipped into this world, but I know I don't wanna remain in it.  I'm doing my best to choose not to.

Boppit and I had a long five day stint without The Pie's company, requiring some double mouth-muffing on the couch to fill emotional needs.

I told myself I would fall over on my first attempt.  I did.  I shoulda tried my second attempt the first time.

My frands are down in the creek filtering water while I enjoy the benefits of being a non-sweater.

We only saw one e-bike in DuPont on Saturday, which is technically one more than is legally allowed to be there.  

There was a clipless shoe hanging on a tree limb on the far side of Little River.  Someone had a bad day.  

Seth jumped outta frame.  Bad Seth, bad.

Stephen stayed in frame.  Good Stephen, good.

I will never jump out of frame.  This I guarantee.  

Super stoked that the underpass at the top of Wash Creek Road got a fresh coat of gray paint so it can start anew with graffiti.  I'm inspired.  I will love more, although...

My Wahoo data acquisition device is giving me so much grief lately that I'm longing to go back to my ignorant days when I had no idea how far a ride was, what temperature it is, how long I've been riding, what my current heart rate is...

But what will I do without "data?"

Although it pains me so to see this bike be garvel'ed, it is what it is.  I want to do this weekend's Pisgah Monster Cross on a single speed, and this is the least amount of effort I can put into turning a bike into a single speed garveler.  Another strong dose of irony is that my new frame should be here on Thursday, making it a tight pinch to get it built up for this weekend... and I probably won't even get to ride it... but at least it should be sorted out before Watts and I head north in his little smelly van to (hopefully) get up to Vermont.

All the small parts and decals that will get attached and stuck on the frame hopefully within twenty four hours of its arrival.

So there's that.

I came here to break glasses and chew bubble gum

Sheeeee-it, I was all out of bubble gum.

Saturday was supposed to be a happy occasion.  My first look at the new Butter Gap Trail with frands.  Four trails on the menu that day, Cove Creek, Daniel Ridge, new Searcy Creek Connector, and new Butter.  A blessed day indeed.

But then I took off my glasses hurriedly to do a thing at the top of the first climb, I didn't pay attention to what I was doing, and stepped on my glasses that I'd laid on the ground.  Idiot.

And that's the second time this year I've stepped on my glasses, but the first time I rendered them unwearable.  I haven't ridden on a trail without glasses ever since I realized I was wrecking so much because I couldn't see obstacles in my path and needed my eyes checked.  Near sighted in one eye, far sighted in the other.  Meh.

So, I was going to say I had to Mr Magoo it all day long, but then it dawned on my that as a child, I watched a cartoon about a visually impaired senior citizen who bumbled through one precarious situation to the next unscathed, and we laughed at it.  "Such an odd thing," thinks fifty five year old me.

I realized a Velma reference was probably a slightly better fit than Magoo.  Anyone who needs corrective lenses gets it.

Anyways, it was mildly terrifying going downhill when my vision only really works about seven feet in front of me, but I'm trying to go speeds that require looking several yards further down the trail.

FWIW: I liked new Butter and the new Searcy Creek Connector.  Sue me.  I bet I'll like it even more when I can see it.

Sunday, I got out of bed before The Pie.  I wanted to give her a break from foster puppy duty, so as soon as it made its first yelp, I grabbed him and got him outside before he pooped the cage and commenced rolling around in his own fecal matter.  Then my morning fell apart.  The organic peanut butter hadn't been stirred before going in the fridge.  The coffee maker died.  I grabbed my lap top, didn't realize it was plugged in, and the wire knocked over two pint glasses full of water that were on the dining room table because the nice Trader Joe's employee had given The Pie two roses the previous morning.  The puppy chomped down on my nipple while I was cleaning up the spilled water.  I finally sat down to waste time on my laptop while I drink my coffee (made by other means), and I noticed a chunk missing out of the right hand corner of my device... that musta busted off when I dropped it after coming home from mom's place and failing to completely figure out how she starts dipping into her retirement accounts online.  I wondered where the chunk went but found out soon enough when I stepped on it and found it stuck in my foot.

That was all within a forty minute span of time.

One could see why I was reluctant to get in the car and head to the first of two scheduled trail work events I planned on attending that day.

At the summer short track course, the huck on the right (I know the picture flattens the huck) no longer lands into a ditch and the go-around is smoothed out so you don't get outta whack going into the next corner that now has a giant hole where a tree used to be on the outside edge (down there where a green-shirted Neal stands).

Neither Neal, Santana or I were injured and no one stepped on any glasses.  Success.

Home, eat, head back out the door to help clean up the hot mess of a multiple tree pileup across the trail at two different places at the Backyard Trails.  I'd seen it for myself on a ride that was brought to "womp womp" levels last week when we realized how much trail we were going to have to skip because neither one of us wanted to wade through poison ivy to get to the other side... twice.

It was quite the moment of success when it was done.  As bad as my morning had gone, I was slightly concerned that I was going to witness the death or mutilation of either a radio celebrity, the Godfather of Charlotte Mountain Biking, or a respected youth cycling coach as they addressed the monster trunk that was three feet off the ground as it snapped, crackled, and popped its way to the ground (eventually).

Personally, I'm not a chainsaw guy, but I'm more than happy to lop the canopy, drag limbs, and fill a giant hole in the go-round at the upturned base of the tree.  No glory but less death potential.

This...

much better than this:

Pisgah Enduro™ '24

My biggest concern about doing the Old Fort Fifty back-to-back with the Pisgah Enduro™ wasn't all the potential fatigue in my little meat sticks, it was the eight or nine hours I'd need to entertain myself after the Fifty and before I went to bed.  Problem being this:

Not too many people outside of the King of Pisgah ding dongs are doing both events, so there's not gonna be many people in my boat sticking around Camp Grier all day long. I mighta watched Deadpool in my bunk.  I mebbe sought out cell signal to catch up on the social media world.  Eric "PMBAR Honcho" Wever sorta found me hiding (on his front porch), and if there's ever someone who knows how to fix idle hands, it's him.  After regaling me with Phish tales and why freshly fallen rain smells so good (spoiler alert: it's death), he coaxed me into helping tear down the start/finish truss work and barricades.

This is Eric's printer and he doesn't want it to be confused with the other dozen or so printers that weren't there... I guess.

Hands full of trusses and barricades can't be holding beer, at least all the time, so I would say it was a good activity before going back to my bunk to watch Sherlock Holmes and sweat-sleep the night away.

I could skip the part about the two hours and forty minutes it took me to get to the top of Heartbreak Ridge for the start of the Enduro™.

But I won't.

Upper Heartbreak looks even more chunderess when you have time to look at it walking all the way up.  I forgot about that.  I found more points of semi-concern, you know, other than the fact that I'm going to have one more run-in on the Heckle Zone at the end of Stage Two.  I'm 0-2 this weekend, and don't wanna end m y experience with that thirty feet of trail on that note.

I had time at the top to take note that there were only two other idiots up here on hardtails.  IDIOTS.  All three of us.  I jumped in behind my SS podium compatriots from the day before, Scott (who had swapped to a big Transition something or other) and Chris (who had borrowed an even bigger bike... which he single speeded, natch).  I knew they would blow my doors off, and I let the guy a minute behind know that if he sees me, just holler and I'll be a hundred yards off the trail in three seconds.

I poke my way down, walk the death roots, and knowing how much I loathe going high rates of speed over trail with loads of exposure, it's no surprise to learn (later) that I was one of the slowest on Stage One.

But I didn't die, so okay.

Stage Two ends with the Heckle Zone, it has way less exposure, better lines of sight, and we can just say it's more my jam.  I don't get caught by my minute man, granted the stage is half as long as the first, and I had a clear run with no pedestrians through the Heckle Zone.

All race images: Icon Media Asheville

Achievement unlocked, sphincter no longer perma-clenched, redemption... and I've moved up into the top 75%... which is something given my limitations and recently misplaced mojo.

Over to Kitsuma, which as I said, is where I can get my potatoes mashed.  It's probably my second favorite descent in Pisgah, even though that's not true because I'm not mentally putting anything in the Wilson Creek on that list for some dumb reason.  It's honestly the most "pouring like an avalanche coming down the mountain" feeling I can get when I rip this way too familiar downhill.

And despite my self-imposed limitations, and thanks to my recently found and fully reacquainted mojo, I managed to place exactly mid-pack on the third stage.

Who's happy that he's one (but actually two) race(s) away from finishing another King of Pisgah Series?

This guy.

The post-hangs were limited due to the fact that The Pie texted and said mebbe call her on the drive home.  No emergency, but she didn't wanna dump on me when I got home.

Who needs a functioning dryer anyways?

Oddly enough, I was present for a lengthy conversation between two pasty white bearded hill people about hanging clothes to dry earlier that day.

The world is a flat circle.

Old Fort Fifty '24

I leaned the Vassago Radimus up against the bunk on the other side of the room so while watching a terrible movie on my phone, I could occasionally glance over and remind myself that this bike saw me down through the Heckle Zone four months ago on a fun ride with frands.  It could do it again.  I just have to trust the bike to do what it do.

Yeth, in a thirty-something mile race, I'd allowed myself to be all-consumed with a thirty foot section of trail.

Wake up.  Start my coffee...

The stove doesn't work.

Grab my pot, head over to the staff cabin, proclaim prima nocta (or whatever) on their stove and boil my water.  

Coffee, shitty Entenmann's cakes, morning constitutional, get kitted up.  My heart rate monitor isn't working.  I just replaced the battery three months ago.  I stressfully start figuring out the steps necessary to take the one out of the wheel sensor of my now worthless other bike... and it decides to start working again for no real reason at all.

Warm up, line up... about three rows from the front.  I know my place.

All race images: Icon Media Asheville

Scott knows his place... in my heart.

The start is the usual chaos of endurance mountain bike cycle sport racing, and I chase down a fat tire single speed and watch Gabor get away ahead of me on his super squishy single speed.  Into the woods and on the section I helped mark last night, and we don't seem to be getting lost... so I can stop holding my breath on that.

Oof.  I don't feel like I'm putting in an extreme effort, but I'm seeing high 180s for my heart rate.  Covid, you are indeed a cruel mistress.  I try to ease up on the gas and here comes a hard charging Chris and Scott, known knowns in the single speed class.  They go by, and now the good news is that I'm solidly off the podium and can go about the business of just worrying about finishing... and what I'm going to do when I get to the Heckle Zone.   

Because that's what matters, right?

From the fun Gateway Trails and back on the slog up and down Jarrett Creek Road, my Wahoo data acquisition device is reading low... which makes me doubt all the high readings earlier.  The push up the back of Star Gap was a punch in the ding dong, which ended with getting a hornet stinger in my chest about forty seconds from the top.  Things commence to go to shit.

In my hurry to leave the angry insect world behind, I yell ahead to Chris W. to "GO GO GO" so we could evacuate the danger zone in the most hurried of fashions.  He let me dip into the descent first, but then my earbud fell out and was dangling precariously, so I paused, let him by, and tossed the cord into my mouth.  I caught a rider on the descent, but my anger-pain groans were misinterpreted as impatience.

"Umm... do you need by?"

*spits out cord*

"Sorry.  I'm only grunting because I got stung... but sure, I'd like by when it's safe."

Now I find myself hurtling down the front side of Star Gap with the Heckle Zone fast approaching.  I knew where I was going to line up to hit the rocks and roots that I was familiar with, but as I made the left turn into the approach and rolled out on to the rocks I know so well...

I see chaos below.

Hecklers?  Sure.  Two... or is it three racers running down in front of me taking all sorts of lines?  Is that an upside down bike down there?  I have no idea what hell I'm about to descend into, so I hit the brakes and dismount.  No redemption today.

A heckler yells out as I go past, "A girl just rode it!"

I do not know what I said back, but in my mind as I rolled away, I thought that his statement says more about him and his misogyny than me and my skill level.

I also note that the upside down bike belongs to Gabor, and it doesn't look like he ended up that way by accident or incident.  It looked like he was tending to a mechanical issue of some sort.

All that takes place in a span of less than eight seconds.

Over to the aid station and on to the climb back up the gravel, I'm kicking myself for not just sending it into the Heckle Zone instead of diving into a brain scramble salad of disorientated thoughts.  Mebbe I wouldn't have hit anybody?  Who knows?

The climb up to the Bernard Trail descent came and went, as did the one to the Kitsuma Trail.  I've been down Kitsuma more times than I'd ever be able to recall, and it's where I know I can get my potatoes mashed.  I feel pretty good about myself, other than the fact that my neck is killing me from looking over my shoulder for Gabor.

A funny thing happened once I got off the trail and back on a short bit of pavement.  I'd greatly underestimated the amount of climbing we'd be doing and the calories my body would require to get up those many feets (it ended up being 5,200+ feets).  Both of my quads and hammies went into pre-cramp status.  Mustard was one of the many things I that I didn't bring because I didn't think of them until I was well on my way driving to Old Fort.  Mustard, squeezy leg bags, coffee mug, tools, my brand new Industry Nine Solix wheels with XC tires that I totally coulda put on the Vassago to lighten it up by hundreds of grams...

At least the last trail started with some dick-punching switchbacks, so I could swap over to walk mode, and if not use different muscle groups, at least use the same ones but in a different way.  Up and down Copper Ridge and finally dump back on to the main drive back to Camp Grier with two more solid dick punches ending right at the finish line. I realize I overused the dick-punch thing, but it's no understatement that my genitals went a few rounds with a professional pugilist.

I finished a Pisgah Productions race in a manner in which I never have before.  Instead of immediately grabbing a beer, I went straight for water... a Coke... a burger... some tots... and sat down.

"We're all here if you wanna grab Eric and do our podium," Chris yells across the parking lot.

"I literally don't want to do anything right now."

Eventually, I crammed the food into my face, cleaned up, and rejoined my frands for our big moment.

Third place, and for what it's worth, that course really kicked my ass.

Not the podium photo you need, but the podium photo you deserve.  3/6 single speed, 38/141 overall.  Covid Dick is okay with this.  One more race under the belt towards getting a King of Pisgah Series finish.

BTW: Gabor rode his soft flat four miles back to camp, fixed his shit, and them rode four miles to get back on course.  That's why I hurt my neck constantly looking back for him, because if I know one thing about Gabor, he ain't no quitter.

Old Fort Fifty/Pisgah Enduro™ '24: Pre-dumbled

I came in like three to five wrecking balls.

Even though I took this past Friday off to relieve some of the "day before" related pressures of driving in shit traffic, settling in late, and who knows what garbage miles in my legs from my commute and work, I still ended up on my back foots.  Within ten minutes of getting home on Thursday, The Pie and I were eating supper on the front porch when we heard CRACK KATANG KAPOW.

And then the power went out.

Sigh.  The giant dead leader on the huge historical pin oak in my neighbor's yard that I've been staring at from the hammock for five years finally quit being part of a tree.  Shower, shave and pack in the waning light.  Go to bed after watching Jaws on my phone, constantly wake up thinking about when the power might come back on, all the shit in the fridge and freezer, and always mom stuff.  There's always mom stuff.  And night sweats.

Wake up and there's still no power and a couple unresolved mom issues and my desire to leave it all guilt-free in Pie's capable hands is dwindling.  I load all the coolers I can scrape up with the previously frozen and marginally chilled items and consider leaving.  Then the linemen arrive, and I watch with anticipation.  

One in the win column would make the drive easier, so I watch them take whacks at the transformer that controls our area of the neighborhood that I refer to as "Shanty Town."  No dice.  No power and away the bucket trucks drive off with no explanation. 

Poop.  Leave the house at mebbe 11:30AM.

Get to Camp Grier, find Eric "PMBAR Honcho" Wever (it's weh-ver not wee-ver), pick a bunkhouse that has a pot to boil water but no vessels with which to drink my coffee from, settle in, and gear up for a "pre-ride."  It's later in the day than one would probably want to do such a thing, it's hotter than a ball sack stuck to an inner thigh, and I really don't know how long this ride I planned might be.

I wander around where I think the race goes into the woods, make my way up through the spiderweb trail network by the pump track and find what I think is the Rostan trail... ride mebbe a mile before I see some course markings?  Odd.  Once I make my way over to the Gateway Trails, everything is well marked.  I decide to walk any time the trail is steep enough to raise my heart rate, as I haven't really stressed my ticker since I got Covid a couple weeks ago.  Alone with my thoughts, I pondered as to where the stinging creatures are, as this is stinging creature season in the Pisgah.  

When I get here, there's a decision to be made:

Should I go down the new Lower Heartbreak that I've yet to see (and shortening my ride which is turning out to be longer than anticipated), or keep following the course because something in particular has been niggling my brain.  Although in the past two decades or more, I've never NOT ridden the infamous Heckle Zone section of Star Gap, for some reason the idea of doing it on a 71°HTA/100mm fork bothers me now.  I've just gotten so used to riding a more progressive bike through the chunder gnar, so... dunno.  I've been down through it on all manners of bikes from a 26" wheel rigid single speed in the heat of a race to a bonkers travel Bronson and in bone dry conditions to pouring rain.  Hell, I just rode it this past May without hesitation.  Most fingers point back to last September 9th when I saw my actual kneecap for the first (and hopefully last) time.  It somehow creeps into my thoughts and reminds me of the fragility of the human form and the stupidity of throwing it off the side of a mountain as a form of pleasure.  I haven't lost my mojo, but I do find that I misplace it from time to time over the past year.

Anyhoo, I choose the latter, and for the first time ever, I walk down the Heckle Zone.

I also change my mind on something else.

Since I'm just post Covid anyways, the whole preconceived notion that I should ride the most XC of my single speeds in order to achieve peak performance is overwhelmingly dumb.  I mean, I was hoping to have my new, not here yet frame all built up for this race, and only just put the squish back on this bike "in case."

But that was back when I thought I could go fast and "compete" with the "athletes"... so might as well ride the fun single speed that I planned on riding for Sunday's Pisgah Enduro™.  The purpose-built Pisgah single speed.  The 2.5DHF/2.4 Rekon Race, tire insert, 140mm of travel, 185mm of droop, negative saddle to bar drop, rock-smashing titanium cranked killing machine.  I might be slow, but I'll at least have a good time while I'm falling off the mountain.

Back at camp, make all the swaps needed to get the Vassago Radimus ready, head over to talk to Eric...

"How are we getting from here into the trail?"

An interesting conversation followed, and the next thing you know, I'm going for a trail walk/run with John and a bunch of course tape and arrows.  

Finished, sweaty, and tired, Eric asked me if I'm still bored.

"Tell me more."

I get the fortunate task of loading the two giant coolers with water, Coke, and beer, with the one caveat that I get to perform said labor inside the walk-in fridge and be left alone with said beer.

The only real struggle was trying to come up with a system that didn't require a lot of bending my old man back over multiple times.  I failed at that but succeeded in drinking two beers in the time that it took to load hundreds of things and ice them all down.

I might have grabbed a couple of beers, retired to my warm bunk room and moist bedding, and settled in to regrettably watch a Godzilla movie on my phone until it was past the time I shoulda went to sleep. 

What condition my condition is in...

Sometimes I forget that Kenny Rogers was Kenny Rogers before he was Kenny Rogers.

My phone has a brain of its own and it tells me stories when I get back from rides.

Pretty sure I'm on the other side of this bout of Covid.  I either feel pretty good or just relatively okay compared to the improperly discarded bag of dog poop I was a little over a week ago.  Dare I say I'm looking forward to this weekend's double header of the Old Fort Fifty and Pisgah Enduro™?

I've gone from super excite about strapping on a number plate once again to super duper lethargic to semi-hopeful to aspiring amateur meteorologist over the last couple weeks.  It was looking like Debbie was going to have a serious impact on this weekend's activities, and to say I was nonplussed by the prospect of yet another long day (or two) in a moist Pisgah would be quite the understatement.

But now it looks like regular Pisgah weather... which is just the usual roll of the dice and rub your lucky rabbit's foot and hope you're not on the wrong side of the mountain at the right time.

I have no idea what version of me will emerge from the cocoon in two days.  Speaking of "cocoon," join me in finding some comfort in the fact that Wilford Brimley was fifty years old when he finished filming "Cocoon." 
 

Hard to feel like fifty five is old when I look in the mirror and consider this, but I also know I gotta keep on keeping on if I wanna look as good at seventy seven as Don Ameche did (left, yours not his).

Mostly I'm looking forward to a weekend of hanging out and catching up with frands, some of whom are fellow King of Pisgah series ding dongs who have willfully elected to race each other for hundreds of miles from April to October.

Despite the warning signs and general non-committal feels I've had all year, I entered anyhoo.

At least after this weekend, the only thing standing between me and finishing another King of Pisgah series is 140 more miles and 20,000 feet or elevation gain.

Cake walk.

That term used to mean something.  I won a cake walk once in elementary school.  I need to update my results page to reflect that... and apparently everything else I've done in 2024 that I forgot to add thus far (doh).

Wasting PTO

I was waiting for something monumental to happen before posting again.  Mebbe the arrival of my new frame?  Perhaps the IRS finally accepting my amended 2023 tax return?  Could the world just act sane for a week to ten days?

Nah.  How bout this?

Poop.

By the way, why is every test different enough from the last one you took?  It feels like it's not only testing me for Covid but reading comprehension, word problem solving, and cognitive decline?

Last week, I was head down in the business of taking care of business.  The Pie was outta town for nine days, so my life was work, dog, mom, repeat.  I ate so many cans of black beans.

This asshole (bless his runt heart) is a reluctant eater and will starve himself straight into a $2,000 vet bill if I don't watch him closely.  Still, he provides me 70% joy, 30% stress, and 100% someone to talk to when I'm home alone.  He's quite the conversationist.  He's fluent in three languages (dog, hooman, and fart) and loves when I walk around the house screaming Chris Cornell lyrics.

I managed to squeak in a decent amount of riding before Covid decided to enter the chat.  The day the world lost its internet, I didn't have to go to work... which was weird.  So I rode my bike wondering how many more "unprecedented events" are allowed to happen in a month.

Where's Waldo?

Apparently, something like nine to ten events.

Honestly, this Covid situation doesn't feel so bad.  I've went ahead and gone to work feeling way worse in the past, but outta respect for others and partially for myself, I gave myself permission to take a day (or two or three?) off.  I've got plans in two weeks for the Old Fort Fifty and Pisgah Enduro™, and I don't wanna cock that all up.  Not how I wanna spend my PTO, but since I've got such an open schedule...

Request to do any press junket, bike release, free multi-day race, or review your Air BnB in exchange for limited amounts of exposure thank and bless.  

I member keeping my schedule open for these...

*sigh*
 
That's all.  I'm still alive (mostly).  The blerhg is not ded (marginally).  The world is nuts (entirely).