Contest/TSE lame update

For real folks, I'm busting my balls here.

So it's not quite my balls, but I am busting shit up.

And there's only like 120 votes for Zac and I to go to Idaho.

Sad.

I put more effort into creating podium moments than most of you put into your daily constitutional.

I shat on your lack of efforts towards getting me to Idaho in time for Nationals, where I can try and make great bike race...

spectating.

120 votes needs to be 1,200 votes by tomorrow, or else I might have to get desperate.

Like pimply 11th grader looking for a prom date desperate.

Something I know nothing about.

VOTE

NOW.

please

Big freaking news!!!!!

Here's the big news. I entered a contest... sorta

All right, maybe not BIG freaking news. I entered Zac into a contest. The Sun Valley Remedy Contest.

Yeah, if Zac wins he plans on taking me with him for a week long trip in Sun Valley, Idaho. Perhaps that makes me slightly biased as to who should win this chance of a lifetime. Whatever.

Yes, this is essentially yet another Facebook judged contest. I vowed that I was through with them after last year's experiences. I know you supported my cause in March of 2011 for the Ergon Base Camp contest only to see the judges overturn your popular decision to send me to Arizona. I'm sorry they took that away from you.

Then I let you down when I gave up the political process with just days to go in the Pisgah Stage Race contest. My apologies, but the voting was coming down to the wire, and I really wanted to see Montucky Miller come to Pisgah and see what it was like to sleep in a tent... somewhere other than on his own private pallet.

So here I am, busy "racing" my brains out at the Trans-Sylvania Epic, at a time when I would rather be hanging out with my fellow wannabe's, blogging for your votes.

And I will try to do so all week long... somewhat.

Look forward to daily updates (or not) as to why you should vote for Zac and I to go to Idaho.

Let's face it, if I go to Idaho, the experience will not be hidden under a bushel basket. Oh no. I will share everything with the class in excruciating detail when I get home. Those others? Pfftttt. Maybe a little facebook action.

"Look what I just ate in Idaho"

Lame. I'm sure they will delight you with twittered accounts of their days as well.

@lamerider Had a great meal with @chopper. Ate a baked potato. #win #Iblowdonkeys #srsly


I will deliver.

VOTE HERE NOW!!!!!

And don't just vote... comment. Any comment will do, the usual stuff you throw at me, but be nice since we're talking about Zac and he has "feelings."

At the TSE...

After a massive hour of racing, I've totally secured second place in the single speed class. Time to put up my feet... or not.

Sabotage at the TSE via Elk "Hater and Fork Breaker" Elsasser.

So the news I thought I would have, I don't.

Come back tomorrow.

Until then, follow the TSE on facebook because they is all about some social mediafication.

Behind an 8 Ball

I am not recovered. That will not happen. I've been fueling the fire, drinking beer, and prepping gear.

Instead of coming home to a parade on Sunday, I walked into the door and got busy. So much to be done in order to be ready for the Trans-Sylvania Epic which starts this Sunday.

Clean the victorious Dickstickel Meatplow V.6, remove the race Industry 9's, mount up and seal a 2.25 MAXXIS Ardent on the rear (no flats this year at the TSE), stick the wheels on the Misfit diSSent Brontoawesomeous Meatplow V.5, install a cyclometer device and new Z-cages...

Yes, I plan on riding the Misfit diSSent Brontoawesomeous Meatplow V.5 at the TSE. Why?

Gut feeling?
Sense of loyalty?
Sense of guilt?
Right tool for the job?
Death threats from Peter?

Dunno.

When I close my eyes and picture what I should ride, I picture myself on the Misfit. It probably doesn't help that I've seen lots of pictures of me at the TSE on the Misfit. I'm bringing the By:Stickel as well as another rigid Niner crabon frok in case I decide a stage such as Tussey Ridge might call for said machine. I haven't done a MTB stage race on a squishy fjork since the 2004 La Ruta, so maybe that's pride I feel fuckin' with me.



Pride only hurts. It never helps. You fight through that shit. Maybe Peter looks a little too much like Marsellus Wallace, what with the injury on his bald head, his pants around his ankles, and the gag ball in his mouth.

Next, I had to prepare my toolage. I stared at the pegboard long and hard trying to figure out what to take with me.

The bench grinder might be overkill.

All this needs to go into some kind of transport friendly carrying device, but I'm waiting for the folks at Backcountry Research to come through with a miracle. We shall see if I believe in miracles. Otherwise, it all gets tossed haphazardly in an onion sack. Which means I'll have to put the onions in the sugar bowl, and then put the sugar into the flower pot, and then I'll have to plant the flower into a milk bottle....



I hope they come through and save me all the hassle.

I am still not prepared. Some things have came in the door, and others are on the way.

I got a small box and a thin envelope yesterday. The box was big enough for a snow globe, but strangely enough, it contained two Honey Stinger Chocolate Waffles and a plethora of packing material.

Two waffles? They must be aware of the fact that I bought the meal package at the TSE and need little in the way of supplemental nutrition. I did not try one last night, as all I had around to wash it down with was left over PBR from the Pisgah Eleventy-One. I think a Honey Stinger Waffle deserves better than that, especially a chocolate one. I'll save them for a time when I have a proper, chocolate compatible beer.

The thin envelope was from Bike 29. I decided at the last minute on Sunday night that I needed a new chainring for the Misfit. I called George and off the top of his head he knew he had nary a Niner ring, but a plethora of E13's in a rainbow of colors. George understands the racer's anal needs for last minute shopping/shipping, and the ring arrived yesterday.

It's a shame it didn't work.

For some odd reason, the recesses for the bolt holes were so deep that my SS chainring bolts bottomed out before they were tight. Lacking the appropriate washers and having no time to get to a shop, I tried reversing the ring which compounded all centering issues.

Gonna be a "run what you brung" or "steal something out of Dejay's molester van when he isn't looking" kinda week.

Speaking of Dejay's van, I thought I had moved up a step on the podium when I saw that he had broke down on his way eastward.

Somehow the cosmic wave got it up and running, and his trip continued...

to Breckenridge for some legal blood doping at altitude. I guess Dejay felt he needed whatever edge he could get to beat me. Awful lotta cables on that single speed, don't you think?

Weaksauce.

I'll bet his other hand is between two pillows.

I'll be loading up tomorrow, so no blogging.

Next week, I have a feeling I'll be posting up some stuff here, but not why you would think. I might have some "business" to attend to that needs your attention.

You'll know when I know.

Come back Monday, for realz.

This will probably be the last of it.

The night before the race, Miss December (AKA Layla) was stuffing her new saddle bag with her race necessities. Once she filled it with a tube, 2 CO2's, tire levers, and peanut M&M's, it was so massive that it rubbed her thighs. Not having any Awesome to spare, we did the next best yet worst thing.

The peanut M&M's did not make the cut.

My success at the 2012 Pisgah Eleventy-One has impacted the international cycling community on an emotionally turgid level. Canadian Peter of Misfit Psycles (2011 frame sponsor and 2012 50% frame sponsor) was kind enough to offer up a backhanded facebook congratulatory compliment.

They're even talking about my amazing victory over on some Greek mountain bike forum:

According to Google Translate:

"Must be known in this struggle, and apparently the Pisgah Dicky (like screaming) has the well with the legs to get up there (+ with SS)!!!

But first he lost his way and he took the first, hahaha!

Here is the loom, though the last Fox put 100ri"
Henceforth and here and now I will be knownas "Pisgah Dicky (like screaming)."

Google Translate = Fail

hahaha!

The major injury that I sustained in the fall off the side of Squirrel Gap is a nice shade of purples, greens, yellows, and reds.

That would be the side of my upper thigh shot from an angle that shields my winkie from view (Pie's orders, sorry). I have many other bruises, scrapes, cuts, and abrasions about my body, as one might expect to receive while doing a 70 mile race in the Pisgah.

As happy as I am with my result at the Pisgah Eleventy-One, I am also bothered by the fact that I let myself go to my dark place once again. It got me to thinking about the time Thom did some interviews with a few of the winnery type folks before the NUE Cohutta 100 this year asking:

"What’s the most self-defeating thought you’ve ever had during a bike race?"

Amanda Carey: "That's where the control comes in. I can't control if my legs happen to be bad, but I can control how I deal with it."

Christian Tanguy: "Goal #1 at each race: reach the finish line in one piece. "

Justin Lindine: "...conveniently I have a pretty short term memory for that kind of negativity and my stubbornness keeps me coming back."

Matt Ferrari: "But that day, if it hadn't been for the fact that I knew no other way back
to the finish other than to follow the race course, I would have dropped. Some lessons were learned."

Gerry "The Pflug" Pflug: "I’m a positive person and I also have a lot of fight in me. If something goes wrong, I fix it, forget about it and then start riding hard again. I'll eat someone if I have to in order to win."

That's the difference between me and the racers who know how to win. They learn their lessons, keep their head in the game, and are willing to eat people if they have to in order to cross the finish line in first place. When I found myself injured and fading back into oblivion, I checked out of the race, despite the fact that it was less than a third of the way over. I should know better. So much can happen in an endurance race, and what seems like the end is often just a new beginning....

Which brings me to this:

photo cred: Brado

Brado snagged this photo as I was starting the climb up Laurel. I had already attacked all the way up 1206 determined to keep the hammer down all the way to the highest point on the course in order to catch the ghost of Geoffrey Bergmark. Why? Because I managed to catch three riders after I stopped feeling sorry for myself and got my head back into the game. I should know by now that I'll never be an early model Prefontaine and lead from start to finish. My modus operandi (in the races I do well at) is always a fast start, back off and let people get out ahead, and then reel them in on the big climbs later in the day.

I need to learn patience.

Or how to eat people with no remorse.

If you remember my depressing post from last Friday, this group might look familiar.

Me (on the left, barefoot), Dan, Doug, Clayton, Paul, Don, and Ron

Yes, I used to run barefoot on our home course and a few others. It was the rigid single speed of the times. I thought about the late Dan Dunlap off and on during the race. As I descended down lower Black to the finish, my shuffle selected The Guitar Song.

Dan would have approved.

That's the last of the Pisgah Eleventy-One story.

photo cred: Watts

It was fun, but I need to get back to business. The Trans-Sylvania Epic starts Sunday, and I don't even have my make-up bag packed yet.

It's like, how much more eleven could this be?

And the answer is none.

None more eleven.

When I found out I just missed the top ten by less than 30 seconds, I was a little bummed...

Until I realized I was 11th overall.

11th overall + 1st SS = 111

Oddly enough, yesterday's post was number 1,101 on teamdicky.blogspot.com.

The eleven hundred and oneth post.

I finished the race in 7:24.

That's 444 minutes, which when divided irrelevantly by the number of checkpoints (4), you get 111.

Had enough?

Here's Sam Koerber (overall winner) and I at the finish line in a non-posed, chummy manner.

photo cred: Eric

He's thinking about taking me home and putting me to work as a garden gnome.

Sam won his race by one second. This was a real deal timing chip race that covered 111 kilometers and he won in a sprint by a real deal second. How cool is that? I was happy that I only finished 27 minutes behind him. I plan on finishing that much behind him every day at the Trans-Sylvania Epic next week. Much shorter stages, bigger gaps, good times.

Here's Zac and I having a Shirtless Club for Men moment with Garth ducking away in the background embarrassed to show his moobs.

photo cred: Eric

Sad, sad Garth.

I think Zac and I both feel a little vindicated for our tragic PMBAR experience. We had brought our A-game two weeks ago, but we just didn't get to put them to good use. Of course I feel slightly more vindicated than he does... being that I spanked him.

The podium shot:

Normally I despise (that may be too strong of a word) people who dress up in a full kit and drag their bikes up to the podium with them. Seems a bit over the top... but this was different. I swear. It's just that I was beaming with pride to be riding a frame that was designed and welded together less than five miles away from that very podium. Steve Stickel lives right around the corner from the Pisgah National Forest, and the man just knows how to build a bike that can handle that terrain. I really wanted to win this race, and I really, really wanted to do it on this bike. Not to mention on wheels that were manufactured 30 miles away with a headset that was chiseled out of aluminum less than 20 miles away. I guess I could also mention my seatpost that was welded over 1,600 miles away, but that might be pushing the whole "local" thing.

There will be more tomorrow. I might be able to squeeze four days outta this at this rate

2012 Pisgah 111K Race Report

Obviously the decision to care about my result at the Pisgah Eleventy-One started with the choice to stay in a hotel the night before the race. That was probably the only good decision I made in the weeks leading up to this past Saturday. "Training" was sporadic, my diet was poor, beers drank were numerous. I still really wanted to win this thing, so a proper night's sleep was the least I could do.

Up and at it Friday morning with a quick ride over from the hotel.

photo cred: Brado

I planned to be there early and prepared. I was halfway there. Let's just say I was early, and at the front of the line.

photo cred: Kris Kjellquist

Off the start and rolling neutral behind a police car, I stayed in the second row back. Once we turned onto the gravel, the race went live and the big boys went to town.

photo cred: Brado

I slid back into the field and watched as something like five or six single speeders slipped past me. My only slick move from the early moments of the race was speeding up towards the gate at the bottom of Clawhammer, and instead of waiting in line to squeeze around the gate, I dismounted and ducked under passing a lot of riders back... temporarily.

Climb up Clawhammer, get to the gradual descent of Buckhorn/South Mills, and hit the steep singletrack climb up Squirrel. I didn't have the punch I had weeks ago when I rode this same section, so I slowed down and even more riders made their way past me.

It's early, don't worry.

Once we started going down Squirrel, I started to make my way back up through the field. That is until I clipped a pedal, flew off the side of the trail and down the hill, smashed my left ankle into my crank, lost one of my bottles, and contused my right thigh. The wind was out of the sails. I could no longer pedal while standing without pain, and if you can't stand on a single speed in Pisgah, it's game over.

photo cred: Brado

Another single speeder gets by me. I can't figure out where his strengths lie. He's all over the place and ahead of me all the same. I blew through the first aid station twenty miles in knowing that my race was over. At the sharp turn at the intersection of Bradley and South Mills, I stopped to lay some branches and a big rock across the trail to make sure no one blew through the turn. And then Watts Dixon came along.

I rode with Watts all the way through Bradley and together we passed the random single speeder with unknown strengths and weaknesses. We climbed some of 5015 together, but part ways up, I told Watts about my inability to stand and he continued on without me. At the top, I was in no hurry to get out of the aid station. Clay Faine was volunteering, and he told me to hurry up, stop re-packing my drop bag with my empty bottles, and get back out there.

"He's only a minute ahead of you."

No idea who "he" is, but I assume it's Watts... that is until Watts catches me on the downhill outta the aid station minutes later and tells me it's Zac that's a minute ahead.

"oh."

So I spend the next long while going up Wash Creek Road telling Watts what I know, who's ahead, what I think their game plan is, the climbs, the descents... I need to have some kind of impact on the race. When the going gets tough after the turn onto Spencer Branch, he left me behind, racing towards glory.

Once I started heading down Spencer Branch, things started turning around for me. My leg started doing leg stuff without hurting. I planned on catching Watts and his rigid fork on the rough descent, but when I do, he's standing in the woods fixing a flat. A free five minute head start at minimum. Nice.

Onto the Never Ending Grassy Road of Death, I thought I saw a rider ahead. No, it's just a tree. Or is it a rider? Down Fletcher I go.

As Fletcher started to rise up towards Reservoir Road, I saw that the blur ahead was in fact a rider, a single speed rider. When I catch up to him, I see that it's one of the local single speed favorites, Marshall Hance. He said he was cramping up and probably dropping out. I hated to hear about his cramps, and I woulda offered him some mustard... had I remembered to put it in my jersey pockets. Cramps had been weighing heavily on my mind ever since I realized I had forgotten my remedy back at the car.

I leave Marshall behind and go on looking for others. When I passed through the Trace Ridge parking lot, the course marshal told me I was just a minute behind the next guy.

"Is he short with long hair?"

"Yep."

"Good, I hate him."

I don't hate Zac, but at this moment he is the object of my hate. I was not ready to begin what I considered my move, but move I must. I started up Yellow Gap at full steam and quickly caught up to Zac. We had a brief conversation, and then I stuck it hard. He knew I was just trying to look strong, because that's what you do. I knew I had to keep doing it, since looking strong means nothing if you can't back it up.

I hit 1206, and I started my planned "attack." As far as I know, Geoffrey "The FBI is watching you masturbate" Bergmark is the only one ahead of me. We've raced against each other before, and when I manage to beat him, it's on a big climb later in the race. I mashed my way up 1206 and tried to keep up the pace all the way to the top of Laurel. I passed a mess of geared riders but no Geoffrey. My fifteen kilometer all-out effort only managed to put my hamstrings into a pre-cramp quiver. There was no Geoffrey to be found.

I was confused. Was Geoffrey even in front of me? Other racers said he was ahead. Spectators and volunteers didn't know if they saw him or not. In my opinion, my attack was brutal. No way he was still out ahead, and Zac, who knows I hate climbing Laurel, will have no idea that I just sprinted to the top. I guess just getting on the podium would be nice.

Down Pilot Rock (my favorite decent in Pisgah), I was a mess. I could go fast, but in the slow technical sections, it was a different story. My shit was coming apart with more than 20K to go. I descended carefully, looking over my shoulder for Zac, Watts, or whoever might be able to take advantage of my inability to ride with flair.

Once I got to the bottom of Pilot, I rummaged through my pockets. No mustard, no gels with caffeine, only regular gels and a pack of Honey Stinger Energy Chews meant to be eaten before the start. Better late than never.

At the end of 476, the final aid station had Coke. I hemmed and hawed about the idea of wasting a whole can since I only wanted half a can. Mike Rischitelli of Suspension Experts assured me he would give the other half to another racer. I was okay with that. I told him that I wasn't having issues with going fast, just steering around things that were in the way. His delicious Coke was a life saver.

Up the Wheelchair Ramp climb, over the heinous hike-a-bike over Black Mountain, only to see my former Double Dare partner from years past Captain Morgan hitting the final descent less than a minute ahead of me. It was all downhill (almost) from there.

I was a mess coming down upper-upper Black. My brain was fried, my emotions were all over the place, and so was I. The By:Stickle bounced down the mountain as I made my way to the lower section where I sped down it's Hot Wheels track smooth surface and crossed the line having no idea how I finished.

Eric "Pisgah 111K" Honcho came over and asked me how it went.

"Meh. Where's Bergmark?"

"He went off course and dropped out."

A Pasty White Bearded Hill Person got off course? I wonder how I did...

Eric went over to the timing tent to verify what was becoming apparent.

I won.

Neat. Not as emotional as crossing the line triumphantly, but I'll take it.


Don't worry, I'll drag this one out for a few days.

A disturbance in the Force

I had the race related type dreams that I always have before a big race last night. My tent that I didn't know I even owned was difficult to set up and had extra parts. Friends from high school showed up wearing their cross country kits (the running kind).

from l-r: Dan Dunlap, Paul Schaefer, me, Doug Bryan, and his dad/our coach Gerald

That photo was taken right after we won our conference for the first time in our school's history, the last year that Pymatuning Valley had to face off against the monster truck force that was Jefferson High before they moved up a division. Good times.

What's funny (or not) about my old high school cross country days is that I struggled until my senior year to make the varsity squad. Although I would train with the same mileage that state-Champion-material-his-freshman-year Dan would, it took me four years to be good enough to be the fifth man on the squad. A bit of an improvement from being the second worst runner in Ashtubula County my freshman year, though.


Now I find myself losing sleep the night before a race because I actually think I have a chance at winning. Not a place I ever thought I'd be in back when I was some times the last runner to cross the line at a big regional event. My only hope was that I would beat this guy named Thad. Thank my lucky stars for the Thad's of the world helping me look good.

What's sad is that Dan is dead. He died in a freak accident back home. Even though he was the best runner in the state, smart as shit, allergic to wheat before it was trendy, handsome (for someone living in Ohio), and loved by all, he was super humble. I can only imagine the hole that was left in the world when he was taken from it so unexpectedly.

This line of thinking is making me sad. Stupid dreams. Why couldn't I have the dream where I have booster boots?

Anyways, the proceeds from the Pisgah Eleventy-One are going to the family of Jeff Papenfus, a local (to the mountains) who passed away well before his time. Maybe that's the connection to my dream last night.

Dunno.

I do know it's gonna be a long 111 kilometers if I can't get some happy thoughts in my head ASAP.

Seriously, I don't know where the time goes.

Rough day yesterday.

I had the time to blog, yet I chose to do none. Instead of using that opportunity to sleep in or train, I did neither.

I pissed my time away for the most part. Eventually I was overcome with some kind of motivation, and I started getting ready for this weekend's Pisgah Eleventy-One.

Six bottles in front of me like a frontal lobotomy.

That's my guess. Nine hours, six bottles, two flasks. This is based on a lot of conjecture and nonsense, a bit of logic and reason, and a healthy dose of apathy and lethargy.

Mixing drinks is hard work.

Filling flasks is tedious.

Bike racing is hard.

Regardless of my inability to enjoy the prep work involved in making great bike race, I have secured an actual bed, complete with pillows, sheets, and the opportunity to get bed bugs, for the night before the race. I am convinced that sleeping indoors for eight straight hours beats six hours of broken sleep in a hammock listening to fucked up birds that severely lack manners and reveling campers who don't have to ride 111 kilometers the next day.

I went looking for a room to share a couple days ago on Vis-à-Vis Livre. The only offer I got was from Charlotte local, Layla... also known as Miss December of the 2012 Dirt Diva calendar.

Before anyone jumps to any conclusions, Layla's husband will be joining us. You might remember him from a blog post of yore... Rodney.

He's the guy that wrecked on the jump I helped rework at the Short Track race back in January of 2011. I'm sure we'll have a lot to talk about. Perhaps he wants me to find out what gravel tastes like. We'll see.

Maybe that's the reason that I didn't sleep well last night.

It probably had more to do with the twenty No Bake cookies I ate before going to bed. Am I the only one who has No Bake night sweats?

Just me?

Thought so.

I will be camping after the race, being that I have a 12 pack of PBR to keep the birds quiet. It might also help wash down a mouthful of gravel.

Good reason to vomit

Before I get to more important matters, let me direct your attention to this:


I can't believe this is World Cup racing. It looks like the course has been set up for a kid's race. I think I read that four cross/dual slalom went the way of the Palmer and is no longer an option at the UCI level. Something about how expensive the courses were getting to build and whatnot. But this? I'd rather see them bring back old school NORBA style slalom courses down the side of a grassy ski hill with a couple jumps built out of hay bales.

"Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Someone's gonna get a rainbow jersey at this new "discipline."

Just communicating in a verbal manner...

Last Friday, I started trying to get my head around the month of May. Somehow I thought I had a weekend off between the Pisgah Eleventy-one and the Trans-Sylvania Epic. I was wrong. That will be the last time I let Mike Piazza schedule my races while consulting the Dirt Diva calendar.

It's crunch time. The tapering has begun. No more Torpedo's. Time for Summerfest. Not an easy step for me, especially given my love for all things submarinical. I'm gonna have to knuckle down and take care of some business, like right now.

Posts might be short for awhile.... well, at least short for me. Lots of things that have gone ignored and misplaced need attention and locating.

As a reminder to you folks that are about to get all awesome soon...

I've been lax lately.

This tube/CO2/tire lever has been strapped to my bike ever since I built it up almost two months ago. It's a good idea to make sure things are nice and tight once and awhile (instead of ignoring it for months), and before a big race you should go ahead and pump your tube up a little to make sure everything is kosher. Even if you tape your tube to your bike, keep it in a saddle bag, or toss it in your Camelbak, it will give you some piece of mind to know it's ready to go when you need it.

Eeeeshh. A patched tube as my main race equipment? When did that happen? I'm thinking I've been a victim of foul play... on second thought, that's the tube I flatted at the Tour de Burg last year. Guess it wasn't a bad idea to take a quick look. That slice of tube is the rubber sleeve I put around the tube for a little bit of extra protection for my lightweight thin walled spare.

Overcautious? Perhaps, but if I've learned one thing from Jeff Goldblum, it's that "life finds a way..."



That and don't get into your matter transfer device with a flying insect unless you wanna have crazy bug sex with a young Geena Davis and vomit on your food for digestive purposes.

"I'm sorry, that's disgusting."

My drop bag equipment needs prepped as well.

It's a start.

It's not much of a start, but a start nonetheless.

BTW: Crunched for time and stressed out, I opted for not only the laundry option at TSE, I also bought the food (for the first time ever). No more staring through the windows of the dining hall watching everybody fill their pie holes with burritos and all manner of glorious food.

I'm gonna eat so much that I can't even keep down a wafer thin mint.

A full'esque weekend

Friday was the annual Ride with the Mayor. I was sure to get there early enough to get an optimal position at the start line. While the mayor was in the initial breakaway, I was hanging out in limbo between the break and the main peleton. Due to the road resurfacing in progress, the course was quite technical, what with the exposed manhole covers sticking out four inches above the surface of the tarmac. Even in the face of terrible peril, I solo'ed up to the main group, pulled into the atrium with good positioning, and managed to power my way to a top five position in the breakfast line.

Zac managed a lackluster finish in the safety of the peleton, but earned his breakfast by offering to help the mayor "butter his chamois" in 2013.

After work I headed directly to my empty home, skipping an opportunity to drink beer at The Spoke Easy with John Danger Evans. I wanted to do some tire swappage before Saturday's ride at Rocky Knob. I went home, drank my own Torpedos, swapped some tires, and then was called into action by Zac for some foodage... a distance from my house that was at least 1,000 times greater than the distance from my bike room to my kitchen. With no family to keep me company all weekend, I decided to accept the challenge.

Saturday morning, I awoke bleary eyed and somewhat feeling like dookie. I loaded up the Fit with four bikes, Tim, Zac, Tumas, and myself. We headed to the Rocky Knob Mountain Bike Park for a look-see at these new trails that were creating some buzz locally. Boone natives Ian and Ryan met us there to give us a grand tour, although with the elaborate signage and kiosks, a five year old could make their way around the place, no problem.

I was sadly off my game. Perhaps I underestimated the place a little (a lot actually), and the swapping of my 2.4 Ardent to an IKON the night before was not such a good idea. Either way, the trail "challenged" me on more than one occasion.

I didn't even bother to try 75% of the options in the expert skills area.

Ryan does not have problems or excuses. He just rides everything.

I was way taken aback by just how technical the riding is up there... rocks galore on top of stunts and high speed jumps. A cornucopia of mountain biking pleasures and opportunities to fail.

My images (what little I took) from the day suck. This video will give you a better idea of what's up at Rocky Knob.



It reminded me of some of the not-so-over-the-top lines in Whistler that were part of the BC Bike Race. Strange place indeed, and I must say, if you are within a decent driving distance, you owe it to yourself to check it out.

Saturday night the Ardent 2.4 went back on the front, and it will stay there. No weight weenie tires for me at the Pisgah Eleventy-one.

Sunday morning, I woke up late, still under no pressure to be responsible with The Pie and Fajita away till much later in the day. I lollygagged about the house until I finally packed up and headed to Sure Man Branch. I broke out the Misfit as it had been almost two months since I'd ridden it last. It will see the lion's share/some of/all of/a little of the Trans-Sylvania Epic quite soon, so it's probably not a bad idea to see what rigid feels like again.

After my first loop, the guy in the parking lot next to me asked me if I knew anything about derailleurs.

His pump was strapped over his cables. I adjusted the barrel on the front and rear cables, got it shifting okay, but noticed something else was going on. His rear wheel was loose at the axle, and I had left my vice grips at home. I asked him where he bought the bike.

"Ultimate," he replied.

I could feel Ultimate's owner Mike Perry making plans to roll over in his grave later in his after-life.

I am in no way belittling this man for his bicycle selection. I am stressing the importance of the local bike shop. This is the guy that truly needs the LBS and all that it has to offer. Hopefully he'll seek it out before that bike kills him.

Fönbag Fridäy, One Ping Only

So about that Fönbag that I mentioned a week ago, started being available Monday, then I failed to elaborate on...

until today.

After the folks at Backcountry Research starting producing the Tülbags, I asked what it would take to make something like it for phones... but better.

They began their research... slowly.

I realize that many of you are already thinking "I just put my smart phone in a zip-loc bag and call it a zippity-do-da-day."

You can stop reading if you so choose. I get it, you're frugal. I am as well.

I have a huge collection of zip-loc bags. I keep them all; drop bags, bike parts, general consumer type products... you name it. If it comes in a zip-loc bag, I save the bag. They get thoroughly used until they are total shit, and then I throw them in the trash.

Zip-loc bags are also good for food and whatnot. I'm not gonna argue that.

I wanted something better than a zip-loc bag for my phone. I used to carry my not-so-smart phone in an old prototype Tülbag, but in 2011 when I upgraded my telephonic device to the 2008's, my new phone was too big for the Tülbag, so I just started throwing it in my jersey pocket while tucked neatly away inside its Otterbox.

It would get covered with sweat, and I would find grit in all kinds of spaces where it probably shouldn't be. Seemed like a bad idea to me to have the speakers and charging/docking port exposed to all that vaporous moisture.

I decided to lean a little harder on the BC peeps to make it happen, especially now that it was my problem. I wanted something that would meet the following criteria:

Simple
Durable
Grippy on one side for no-slippy-outta-pockety performance
Clear on the other so I can easily swap my Pandora station when I get sick of Slayer
Protect my phone when caught out in the rain, keep it grit free, and fit in my jersey pocket
A place to stash my I.D. and cash for beer when I bail on a ride
Big zipper pull and easy in/out opening for taking photos at a moment's notice
Affordable
Made in the USA

I didn't ask for waterPROOF. I'm not going swimming or kayaking with my phone. Waterproof means submersible, and I have no intentions to toss my phone inside and play Red October in the bathtub.



I do want something that will keep it dry in the rain, and this will do the trick. This bag was tested in many forms and prototypes in Seattle, as in "158 days of rain a year" Seattle. Seems like a great place for real world testing for this kinda thing.

There are other phone sacks out there at this point. I've looked at them. There are certain things that I don't care for that woulda added to the overall price and, to me, were pointless.

Integrated earphone jack/cord for waterproof listening? I won't be listening to my earbuds in a downpour risking my investment in said buds. I learned at the 2007 La Ruta that if you expose your buds to enough rain, they will die.

Space for tools? This is my personal opinion, but for the sake of possibly damaging my phone in a wreck, I keep the screen towards my soft, fleshy back, and I don't want metal tools involved in the collision. They'll be in my Tülbag in another pocket, thank you very much.

Exterior storage for ID, credit cards, money, etc? Why would I want that stuff outside? Dunno.

$20 would buy more beer than $5... something to keep in mind for future emergencies.

The Fönbag has an internal pocket for beer money, ID's, and sex packets.

Humpty (pronounced with an "umpty") likes his oatmeal lumpy, but keeps his crackers and licorice in a Fönbag to keep them dry for later consumption.

Bar mount? Sounds great if you do the Strava thing and need constant information, but I ride a mountain bike, and I occasionally wreck. I do not want my $400 (replacement cost) phone on my bars. I'm fine with it in my pocket for what I do, which is wreck.

I asked for two sizes; one for phones with minimal covers and one for Otterbox clad behemoths. Obviously, these would also be great protection for a camera if you're one of those people who still uses a "camera."

That's the end of my "commercial." I got what I wanted, which is a place to put my phone when I go riding without worrying about it getting FUBAR'ed.



It's simple, durable, and $14 shipped to your house. Buy it, bitch about the superiority of sandwich bags, complain that it's not iPad compatible... do what you like.

It's time for me to go ride with the mayor...

again.

Maybe this will be the year he asks me to be Vice Mayor.