The month of August begins tomorrow. That can only mean one thing. The Breck Epic is less than two weeks away. I've got my bike all boxed up, end even though this will be my fourth trip out there, my mind is reeling with minor details I need to tidy up in less then 12 days.
This year's Breck Epic will also serve as the first ever Single Speed Stage Racing World Championship. Supposedly the winner will shave his (and since we have four women vying for the female title, her) nether regions to be glued to the face of last place.
Last place can pay $50 to avoid the punitive action, and the honor will move up to second to last place and so on and so on... Not sure where the money goes. Knowing Mike McCormack, we'll make a pile of money and burn it or apply it to the bar tab at the Gold Pan Friday night. Same thing.
The single speed class is second only in size to the Men's 40+ (20 VS 24). The idea has been tossed around that perhaps we should divide up the SS field into juveniles (under 40) and elderly (over 40). Mike asked we single speeders to help decide, but being single speeders we rarely do what we're told, get involved, or do much of anything useful.
It doesn't matter to me. There are plenty of people coming that will destroy me, especially at altitude. I can come in 15th of 20 or 7th of 10. Neither accomplishment will matter when I crush all comers on the dance floor Friday night.
I'll be staying in a condo with almost half the field, the assholes from the right hand side of the country. Given that we almost have an even split, why not divide us into East Coast VS West Coast?
What say you, people of of earth? Age divisions? East Coast/West Coast post-stage rap battles? Every man (or woman) for themselves? Facial hair VS clean shaven? Hungover VS sober?
Just a weekend full of bike related activities and not enough sleep. Friday I was up late installing the newest in gadgetry on my Breck Epic bound machine. Up at 6:30AM, over to Zac's at 7:45AM, wait in the driveway for Brian who OD'ed on Benadryl the night before, and we were only on the trail at Wilson's Creek an hour late after seven stops for food, gas, and toilet usage. Just short of the classic route and a shakedown for my Breck Epic set-up before I toss it in a box and ship it out. Zac was railing all day on his now out-dated but still stupid fast Scott Genius. Right with me on the climbs locked-out and outta sight on the descents wide open.
Where's mine? The folks at Shimano and Fox offered to do a little hop-up to our bikes that I jumped on right away, so mine is in pieces again awaiting some happy parts.
Bryan on the left and Joey on the right.
Bryan's sneezing spell the night before crushed his will to live, or maybe it was the two Benadryls in the middle of the night. Joey punctured these odd things he had in his tires he called "tubes." I think they were the same things I just keep rolled up and strapped under my seat for emergencies. Maybe that's where he keeps them. Seems like they're better suited for travel under the seat.
Sunday I was up early again to try and stick to my 12 Days in 2012 pledge. There was a scheduled trail work day up at Fisher Farm in Davidson, so with only a couple days left in July, it seemed prudent to join in.
The downside to working at Fisher Farm? I spend more time working up there every year than I do riding. This does not mean that I do that much work there, just that I rarely make the 40+minute drive to that side of town for a ride.
The upside? Mark always has an agenda and can keep me busy the whole time. And he brings watermelon. My daughter likes the watermelon.
Hardly an over-the-top weekend, but at least I left out the details of grocery shopping, lawn mowing, bike washing, bike packing, women's beach volleyball watching...
And what's with the concept of Olympic beach volleyball... in London... at night... when it's cold?
Might as well be a winter sport.
I kid. I'm a fan of volley ball, and I used to play a lot in college and for a few years after when I had time for two sports in my life. It's a sport I like to watch and play, and I'll admit... I like bikinis.
Tonight is my high school class reunion. It's been 25 years since I graduated from Pymatuning Valley High School, home of the mighty Lakers. That means I've been outta high school longer than Montucky Miller's been growing his Shaggy beard.
"Zoinks Scoob. Someone's gonna have to blow the scary clown and it ain't gonna be you."
I'm not gonna make it unless I hire a private jet. Not enough time off work and competing agendas. I mean, if I had a private jet, I'd be at SSUSA up in Stowe Vermont with George, Mandy, Dough, Thom, Dejay, Montucky, Eddie, Namrita, Mudman, etc. Assholes. I got some serious first world problems. Just enough vacation time for Trans Sylvania Epic, a trip to Idaho, Breck Epic, and a short jaunt to Florida to get some early season diarrhea. Not enough to get to Vermont or to join my classmates to see who got fatter, balder, wealthier, and more successfuller.
That Club Pride stuff I was talking about?
Sure, I already have a fine selection of riding apparel from the folks at Twin Six. They've got the best cycling duds around, but sometimes I'm in the mood for something a little different. Enter Club Pride.
photo cred: Nik Fedele
Flamboyant casual sleeveless tops for the cyclist that needs to go straight from the ride to the parade.
Yeah it's made of cotton, and yeah Club Ride has already cornered the market on casual riding apparel, but this is casual with flair. No pockets, no zippers, no sleeves. All class and bedazzlement. I'm thinking if I can get these made out of a nice wicking fabric, I'd sell half dozens.
Speaking of fashion...
I saw this on facebook this morning:
Woody Harrelson reads Dirt Rag? One could only assume that Woody has read at least one, if not all of my articles. I'm a big fan of Woody, all the way back to his Woody Boyd days.
I wonder if I managed to mention him in my next article (which is still stuck in my head waiting for an epiphanous moment) would he possibly consider me for a bit part in the next Zombieland movie? I could play the role of Twinkie #3.
Something's on its way via FedEx today that will change things for me forever. Of course today would be the last day it could show up for me to get one ride on it before I box up my bike for the Breck Epic in a couple weeks.
Last night I had a dream. Peter came over to my house and started taking the Misfit diSSent Brontoawesomeous Meatplow V.5 apart and putting it in a box. Said he was taking it back. I was sad, but then a herd of otters came in the room and ate his feet. Then I was happy.
If you like to race AND you also enjoy beer, I suggest you don't read this article:
I knew some of the downsides of my favorite non-water beverage. Muddled sleep, reduced metabolism, dry mouth bleeding eye hangovers...
But this article has something like eight horrid side effects that really get into the science of it all. I will not mention any of them, lest you plan on not reading the article and tainting your ability to continue to enjoy yourselves in a most liquidy manner. I have to admit that I read the whole article yesterday while sitting around bored at work. As soon as I got home, I went straight to the fridge to drown my new found sorrows, thus hindering my glycogen replacement, increasing my fat stores, summoning the munchies, accelerating my urine output, reducing my muscle growth, increasing my cortisol levels, reducing my testosterone, and eventually ruining my good night's sleep.
I would have never known any of this had Lynda Wallenfels not posted a link to this article on facebook.
Who's Lynda? Oh, just a coach who has all kinds of successful athletes riding all over the planet. Can she ride? Yes, she's constantly winning all kinds of wicked hard mountain bike events. She's so strong that for a small fee you can ride in her pack and have a front row seat to her winning performance in a multi-day self-supported event.
I think that Lynda needs to take me on as "client gratis." What better way to prove her coaching abilities than to take a total slacker with stubborn tendencies, a lax attitude, competing priorities, and a penchant for frosty beverages and occasional cookie binges and make him into a star athlete? None more better.
I could be her masterpiece. Ms Wallenfels's Opus.
If you don't wanna read all the downsides but wanna skip to the tips on how to drink and still be awesome, jump over to page three, although they lost me with tip number one:
When I came across the line I could hear a few "Nice work, Dicky!" type comments.
"Meh" was about all I had to say about that.
I don't think I've ever finished a race with much to say. Win, podium, or totally blown out, the feeling's always pretty similar for me. I'm just really glad it's over.
This is how you should cross the line when you win:
Kelly has it down, although he didn't get his jersey zipped up (rookie). I don't think I've ever crossed the finish line with both arms in the air. I remember coming in with one fist in the air at the 2001 Prolyte (now the Burn 24 Hour Challenge). I knew that I had won, and I finished in a dramatic lightning/hail storm. Minutes later, I was checking with the results and found out that they had given me second place. I had to argue my way back to the top step of the podium, so the thrill was short lived and awkward.
Maybe that experience has left me gun shy. I'm afraid to even use the word "gun" being that it might spark a gun control debate in my comments, but that's not the guns I'm talking about...
As much as I ever think I want to win, it never feels as good as it looks on others. I gotta work on that.
On the drive home from ORAMM, I was a ball of cramps. I stopped at a Taco Bell 1.9 miles off the highway (assholes), and ordered five items at random. When I realized I forgot my empty water bottle in the car, I decided I would rather not drink than either use a throw away cup or walk back out to the car to retrieve my vessel. I'd rather cramp.
Almost fell asleep on the drive home, ate some cookies, destroyed four eggs and toast, and was passed out on the couch before 9:00PM.
I had told former Industry Nine beardface Jeff Baucom that perhaps that was enough ORAMM's for me. Eight starts, four wins, two seconds, one third, and a seventh. Too many trips up Curtis Creek Road, and too much thought process used up in the planning process. Plenty of sub-six hour finishes and none under 5:30.
Yet I know what I would do different in 2013. The last three years I slept close to the start, and the last three years I've been 7th, 2nd, and 3rd. I'd go back to sleeping in my own bed and in control of my Saturday routine. With one more failed attempt, I've also finally got a handle on the "bottle math," and I'm not sharing that secret with anyone.
On my day before pre-ride up Old 70 and down Kitsuma, I felt like I might have something special in my legs. Over a week of pedaling a geared bike in Idaho put a little more snap in the backside of my pedal stroke. This would fall into my plan nicely.
What plan?
To maintain an even pace all the way to the top of Curtis Creek Road (3 or so hours into the race) and then blow out the final two climbs of the day. In other words, blast it right before the last two big descents and put the suspension fork to good use recovering on the downs.
When I woke up at 6:00AM, I felt like ass. Regardless of my unpleasant state, I did what I could to put Jake's house back in order, considered taking the four beer payment for a night's lodging out of his fridge, and headed out the door at 6:15AM. As soon as I got to Old Fort, I went looking for Izzy's Coffee Truck. Sixteen ounces of brown in my hand, I went back to the car and suited up in my new Club Pride kit (more about that later this week... maybe).
At the start line I had a chance to look around. Kelly Klett, fresh off a three week riding vacation out west (that apparently wasn't blog worthy), was mentally prepared to make a go of a sub-5:30 SS ride time. I saw Watts Dixon amongst the SS contenders, but didn't see any other agreSSors towards the front of the start line. You never know who's gonna show up to the party.
The neutral start was more neutral than usual. Normally I get dropped off the back long before the climb gets going up Old 70. Blame that on Bryan Fawley and Garth "Now he's fucking up everybody's day" Prosser chatting it up at the front. When we smashed into the lower gate, it was game on.
I kept Kelly in sight on the way up, marking him as a potential threat. Hitting the switchbacks on lower Kitsuma, I stuck to my plan of walking/running the steeper sections to save my lower back from the punches required to hold my line up the steep face. Pre-cramp feelings were already starting in my right calf. Odd. When the trail split for a few yards, I went high to the left to let some geared riders by.
"Go ahead," I heard from behind.
"Asshole," I thought to myself.
I looked back and it was former SS stomper Captain Morgan holding a slew of geared riders at bay knowing that I could walk/run the lower sections just as fast as them if given the chance.
Thanks Captain.
Blasting down Kitsuma, I took a few chances and made a few passes. I managed to hit the pavement with Kelly in sight. Only problem being that he was in a geared train, and I was alone. Soon enough, I got a pull from a Motor City rider, but he left me as soon as the next train pulled alongside.
Captain Morgan came up and escorted me to the first aid station. Donny Kirkwood of the Pasty White Bearded Hill People was there shouting something like, "Wes has something for you!"
A few seconds later, there was Wes, King of the Pasty White Bearded Hill People, at the last section of pavement with an open 16oz can of Ranger IPA. I circled back, tossed back a gulp, and handed it back.
"You left a lot in there!!" he shouted in his royal voice.
This was not a planned beer stop. There was racing to be done. Beggar being a chooser, but I was hoping for a 12oz unopened can of something in the 5% abv range, either at Aid Station Two or Three where I could drink them on a mellow flat road... not heaving my lungs out pushing my bike up seventy thousand switchbacks.
The push up to Star Gap was as miserable as ever, and the descent down the back was as fun as always. More pre-crampy feelings that were not responsise to mustard treatment elevated my concerns. Not cramps per say, just cramps knocking on the door. The following grassy road of death section passed by just as it always does, pass some people going up and get dropped by some geared riders near the bottom of the gradual descent to Curtis Creek Road.
I picked up my two bottles at Aid Station Two, and as I was leaving, Kelly's wonderful wife Vanessa handed me a beer. Not just any beer. A Michelob Ultra... in a bottle. Was this some kind of psychological warfare? Get my hopes up, hand me a near-beer, and force me to carry an empty bottle up a ten mile climb?
To quote the prosecutor from The Wall...
"This will not do."
Regardless of possible malicious intent, I finished the beer at least a mile before I got to the sign that said "No Alcoholic Beverages." Take that "the man", although my defense was going to be "How can you consider Michelob Ultra an alcoholic beverage?" Assuming I got a can, I was going to smash it around my seatpost (my Club Pride kit has no pockets), but Vanessa foiled me with the bottle. Fortunately I managed to talk Chris Wieczorek (who was riding up and down Curtis Creek Rd training for Leadville) to dispose of my empty, thus freeing me from the burden of seven ounces of brown glass. Take that, Vanessa! (seriously, thanks for the hand-up)
I managed to get to the top only being a passer and never a passie, but as soon as I got my bottles from Aid Station Three, I was caught by Ben "Barnyard" Barnard from Revolution Cycles, NC. Who's this guy? I dropped him on the following descent down the shitty forest road, but he regained my wheel at the bottom. My pre-crampy feelings had spread to most of my lower body, so I had very little attackiness to respond with ON THE VERY CLIMB I PLANNED ON ATTACKING.
Meh.
Ben went off on the climb knowing that I'd get stupid on the descent down Heartbreak. Stupid did what stupid does, but I never managed to close it down. As a matter of fact, I never saw anybody for the last twenty miles of the race... not in front of me and not behind me.
Lotsa walking up Kitsuma, a really fun trip down, and I rolled back into Old Fort at 5:53... good enough for third place single speed, 31st overall.
Kelly Klett 5:36:18 Barnyard 5:48:27 Dicky 5:53:15
I think I'm the only one that noticed this small factoid. Back in 2010 when Thomas Turner set the previous record for men's open at 4:49, this image was shot of the finish line well before he came in (link):
gratuitously cropped photo from Off the Road Photos (official ORAMM photographers)
Jebediah Bisquick's new record time set this past Sunday? 4:33:16... freaky, right?
Last year, I did not come straight back from ORAMM with a race report. Instead you got the ORAMM Pre-Race Report, in which I went up a day early, rode the Kitsuma loop, laid in the sun for hours waiting for my roomies and dehydrating, ate too late, ended up with stomach cramps, slept with my feet under a defrosting mini-fridge, and woke up at 3:30AM soaking wet from the thighs down.
Why would I think this year would go any differently?
I went up early, but not as early as last year. I rode my loop around Kitsuma and then headed over to Old Fort to pick up my race packet. Smooth.
Jake from Industry Nine had offered me his little cabin in the woods about ten minutes from Old Fort since he was away at the Beech Mountain Downhill Nationals for the weekend. I got there, cleaned my bike with his bath towels, peed in his sink, showered with the curtain wide open, and readied myself for dinner with Garth "I now only blame him for some of my problems" Prosser. Making dinner plans with someone traveling from Ohio was not a whole lot smarter than making plans with guys who left Charlotte hours later than expected (2011). By the time Garth got in and did his Kitsuma hot lap, it was around 7:30... around eight hours since my last meal.
Fish tacos, beans, rice, piles of chips, and a Gaelic Ale, and I was back at Jake's by 8:30. Too early to go to bed, I decided to watch a movie on Netflix (Jake is a non-TV owning hippie).
Something relaxing...
After the movie, I tried to sleep on the couch. That failed, so I moved to the guest room where I was expected to sleep anyways.
11:08PM
I heard a smoke alarm go off. At least I thought that's what I heard. I looked around the house and didn't see a fire nor was the alarm still alarming. Maybe it was a dream. I went back to bed feeling a bit anxious. I lie there staring at the alarm watching the green light occasionally and ever so briefly turn red.
11:38PM
I definitely hear a smoke alarm.
Not the stupid chirp noise indicating a dead battery (at 10sec), but an alarming burst of warbles and bleeps (at 30sec). Assuming it was coming from the one in the guest room, I pulled up a chair and inspected the problem. The detector is hard wired to the ceiling. Never had I seen such a thing, but maybe the backup battery is dead. I searched Jake's house for a 9volt, but my search was to no avail.
I moved out to the couch again and shut the guest room door. I stared at one of the detectors in the living room. The green eye blinked red at me. I laid there listening to my elevated heart rate.
12:08AM
An alarm went off again. I don't know which one. Jake's got something like seven in each room of his 1,000 square foot house, Either he has been a victim of a house fire in the past, or he likes to smoke in bed and weld in his living room. Confused and bewildered, not knowing what to do, I looked all over for better sleeping options. With Jake's house lacking a sound-proof kidnapper closet (that I could find), I moved out to my car. The back of my Honda Fit was filled with two bikes, so I reclined in the front seat, which was slightly more comfortable than lying on seven layers of footballs.
Pissed.
This isn't going to work.
I realized Jake's an outdoorsy kinda guy, and he probably has a sleeping bag and a pad. I rummaged through his bedroom, and I found a sleeping bag which was being used to cover up his immense porn collection. No pad, but I managed to find a comforter in his closet under a misplaced aluminum garbage can lid.
This was the next step:
I moved out to the porch, considered the futility of it all, and posted it to facebook. I then realized that I needed to shut off all the stupid notifications on my iPhone so all the smart-ass comments that were sure to pop up wouldn't endanger my possible sleep.
I remembered that the trashcan next to the front porch was knocked over when I first got to Jake's booby-trapped cottage. Wonder if that was the wind, racoons, or a bear? No wind today, raccoons will only scratch my face, and a bear might consider me just a slightly oversized piece of garbage.
More lying awake... listening for sneaky bears.
The crickets were sooooo loud. Not as peaceful and idyllic as the movies make them out to be. I wanted to punch them all in their ugly cricket faces.
The stars were quite pretty, but given the opportunity I woulda punched them as well.
I went into the house and found my earplug (I'm deaf in one ear). I put it in although I hate to use it. My functional ear has become hyper vigilante, and I can actually hear the expanding friction of the foam insert. I started to fucking lose my shit.
I sat up and considered just staying awake. Maybe I should just go over to the start line and sleep under the Blue Ridge Adventures tent. I wanted to flip out, but I realized that if an asshole flips out in the woods and nobody is around to see it, did he really flip out?
12:53AM
I went back in the house. I pulled down a smoke detector in the guest room and inspected it. Although it was hard wired, it had a clip mechanism. I unclipped it and the hated disc made a disappointed smoke detector noise. One last act of rebellion or a call out to his fellow detectors to rise up against this unwelcome wire clipping interloper? I went ahead and took down the one in the living room that had been winking a red eye at me and took them both out to the porch. Not satisfied with that, I went back in and got a pillow and stuck them under the it just in case they reanimated.
1:16AM
I finally went to bed under Jake's fabulous guest duvet. I felt the anger leaving my body and after a half hour of trying to think happy thoughts, I finally fell asleep.
Twenty seconds later it was 6:00AM and my alarm went off. Time to get my ORAMM on.
This should have been a high quality post, but I just spent way too much time reading through the 300 something comments on the Charlotte Observer online article about a hit and run on a cyclist yesterday morning. It always goes down like this when someone on a bike gets hit by a car. The comments so far have covered the usual gambit; "ride on sidewalks, exercise in a gym, stay off the roads" rednecks versus the "we have rights too, bikes are for transportation, can't we all just get along" hippies.
photo cred: Charlotte Observer
Also thrown in for good measure, there have been racial slurs, personal attacks, hatred for fat people, anti-weed anger, taxes, generous interpretations of the law, breakfast for a four year-old, and references to Romney, Obama, Lance, and Jeff Gordon. I love Charlotte.
photo cred: WSOC
The amount of hate in the Observer discussions gets so intense it rivals some of the comments over on Bike Rumor.
photo cred: WSOC
I really hope I never get hit by a car (in a manner that gets the local media involved). Some would think this kind of news would bring some awareness to an ignorant society, but it just brings the vile hate from the haters who just need another reason to buzz the next cyclist they see or "flick a cigarette at them."
I ain't going out like that.
Perhaps this could be my statement to the media and to those that take the time to share their informed points of view.
"My name is Rich Dillen. If you are reading this, I must have been hit by a car and either am in critical condition or dead. I am a father, a husband, an all paid up taxpayer with no criminal record... or at least I was. Remember, I might be dead. I'm sure whatever happened was an accident, someone not paying attention at the right moment or perhaps not using their best judgment. Oh well, sucks for me. I was probably traveling to or from work or just doing my job at the time. I'm a bike messenger... or maybe I was. I keep forgetting I might be dead. There's a slight chance I might have been exercising my "right to the road" and my body at the same time. Either way, I'm sorry for whatever part I played in this unfortunate incident, right up to, but not including me just being outside enjoying my existence on this planet in a healthy manner with no intention to do harm to anyone nor impede their progress in pursuit of their own.
There's also a chance that someone was just trying to send me a message with a fly-by or a gently tossed bag of garbage. In that case, message received and mine own one sent."
For me this is not a Car VS Bike, Redneck VS Hippie, or Bible Thumper Tight-ass VS Anarchy Embracing Hipster thing. It's about common fucking courtesy, sharing the fucking planet, getting the fuck along, seeing someone else's point of fucking view...
The internet.
I would love to see this e-commenting community get together face to face and discuss their point of view with each other.
And then hug or something.
ORAMM this Sunday, tales of unavoidable glory on Monday.
On a very serious note, if there is COLD beer available at Aid Station's 2 and/or 3, I would be thankful to those individuals that saw to it that I was properly hydrated. I might even hug them, even if they hate cyclists.
Three more days until The Most Important Race on the International Cycling Calender, and I'm rolling at it like a freight train... that has tragically gone off the rails. Last night with The Pie at yoga class, I had the opportunity to get in some extra miles... on the way to The Spoke Easy to help them finish off the leftover beer from Friday's Zombie Alleycat. Things are not going as planned since I returned from Idaho. I was going to stay away from beer for two weeks to let my system dry out. When I got home from the STDD Remedy trip I saw that there was beer that needed to be dispatched before I started the process. Then the next night I ended up at a Roger Water's concert (BTW: the whole score of the wall can be heard here just as heard in the movie WITHOUT some of the better songs removed as on the released soundtrack).
Well then there was a trip to the grocery store where I treated myself to a onesie and then I just gave in a bought a sixer the other night... so yeah, that didn't pan out.
Normally Blue Ridge Adventures has a list of pre-registered riders published, and that gives me some targets for my pre-event blog fodder. I guess I'll just have to hope that Geoffrey "I get lost in Pisgah even though I'm a pasty white bearded hill person" Bergmark (AKA Geoffrey "The FBI is watching you... masturbate" Bergmark) will be there so I can give him another view of my ass.
Will Black will not be there as he has moved back to Texas. Something about finally being driven out of town by the continuing backlash from the 2008 Waterbottlegate affair.
I'm going into the race with a wishy-washy approach anyhow. I won my single race for 2012, so getting to that top step on the podium at ORAMM isn't really something I feel compelled to strive for this year. I do want to break 5:30, but I'm not sure that's reasonable. Looking back at the results trying to figure out what I can from the single speed times of the past, I figured Will Black woulda set the course SS record back in 2010 when he took the "W."
Not Will Black
I thought Will set a benchmark time of 5:44, but that was not faster than my 2007 time of 5:40, my best ORAMM ever... or so I thought. Last year I came in 5:38:36, but that was second to Robert Jameson's 5:34:50.
Not Robert Jameson
I guess that would be the SS course record now. FYI: 5:40 would get you a 9th overall in 2007 while a 5:34 was only good for 16th last year, just to show you that the big boys are getting faster and more numerous.
I haven't crunched that many numbers since I took an "incomplete" in Calculus II in 1989.
So yeah, 5:29:59 or bust... bust being the more likely option of the two.
Jebediah insists on tight security at any event he attends. I guess my plan to have Cameron Chambers run my number plate and dominate the race while I sleep under a shade tree down by the river waiting to take the top spot on the overall podium is now a wash. In hindsight, I shouldn't have agreed to pay him in advance.
If I wanted to win, I am certainly running out of options.
Maybe I should consider some Tour de France tactics...
Do I start thinking up excuses as to why I didn't win again, or just leave that for the drive home?
What brand of mustard should I carry?
Mustard?
Many of you know that I am a firm believer in the power of mustard when it comes to keeping cramps at bay. Never heard of it? Let me google it for you.
The science of it all is fuzzy at best. Some say it's the tumeric, others the vinegar, while a few Amish endurance athletes claim that it's the actual mustard seed that provides relief. I don't really care which it is. All I know is that I've been on the brink of a major cramping spell, pounded a pack of yellow magic, and minutes later felt like I was in a riding the luge, racing at over 100 miles per hour as the wind whips over my body.
All right, it's not really that great, but I didn't cramp.
Mustard packets is what I'm all about. Unfortunately they have to be procured in a manner that elicits all that is evil in me. Thievery and misappropriation. Maybe it's not really thievery per say, but they do just put them out there in a "take what you need" manner. There is no sign above the bin that says "only take what you need to condimentate the food purchased here and not for your future cramp relief."
I've tried all sorts of mustard, and I have to say they all seem pretty effective. It all comes down to flavor and availability.
French's is a low hanging fruit. Available at finer gas stations near the rolling wiener machine, it fills the requirements of having tumeric, mustard seed, and vinegar. It also tastes like shit when compared to classier selections available at finer fooderies.
The mustard seed may not be as "#1" as the French's and the vinegar not "distilled", but it seems to do the trick. It's not as readily available in the wild, so you may have to go out of your way to find it. Gulden's burps will definitely make you feel like you stopped at a fancy gas station for lunch.
Boar's Head Brand Delicatessen Style Mustard (with white wine)
Ingredients: Select mustard seeds, vinegar, salt, horseradish, spices, and white wine
So they have "select mustard seeds" (as the number one ingredient) but no tumeric listed unless it fell under the "spices" nomenclature. The horseradish has a certain kick, and I can tell you that if you take a preventative packet at the start line, you will feel the horseradish kick you in the face. This shit is hard to find, and I think most deli's have an Indiana Jones weight sensitive booby trap device to keep you from taking more than one at a time, so be prepared with a sandbag if you plan to fill the pockets of your sensible-in-the-desert leather jacket.
Grey Poupon Dijon Mustard
Ingredients: water, vinegar, mustard seed, salt, white wine, fruit pectin, citric acid, tartaric acid, sugar, spice
They went out on a limb with those ingredients, but they've been doing it since 1777, so the more power to them. It kinda looks like baby shit and tastes a bit like it as well. It might actually be baby shit for all I know. I have to admit that I'm only carrying Grey Poupon on the off chance that another suffering rider might ask me...
Except I would say, "Get yourself some, dickweed."
Mostly because they remind me of my most favoritist ever shitty road trip food, the Lemon Creme Sandwich cookie.
Serving size: 2.5 rows
I know everyone went gaga over the Chocolate Organic Stinger Waffles, but seriously... this one gets double nutrition points for hitting the fruits and vegetables food group as well as the cookie food group.
#crushthefoodpyramid
This past Saturday, I went out and did some pre-ORAMM training type stuff with an ex-messenger by the name of Skidaladophy. I put the latest in technology to work and recorded the ride with my STRATTA device.
Sticky Tape Radically Adhered to Top Tube Accessory (with Sharpie option)
I needed to get my head around certain STRATTA segments of the course that have been on my mind lately. I've told myself time and time again to never ride the course just before the race, as certain portions are usually quite overgrown and the descent down Heartbreak is terribly sketchy due to the limited field of vision and the decreased width of the trail corridor.
But I did it anyways, once again vowing to never do it again.
Although I rode my bike in the very manner that I had planned to race it, I decided during the ride that it was time to switch things up. Although I just put the crabon fork back on last week, I took it back off the morning after the pre-ride.
My first ORAMM on a fjork since 2004. That should make the descent down Heartbreak all the more fun, although the extra 2.whatever pounds will suck muchly on the 10,000 feet on climbing. I'm just not in the mood to do the same old same old for another year. The Fox Fjork has been most excellent, so why the fuck not ride it?
I'm not sure if all the riding I did at a somewhat elevated altitude in Idaho will help me, or if all the alcohol I drank will offset any benefits I shoulda reaped while I was there. Not to mention the fact that my nutritional needs were met in a very feast or famine matter for eight days. I'd love to have a coach, not so much so they can tell me what to do all the time, but just so they could tell me what to do after I've screwed myself up for week long periods of binging and over indulgence.
I'm going into this ORAMM not with the eye of the tiger, but more with the frenulum of the penguin. I'm not sure what that means, but I think that's the point.
I doubt anyone has every risen to glory climbing the ladder of indifference.
My Genius 40 came home to me in a cardboard box on Friday. It has been re-assembled and shown a little love over the weekend.
What do I think of this bike?
The first ride with Chopper was kinda scary. I'm sure sleep deprivation had nothing to do with it. All I did was check the seatpost height and squish the bike up and down to be sure it had functioning suspension. Getting used to full suspension, gears, and riding with an Olympian all at once was intimidating to say the least.
Before the Super Duper D race the next day, I had some time to mess with the suspension settings and cockpit/seat setback. I also swapped stems with Zac (he had a 65-70mm stem on his small) so I could get further back on the bike. 73.5° seat tube angles are a bit on the steep side for me.
photo cred: Ride Sun Valley
Most of the trails in Sun Valley were not overly technical or demanding, but they were loose and exposed with lots of tight turns. Did I ever mention my extreme fear of heights? I spent a lot of the week with the TALAS equipped fork wound down to 120mm, tightening the slack 68.5° head angle up a bit. I still wasn't sure about the rear shock air pressure setting, and I raced most of the course in the 95mm rear travel mode. With my head still not wrapped around the smaller wheels and squish yet, my race time reflected my comfort level.
Throughout the week, I kept messing with things. Tire pressure, shock settings, and the brakes. The XT brakes surprised the shit outta me. Super strong, it took a bit of a different approach using them to scrub speed. No more grabbing gobs of brake. Just a light touch was all it took to reel excess speed in. Too much pull, and the front wheel was washing across the loose terrain. Shimano product manager Matt Robertson broke down the technology that makes all this power possible and showed me how to set the brakes up for better performance. Life got much better.
The best part about the Genius?
I used the Twinloc like a madman. 150mm for full blown downhills, 95mm (rear travel) for general trail riding, and full lock out (front and rear) for extended climbs...
like this one up to Oregon Gulch.
photo cred: Matt Robertson
Climbing with the bike fully locked-out was awesome, coming from a guy who rides rigid 90% of the time.
Another groovy thing about the bike?
The Isolated Axial Pivot (IAP) keeps things tidy enough that you can drop the post as far as you want. Would I ever drop it this far? Hell no, but I'm just proving a point.
By the last day, I had the bike sorted out a little better, thanks to Nate Sibly with Scott Bikes.
photo cred: Zac Overholt
One more lift assisted run down the Super Duper D course and my confidence level went up a bit... just a bit. Yeah, jorts and a t-shirt make you feel like a super hero.
This bike, with all it's 150mm of travel, is really meant for rougher terrain than what I got to send it down. Stuff like Pisgah, Wilson's Creek, something with drops, jumps, roots, rocks... impediments to forward movement. It will be a most excellent toy to play with once I get the "season" a little more behind me. For now, I've got a busy couple of months coming up, so the Genius is gonna be hanging on the hook more than not for a bit.
The rough part about owning this bike is that five days into our trip, we rode with the Scott guys who were all aboard the 2013 Geniuses. Next year there will be no 26" version, just 650B (27.5) and a 29'er. These are both Zac and I's preferred wheel sizes respectively. They're both offered in aluminum and crabon, have adjustable geometry VIA the "shock mount chip", tapered head tube, 142X12 rear axle, re-designed rear end, a water bottle mount...
They have made my new bike obsolete in a matter of five days.
And checking out the nits to pick, I have to admit I might be more into the 650B version (don't tell anybody).
The absolute irony of my new ownership of a 6" travel wündersquish will not be known until yinzers read Dirt Rag 166ed and see just how far I can stick my literary foot into mine own mouth.
Regardless, I'm looking forward to some schralping and shredding of the gnar this fall once I can get all my racer boi business behind me for 2012.
Everybody told us that a trip to Sun Valley without a ride at Fisher Creek was not like a trip to Sun Valley at all, so we planned on going out there on Friday. As things ran their course the night before at the VIP Party, others decided to join us. By the time I woke up Friday, I was vague on just who was going to come. All I could remember was to be at some coffee shop on the corner of Washington and 2nd Street at 9:00AM.
When we got there, Matt Robertson was waiting for us. He said we were still waiting on Rob, Alex, and Joe. Rob showed up. I re-met him for the third time. He shouldn't change his clothes so often. Once Alex and Joe from Shimano arrived, we were on our way.
While sitting on the floor of the Shimano Sprinter, I looked closer at Joe's helmet that had a sticker on it.
Not just Joe. Joe Freaking Lawwill. I'm not much for hero worship, but due respect has to be given to this man. Young people may not know what I'm talking about, but he was one of the downhill pioneer types. Pretty cool.
Anyways, we had a long slog of gravel to get to the top of the descent. I took plenty of pictures. Joe took even more.
Rob managed to smash into a sign and have a major tire mechanical... on the long, wide dirt road climb to the top.
The road was littered with dilapidated structures from a time when dilapidated must have been the vogue option.
It was easy to take photos and it made the miles go by. I realized I was wearing some ironic socks given the week I had been through.
Once we finally got to the descent, Joe stopped taking seven photos a minute and swapped over to the GoPro. He hopped on Zac's wheel, and I think that was quite fortunate...
given how far Zac flew off the trail when he snagged a pedal at 1:03.
Zac lived to fight another day. He really made friends with his Scott Genius 40 and was hanging it out all week. Sure, he mighta laid it over two or three or four times and even dinged the seat stay, but he was on his game dropping me in his jet wash left and right.
Fisher Creek ended up being all that and a bag of chips. Classic Sun Valley style riding, just a bigger bite of down in one swoop. Back at the Sprinter there was... you guessed it, beer. Joe insisted on some more photos with the snow capped mountains in the background, and then we loaded up and headed back to town.
Zac took another one of his now famous power naps. I was insanely jealous of his ability to sleep on command.
On our last day in town, we planned on hitting the Super Duper D course one more time with the Scott boys and the media folks at 9:00AM. That failed on many levels, so we took to the hillside for some racing spectation.
We did manage to hit the course one more time right before the pro women's start, although it was not snag free. The amateur racers shared courses with the Super D and some of them were still out there, so we had to hang out in the woods and shoot the shit until we were allowed to finish it out.
We got back just in time to watch 6/7th of the women's race. Yes, Georgia "I gave my name tag to Zac and he didn't even give me a hug" Gould won, but there was bigger news than that.
Heather Irmiger raced in a bikini top. While I think boobs are great, I admire practicality even more. Everyone knows I eschew unnecessary fabric. Hell, I think lengthy hair is a vain luxury in cycling. When it's hot, clothing does nothing but make you hotter and less efficient (while providing ample space for sponsor logos). It's about time that the less-than-top-heavy women in the sport chuck the restraining knocker blockers and maximize their bodies cooling potential. I know some women need to keep their feed zones under control, but if you don't really got it, flaunt it.
I'm not afraid to admit that I mighta been in a bike shop in the past week looking for a women's spaghetti string tank style jersey for ORAMM.
Saturday night, we packed our bikes and bags and then headed across the street for the Sun Valley Shakedown concert. Beers, music, more bike talk... and then bed.
Anyways, that's it for the STDD Remedy Trip. There's some loose ends I'll cover next week in regards to the equipment we used, but all the nitty gritty portions are out there now.
Did we have fun? Hell yeah. I haven't ever been to a week long MTB festival before. What an incredible way to spend a week without racing (I can't consider what I did at the Super Duper D "racing"). There are over 400 miles of single track in Sun Valley, so we hardly scratched the surface. It would be so easy to spend the whole week there without ever getting in a car to go for a ride, and for that matter, to drink beer, hang out, grocery shop, whatever. Although the Nationals won't be in Sun Valley next year, I believe the Ride Sun Valley festival will be happening in 2013. Sure, you can head out there any time of year, but the Stoker Rides and camaraderie levels were certainly a reason to schedule your trip at the right time.
I miss Sun Valley so much it hurts, although this image sent to me yesterday by Cush makes me think I got out just in time.
If there's anyone in the women's field with this much chest hair, might I suggest you keep your jersey zipped up tight.
Last place can pay $50 to avoid the punitive action, and the honor will move up to second to last place and so on and so on... Not sure where the money goes. Knowing Mike McCormack, we'll make a pile of money and burn it or apply it to the bar tab at the Gold Pan Friday night. Same thing.
What say you, people of of earth? Age divisions? East Coast/West Coast post-stage rap battles? Every man (or woman) for themselves? Facial hair VS clean shaven? Hungover VS sober?
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