The Van with Two Brains (give or take) Tour

I really needed that trip...

to never end.

Monday was a hard reentry into the real life.  I'll get over it.

I love van/bike trips with Watts.  I go into them with little to no expectations and very few questions.  I assume we're going to go on many rides.  At least two of them will last long enough for me to run out of both food and hydration, even if he did tell me beforehand how far we were going.  We'll push the limits of daylight at least once, and I won't mind it one bit.

Of course, I'm skipping over the fact that the whole thing started with a Watts Fappening two Saturdays ago, which would normally get its own post... but won't this time.

The night before the Watts Fappening, I installed this OneUp drooper remote for no other reason than it just happened to show up that morning.

First of all, yeth, I ignored my larger problem of dropping chains and focused my mechanical energies into this non-problem.  I didn't wanna take on such a relatively complex endeavor the night before leaving for a trip that required this bike to function when we got where we were going.  Considering that where we were headed, a drooper post was not really necessary, I still couldn't help myself.  My stupid plastic bike is the two-wheeled equivalent of my Honda Fit of Rage.  It is a utility vehicle, and I don't like putting money, effort, or time into it to improve it 1%. 

But here I am.

The saddest liquor store on planet earth.  Too bad it was a Sunday, and they weren't open.  I would have loved to meet their Gimp.

Watts won the prize for finding the first (and perhaps only) craft beer can in a ditch.  So.  Much.  Bud.  Light.

I found out that my favorite gravel is not gravel.  It's clay roads and sand.  Like lots of sand... deep sand... that goes on and on way past the point where you think you can keep a bike upright and you just keep going because walking is failure (I tell myself).

This ride sun burnt my lips.

Corner of New Hope and Hicks... mebbe you had to be a J6 Hearing fan to really get the joke.

We camped amongst sheep and chickens and pig and peacock and horses and this little bird came into the van just to take a shit on the dashboard.  Probably just because he could.  Mebbe the smells emanating from the van were indicative of a shitting place?

Oh... we rode mountain bikes too.  Plenty of places.  Some memorable for being super bueno and mebbe one for being pretty close to dog poop.  One day, we rode 25 miles of trail to pop out in Santos and say hi to Foye from Shimano, have a beer at a bike shop, and then ride 25 miles back.

At some point on the trip, we were just buzzing along the highway when the van made a loud "WHOOOOOOOMP" noise.  We just looked at each other, around the back of the van, at the bikes still Kuat'ed in place... nada.  Then we looked up.

The window part of the sunroof blew off.  We turned around and drove slowly back up the four lane road while looking in the ditches and median for a piece of clear plastic.  Nothing.  Parked the van, jumped out, grabbed a couple bikes, and rode backwards up the highway until we couldn't see the van (and the unlocked bikes) anymore.  Watts turned back to retrieve the van (and hopefully the unlocked bikes)... and then there it was in the median... at least the parts I was able to collect.

Toss it in the van and realize that this is our somewhat immediate problem.  We think of a million different ways to fix it involving wood, brackets, bolts, screws, a cordless drill that we don't have, makeshift "ladders," but opted for the simplest solution.

We ran outta Gorilla Tape, but this sufficed to keep the raccoons out of our sleeping area for the night and get us to a hardware store the next day for more tape.  I'm not suddenly tall.  I'm standing on an unstable cooler sitting on the end of a very heavy picnic table.

I truly fell in love with this kind of "all-road" riding.  Loose dogs per mile numbers were on the tolerable side.  The "being nowhere in the real world" feeling was palpable.

I didn't take my phone out to take pictures very often.  Aside from some doom-scrolling in the van to make sure I wasn't recently drafted to go fight Canadians or Panamanians or Greenlandians, I tried to stay in the moment.  Poopy work life means that I gotta make the most of my time away from Charlotte, and my phone sometimes equals work (which as I said before, has been poopy).

There was down time.  Beers were had.  And salty things (saltier than Watts).

We had access to private docks for private things, like raising ocean levels.

We visited Watts's buddy Drew's shop, Super Corsa Cycles, and there was so much interesting stuff, history, and high end bikes... and that's the only picture I took.

I got some of my Fu Manchu caught up in my rear (non-Hydra 2) hub.  I don't think it's a warranty issue.

Dare I say that some of the quiet times between the rides were the best of times?  I'll dare.  Drew and his wife were pleasant company, and they will be our first guests on Watts and I's podcast, Bitter and Jaded: The Problems of the "Industry," How Two Middle-Aged White Guys Can Fix It, and also Pringles Recipes.  Coming soon.

Had to hit pause while Watts called his agent to see if the bid he put on Jerry Seinfeld's Ferrari at the Amelia Island car show was accepted.

It was not.

Home of the most disgusting looking hot foods counter I've ever seen, unless you like three day old baby diarrhea chili and deep-fried breaded mud clumps.  I'll give the place a pass for having Zingers tho.

I guess car show people know who this guy is (guy on the truck, not the guy on the bike).  

So many trees from Jurassic Park.  If Florida wasn't so flat... and hot... and flat... and buggy... and Trumpy, I could totally live here.

And that's it. No blow by blow.  No "we stopped here" and "we rode there" specifically.  Another memorable week of riding, food, beer, getting gas and ice, sleeping in strange places, Pringles over-consumption, staring at the skies and natural wonders, and breathing it all in.

Now, back to life.  Back to reality.

Not Goodbye, but Bye, Bye, Bye (commence choreographed dance moves)

The end of the Winter Shart Tarck Series signals a moment to turn the page.  I haven't done a ride with any appreciable saddle time since January 4th, so this past weekend's ninety plus miles were certainly a wake up call to muscles that don't get used much when you're sprinting for thirty-five minutes in circles for five weekends straight.  My glutes were taken by surprise with so much sit-down pedaling on the garvel bike.  Making my life slightly worse was getting four others to agree to do a long ride spiced up with some underbiking on trails... and my maladjusted chain keeper (or worn-out china ring?) refusing to do its job.  So... many... times.

I googled "do your job" since I yelled it multiple times on Sunday to find out its origins, learned that it was Bill Belichick (now 72) who said it, and then found out he's dating a 24 year old woman.

I don't know how to feel about that, but the last time I dropped my chain on Sunday was on the road ride home... so mebbe it's a worn-out chain ring, and also I'm no longer saying "do your job," because I can't get past that age difference.  I do not have the energy to even hang out for extended periods of time with a 24 year old.  We do share a familiar dislike of sleeves, although he could take some tips from me on their proper removal.  

Where was I?

Oh yeth, 2025... the Year of the Dropped Chains.

Lorb willing and the creeks don't rise, I'll be getting plenty of saddle time soon enough.   After Watts comes to town for the almost annual but sometimes not Watts Fappening* this Saturday, we're headed... somewhere.  The Van with Two Brains (give or take) Tour begins the following morning.  Watts told me on the phone the other night what his loose plans are, how it's being affected by the Santos Fat Tire festival (we're going to Florida?), and basically that once again, we're chasing the sun and good times.  It feels like yesterday and also a hundred years ago that we were doing this very same thing somewhere north of where I'm sitting here typing.  I'm looking forward to days and days of just waking up, spending an hour on coffee and pooping and the van warming up and Walmart parking lots and figuring out where we're going next and backroad rambling and riding in some new places and some familiar with my little (but bigger than I) frand.

I touched the Vassago Optimus Meatplow V.10 Monday night to get it ready.  Much sadness as the bike I want to ride more than any other right now had tires that are borderline flat and it was covered in two month old mud.  I'm equally bummed and am also excite.  I bet Watts still has Vermont dirt on his bike, so...

I've yet to jump this bike over a mountain, and since the mountains in Florida are smole, mebbe this will be a good time to break it in proper.

Obviously (or not), I'll be off the blerhg train for a bit.  Thorry not thorry.

* The Watts Fappening details are roughly put together.  For those that are looking to join along (and can't find the details on Facebook), we'll be at Lower Left some time before 3:00pm.  From there, Monday Night, Petty Thieves, and Birdsong.  After that, if you haven't found us by then, you won't.  We'll just be selecting places that are kinda on the way back towards my house (which you are not invited to end your evening at).

2025 Winter Shart Tarck: The Final Frontier

Kinda pre-dumbling, for the first time in as many months as I can remember, I didn't ride my bike for an entire day this past Saturday.  Rain, mom visit, etc. took up the better part of the day, and by 4:00pm when the rain stopped, I had no emotional or physical momentum.  Realistically, I've never tried to "streak" my rides for any duration of time because I know eventually something will get in the way, and I'm not gonna pedal my bike for a mile or whatever to keep a pointless (to me) streak alive.

I woke up Sunday morning on the couch to the roar of some impressive thunder.  I found myself on the couch because I'm old, and for some reason, when I returned to bed after a 4:00am bladder emptying, I started my for-no-reason-at-all coughing.  I don't like messing with The Pie's sleep, so the couch is where I go.  I cough.  It's just what I do now.

I ignored the storm, fell back asleep, and wasn't awakened again... until the sump pump under the house started doing its thing.  That's a sure sign that the Shart Tarck course is gonna be in primo condition when the earth under my house says "TOO MUCH WATER."

Dr Mike and I get down to Rock Hill and the wind is whipping hard, like a hippo jumping out of a lake.  Truck doors slamming as I'm standing in the parking lot trying to decide what to wear (or what not to wear), and the flags are flying at full tautness.  I told Dr Mike that the most dangerous thing on the course might be the choppy conditions crossing the mud puddles.  lols.

Warming up and I notice that it looks like numbers are down this week.  Crusher Nick Barlow isn't here.  My nemesis points-wise (and my biggest reason to be a "tryer" today) Daniel isn't here.  Further complicating things in my head in terms of points is the odd distribution from first place to last that I don't know if it makes sense but I honestly can't think of a better way to do it.  More on that later.

Everyone seems like they're in less of a hurry to get off the pavement and into the muck.  I'd imagine it has a lot to do with many of the places on the podium being locked in by now.  Rob (sitting in 2nd overall) takes a tumble-slide in the first bit of baby diarrhea mud, and I'm sitting in a happy place where I feel like I can sustain my efforts, thus continuing to make the donuts. 

I still have a fair amount of Ohio mountain biker in me, so sliding around in the slop is kinda old hat.  That certainly helps as well as my swapping back to a 2.6 Forekaster front tire when obviously some riders stuck with what I would deem less confidence-inspiring tread patterns. 

After working my way through some of the usual suspects, I find myself on series leader Jason's wheel.  I can see another place or two ahead, the familiar face (actually butt) of Charles and some very tall yute... and I'm pretty sure one or two riders have ridden outta my sight.

Points.  It's all about points.  I assume Jason's not just directly in front of me on the course just because he's still running dual Aspens.  He's got the points locked up for the series win, assuming he doesn't absolutely shit the bed, so he's probably playing it safe to avoid a soiled berth.

Them points.  The single speed points for every race (aside from double points week) are from first down; 30, 27, 25, 23, 22... and one down from there for each lower place.  Most weeks, we have twenty plus riders.

Compare that to the 45+ men from first down (aside from double points week); 60, 54, 50, 46, 44, 42, 40... and down two points at a time for fields generally smaller than fifteen riders.

Like I said, I can't think of a better system.  It just makes the mathing hard when you're pedaling your brains out trying to figure out if one place matters or not.

So, I catch the yute, and he put up a hell of a fight for a lap and a half before I could feel safe.  I saw that I was so close to Jason that I couldn't tell if he was tryna help me, as his old Faster Mustache teammate, by letting me move ahead of him... since he was gonna win the series regardless of the fuck-all I could do.  I thought about putting in an effort and asking him for the favor... but it's just a point.  What could that matter?

The promoter was merciful and shut us down with four laps instead of the previous weeks' five laps.  I finished behind Jason and immediately went to the bike/butt wash.  From there, back to the vehicle to change, catch up with The Pie and Boppit who came to spectate... wait for Dr Mike to get cleaned up and grab a beer before heading over to the podium... where I'm pretty sure I moved into fourth overall?

Well, poop and double poop.  Every other week, the podiums took what felt like forever to get around to doing.  I mean, the people putting on the event have a lot going on with a billionty classes running all day from 9:00am to 3:00pm, so I expect no less and no more.  But today, on a day when I figured the points calculation for the overall series would take even longer, it did not.  I am fail.

Four muddy riders (Jason, Rob, Charles, and Kevin P 1-4) who took to the podium really quick like and one photoshopped fifth place guy who was at least this clean for the photo he missed.  Yeth, I was fifth and not fourth because Kevin who missed one race but came out with a win at the final event tied me with 119 points... and the final race is a tie breaker... so?

Poop.

Funny not funny, but as much as I joked about sticking with the whole series to get a $40 gift card, that's what I got.  Bless the hearts of the local shops that support the series, but of course my gift card was to a shop that's just far enough away from Charlotte that I'm not making an hour round trip for a $40 something or other, so I gifted it up to a deserving champion.  Oh well.

I did it for the eternal glory anyways.

And bonus fitness.

And a healthy distraction from life, work, and bad weather.

And seeing frands.

Mostly eternal glory tho.

And now, this:

2025 Winter Shart Tarck: Race Four; Operation YOFAFOO

Thursday.  Musta been Thursday.  I'd finally decided that if I was ever gonna run the oval 30 X 13 gear combo, now was the shit or get off the pot moment.  I'd been paying attention to how I ride my tarck bike to and from work and decided that a larger gear would work just fine... for "reasons."  I tossed on the cog, a shorter chain, tensioned it up so the tight spot (oval big) wasn't too tight to keep the cranks from free spinning, and for good measure, swapped the front 2.6 Forekaster for a 2.4 Aspen.

Saturday.  Smart decision or not, I joined up with a group ride in the Pisgah.  Ain't been since December somethingth, and I could feel that I was losing my thousand yard stare by riding nothing but Shart Tarck and Sad Dads™.  The Vassago Radimus Meatplow V.9 needed to be ridden, although them fresh sticky Minions were gonna make it hard to stay outta the red on the climbs.  I have my Wahoo LEDs set for heart rate zones, so I needed to do my best to stay in the oranges and outta the apples.  Aside from a few moments where I let pride mess with my plans climbing up Spencer Branch, I was a very good boy.

Some boring Shart Tarck points stuff.

Although Seth didn't do the first single speed race, he dominated the double points race last week, essentially Jimmy Superfly Snuka'ing his way from the top rope up into the top four overall.  I didn't anticipate that, so I got pushed back into sixth, and more importantly, outta the gift cards.  Fortunately, Seth is sitting the fourth race out, so with my five point lead on Daniel, I just need to keep him in sight and make sure that no more than one or two people get between us over the next two races if he finishes ahead of me.

The race itself.

Although I clipped in on the first try, I dropped back at the start trying to get on top of the big gear.  Once I got it moving, I could stand on it and get up to 23mph+ on a slight incline, so I gained it all back and went first into the left hand turn towards the finish line arch.  I hit the plastic electrical cord guard on the pavement and heard a terrible noise.  Perhaps some bit of it was loose and rattling about?

It didn't take a whole lotta effort to stay up with the leaders down the final paved downhill, although when I was spinning the gear up, I heard a noise... the same noise from before.  Uh oh.

photo cred: Pisgah Paparazzi

My mind thinks back to a Dahn Pahrs comment on FaceBook a coupla weeks ago.

Hmmm.  Surely this chain popping noise doesn't mean I'm gonna drop a chain, right?  Aside from those two unnerving pops, the first lap is proving my point.  There's only two short punchy spots on the course where I have trouble staying on top of the gear.  That said, on the sections of the course where I normally lose ground by the bushel, I'm gaining and actually opening up gaps.  I don't make great power seated, but if I can stand up three or four times on a long false flat?  I just need to be conscious of how I'm pedaling so I don't actually throw the chain off.

It's working.  It's really working.

Until it doesn't.  

Lap two, hit a little wonky dip in the gravel road and ka-chang.  Chain drop.  Stop to walk it back on, lose two spots.  Hop back on, get into the lumpy bit of woods.  Chain drop.  This is going to be a long Shart Tarck day.

That's pretty much how my last three laps go.  I'm trying to keep things less bouncy and more deliberate, but the chain makes bad noises all over the place.  I fight back a few spots, and have the next two passes planned out on the final lap.  Get Calvin on the steep part before the false flat, close to gap to Chris there, ride his wheel to the final gravel up where I can use my weight (or lack thereof) against him... time to lean into it... 

Chain drop... and it goes out over the dropout, and because the chain is so short, it doesn't leave me much slack to fight it back into place.  Instead of making my next and final two catches, I lose another place during the struggle.  Gawdammit and the salt in the wound is that I'm wearing my white gloves, and I'm seeing the results of fiddling with the dirty chain soiling my happiness in all the ways possible.  

Daniel not only beat my dick off, he put three riders between us.  Now instead of a five point advantage going into the final race, it's one point.  So if he beats me next week, it's a tie... and the tie goes to the person who finishes the last race on top.

So... I shoulda stuck with my 32 tooth non-oval ring and bought a fourteen (or at least a fifteen?) or mebbe at least over-tightened the chain at the big spot in the oval or just settled with good enough because 32 X16 was fine.  Not ideal, but fine.

But that's not me now, is it?

I set multiple PRs (if you think STRAVA is accurate), and I had my highest average heart rate at a Shart Tacrk race.  I also had my fastest lap times on laps three and four even though I was pedaling cautiously.  I coulda went faster, and it hurt way less than normal.  I lost close to a minute on the two laps I needed to stop and put the chain back on three times.  Dammit.

We got a week of rain coming up, so when I got home on Sunday, the Forekaster went back on, as well as the week one 32 X 16.  At least I've made the last race more interesting (at least for me).

2025 Winter Shart Tarck: Race три

Well...


Me... this past Sunday morning.  As appropriate as it could possibly be.

Another blessed weekend of being alive, and despite residing in North Carolina, I'm marking one month without a proper mountain bike ride in any way, shape, or form.  On top of that, and I'm probably not alone here, the last two weeks have been one of the longest years of my adult life.

All that said, I have air in my lungs, a fantastic wife person, a pretty good dog, and I've got my finger on the hour hand ready to push it forwards and get some daylight back into my life very soon.

Responsibilities and wet trails saw me just riding around town exploring new (to us) greenways with Dr Mike on Saturday.  I did little more to prepare myself or my bike for round three of Shart Tarck aside from adorning my frame with a decal refresh courtesy of Sean of the now (and has been for a short while) defunct Vertigo Cycles.

All pretty and proper and ready to be my wheels for any unforeseeable upcoming apocalyptical situation.  Sorry, I've seen The Road, and I just don't think shopping carts are the vehicle of choice.

I bet you can't even take that thing off sweet jumps.

So, a special Groundhog Day version of Shart Tarck, meaning somehow I wake up to "I Got You, Babe," and then Ned Ryerson... I mean Dr Mike* shows up to scoop me at 10:00am which is usually 10:12am... which doesn't really matter because our 11:25am start always ends up being an 11:45am start.

* Not saying there's any physical similarities between Dr Mike and Ned Ryerson (aside from glasses).  They're just the first major recurring characters in these semi-related stories.

Same call up spot at the start as last week... miss the pedal on the first stroke... mebbe this won't be Groundhog Day after all.

Get off the pavement and into the dirt as far back as I now expect to be yet everyone always asks me "what are you doing this far back?"  Get some argy bargy tangling action going on that makes me feel alive for a hot second, and then just settle into the pain of it all.

photo cred: Pisgah Paparazzi

I'm doing the math in my head... "week three of five... five laps per week... eleven laps down... fourteen to go... ninety eight bottles of beer on the wall... I need to get to that wall ASAP before more bottles should happen to fall..."

photo cred: Sara G

This must be the first lap, being followed by the tall yute who's probably going to be crushing it in a year or two and then my perpetual carrot/local nemesis Charles who will finish slightly in front of me but just out of reach because that's how the story has been written.

My eyes are mostly ahead and dead-on Daniel, because today has been announced as the double points race, and with that, he has a great opportunity to push me off the five deep wide angle podium.  My only motivation to remain on the pain train is that $40 gift card to some bike shop and my internal drive to not be a quitter, although I've quit things in the past because... burrito?  Sitting up is the same as sitting out, so I keep the efforts high, and almost pull off negative splits the whole race.  

From my prime vantage point, I can see where Daniel is faster than me, and I can also see where my advantages are.  Week three of doing the math, and it seems like as long as I can convince myself to stay in the red where I'm able to make my biscuits, the outcome will be pretty much what it has the last two weeks... 

And it is, sorta.  Daniel really made me work for it, non-series interloperSS managed to push me back yet another place on the day, and I continue to hold onto fifth overall.  I just need to keep my shit together for two more weeks.

Then comes the big moment whence I will be exalted for all my great efforts...

Me out here counting my groundhogs before they hatch.

2025 Winter Shart Tarck: Race Duas

You might think after one billionty laps of Shart Tarck racing, it's time to stop thinking "what could I be doing differently?"

You might.

I don't.

Getting dusted off the line and down the pavement forced me to make a lot of efforts to make my way up through the field last week.  Obviously a taller gear would be faster (sometimes), but how tall and will it kill me?  Only one way to find out (well, two but bear with me).

I had the 30 tooth oval hanging on a hook since I experimented with a very long time ago and came to the conclusion that I have no idea if it was any better or worse.  The 13 tooth cog came with some spacer kit I bought some time back, and I hung on to it for novelty's sake.  When would I ever want to use it?

MLK Day 2025, apparently.

It worked out as well as you might think (if you're a single speeder who can do math).  I determined it wouldn't kill me... as long as there was little to no wind (on top of a giant exposed landfill mountain)... as long as there was no energy-sucking mud (after the last ice/snow storm and a week of freeze/thaw)... as long as I don't get stuck in any slow traffic where I'd need to stay on top of the gear...

Basically, the very essence(s) of Winter Shart Tarck.

Go home, struggle to get the tiny cog off with my homemade chain whip, leave the oval on because why not?

I guess the other obvious way to have found out if this would work would be to just show up with it... and I might still... because... burrito?

I can't bring myself to write a blow-by-blow race blerhg.  I found myself in the same purgatory I was in last week.  I watched as the usual suspects rode away until they were out of sight.  My familiar nemeses were all just there outta reach, and if I tried to extend myself to do anything about it... I think the term I'm thinking of is "Sisyphean Task."

Head meets brick wall; repeat.

Look over my shoulder and the gap back to the next single speeder is so big that I'm only motivated to keep hurting myself just enough to not get caught.

Obviously (or mebbe not?), I'm probably just pissy because it's been since January 5th since I've ridden anything other than the Shart Tarck course and a few Sad Dad™ intown  rides.  I've had a fresh Minion DHF on the Vassago Radimus Meatplow V.9 for over a month, and it ain't seen dirt yet, and also a Minion DHR that still has Pisgah fairy dust on the tread from its one and only outing.  

What will dry rot first?  My tires or my brain?

Oh... did you care about the race results?  I slipped back to seventh place with two new interlopers in front of me, and because if I'm good at anything, it's attendance, so I'm now sitting in the fifth spot on the wide angle final podium.

Now to start a GoFundMe to help me prepay some lower back surgery so I can run 30X13 at least once before the series is over.

2025 Winter Shart Tarck: Race Uno

My pre-race is hardly worth pre-dumbling.  The day before day one of Winter Shart Tarck, the vast majority of the trails in the area were closed thanks to yet another round of shite weather going into the weekend.  I couldn't fathom another Sad Dad™ around town, so I grabbed the Vertigo Meatplow V.7 and headed... down to the Shart Tarck course.  Yeth, to ride a bunch of laps at a place where starting the very next day, I'd be spending every weekend... riding laps... for five weekends in a row.  It might be muddy, but I'd get to see the new course (there was a slight change to the first half mile or so), and I'd get the opportunity to truly shakedown a bike that hadn't seen much action in awhile.  Last week's attempt at a trail ride was cut short when Dr Mike and I decided that just because a trail is open doesn't mean it should be and opted for greenways and golden beers instead.

I rode fifteen miles, which was far enough for me to have lost count as to how many laps I did.  It also revealed a rear brake that needed a cup bleed/de-bubbling and a few new lines on the trail that have popped up since last year.  Oh... and the new course added a considerable amount of paved descending... which meant as soon as my heart rate and meat sticks get wound out, I'll be at quite a disadvantage to anyone who weighs more than me (almost everyone).

When I got home, I caved into the temptation of watching all the football and drinking all the beer with a frand of The Pie.  I don't usually have someone willing too watch mind-numbing amounts of sportsball with, but frand + beer + playoff games? 

Get to the race on Sunday, warm up doing the usual laps in the parking lot... and marvel at how many single speeders are in attendance.  We were the largest adult class of the day (tell me single speed is ded).  Line up to the far right at the front because I want to throw my jacket on the bleachers and not in the mud which is the only option on the left hand side if you don't have a loved one in attendance.  I joke that my plan is to go off the front and chop off the field in the hundred yards leading into the sweeping 90° turn.

Which I end up doing... hitting my highest heart rate of the day of 192 bpm in fewer than twenty seconds and accomplishing nothing more than staying out of the potential fray of banging bars with my fellow ding-a-lings.

That's the face of a 55 7/12 year old man tryna see two hundred beats per minute or perhaps the other side... whichever comes first.

Directly after that effort, the course starts its close to half mile gradual paved descent down a 1%-6% grade... and I get out-coasted to an almost mid-pack position going into the first bit of moist clay.  All I know is that so many people are in front of me, I have no idea what position I'm in... I lost count at more than ten riders.  Poop.

My "plan" is to not kill myself in the woods, but make the most of being skinny and attack all the climbs to move forward in the field.  I manage to claw back a few places here and there... while losing some of them back every time we got to the long paved downhill.  I clocked it to something close to a ten second loss I'd have to fight to get back every time we went down that gawdawful thing.

Three laps down and two to go.  The front three of the 50+ class which started a minute behind us (led by none other than Mike King) caught and passed me on the... you guessed it, gawdamm pavement.  Once we entered the trail, they kept their pace low, obviously playing a game of cat and mouse, their gap back to fourth was further than I could see without the aid of a telescope.  They couldn't have been going too hard because I managed to stay on their wheels going into the final lap.

And that's where things went (continued to go?) sideways.

I had one more single speeder in my sights, a usual local single speed nemesis, Charles.  I was going to put in one more big effort on the second-to-the-last gravel climb.   Charles had the lead group of three 50+ riders on his wheel going up the double track, so I rang my bell harder than the hunchback ever could and went up the right hand side... passing one... two... thr...

Mike King shifts to the right, I'm guessing not realizing I was there (I reckon bells are a single speed thing)... I hear someone yell ("fuck" perhaps?) and my smooth line up the right hand side of the double track becomes the soft, muddy grass on the shoulder... 

Oof.

My effort went through the roof whilst my speed decreased dramatically.  I got around Charles before we hit the top, but I paid a sizeable price.  Charles easily came around me on the false flat gravel and put an ouchy gap on me while I tried to recover from my vain attempt to make great bike race.  

Dammit. 

Look over my shoulder... and Daniel and John's battle to be first Dick-beaten is far enough behind that I can relax and lick my wounds the rest of the way home.

Which...

I got so lost in the fray of losing places on that first descent, and then all the passing and getting passed back... I never realized I was in sixth place.  Dammit.  I shoulda coulda raced smarter.  Mebbe I shoulda asked Chris if I might come around on the third lap when I thought mebbe he looked tired as opposed to waiting for the fourth lap when he announced "I'm pooped" and pulled to the side.  Instead of ringing my bell, perhaps a loud and racer boi appropriate "ON YOUR RIGHT!" mighta found me not in the weeds but cleanly passing and establishing a gap while saving some gas for a response.

A re-creation of the moment I was tryna get past Mike King (give or take three to five feet).

Thus begins five wonderful weeks of hand-wringing and second guessing that always keeps my mind occupied in the winter... which I guess is a "good activity."