Captain's Blog: Star Date: 420:69

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

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

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

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

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

I FINGER THE PULSE OF THE "INDUSTRY."

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

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

Turd does magic...

As did/do Bryan (not Brian).

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

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

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

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

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

Pizza and waterfalls on day two.

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

Yeet.

Yut.

Womp womp.
 

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

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

So that's good, no?

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

Downcountry For Old Men

Credit Dr. Mike with that title (although I've been trying really hard to get his new nickname 'Prison Mike' to stick).

It feels like only yesterday that I was quietly complaining (dare I say "whimpering?") about my inability to gel with shifty bits on my squishy bike with too many clicky buttons.  Then throw on top of that my demoralizing ride a week ago in a haze of disappoint caused by my new-to-me allergies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh...

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

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

But it was encouraging nonetheless.

And the other thing...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh yeah, 

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

Two steps forward, ten sneezes back

I thought I'd come home from Moab with some extra fitness and the drive to start getting fit for the rest of the "season."

Mebbe I did.

Mebbe it didn't matter.

My sleep was all messed up from Friday to Wednesday last week.  I went to bed late Tuesday after a long bit of travel, woke, up, went to work, came home, and did much "needed" yard work.  Charlotte was ten shades more deeper into green and yellow since I'd left town.

Thursday, I was a hot mess.  Burning eyes, fire nose, scratchy throat.  Ignore it.  It can't be real.

Friday, the temperature of my mess was now blazing.  I've never been one to be drastically affected by allergies.  I just ignore my slightly despondent human condition and move on with life.  Not this time.  Head to Walgreens, throw some darts in the allergy aisle, and hope for the best.

Hope in one hand, shit in the other...

The Pie was outta town, and since we had Boppit boarding, I was looking for some Pisgah action and a continuance of this fitness I'm building.  I slept like absolute butt for the third or fourth night in a row, and woke up Saturday feeling like I should just go back to bed...

but I paid for boarding and already packed my gear and what else was I gonna do?

On the very soft pedal on the pavement from the Ranger Station to 477, I was already off the back of my frands.  Turn right onto 477 and another right on Clawhammer... nothing.  On the steep lower pitches of the climb, I can normally get my heart rate right up into the high 170s and mebbe even touch the mid 180s.  

Today?

160... if I'm lucky.

Huh.  Something is way off.

And so went the rest of my day.

I'm rarely the last to the top of a climb when I'm riding with my frands.  Not only had they dropped me, they'd been outta sight since almost the very start.  Bryan rode near me, very politely talking to a very non-respondent me.  I had nothing.

I rarely have to bail on a ride plan, and if anything, I'm the one figuring out where other riders can drop out and get back to the car ASAP.  Today, I was that guy.

Fortunately (for me, not him) Bryan was also not feeling "it" either  We both shortened our PMBAR prep epic down to a 20 mile/3.5k climbing ride and headed to the Pisgah Tavern to drown our respective sorrows.

So odd.

I can remember being at events in the past, and so-and-so dropped out because of "allergies," and all I could think was "How da fuq?"

Now I get it, and a more empathetic and very stuffy in the head me emerges more enlightened.  Here's hoping to better days ahead, because I'd already spent an entire 48 hour period going down the wormhole of how mebbe I'll never have a good day on the bike again.... because that's where my brain took me this past Saturday.

Catastrophize all the scenarios.

Moab Rocks 2022: Stage Three

Since it was "only" a three day stage race, I'd left the Squeezy Leg Bags™ at home.  Big mistake.  I figured I'd only be doing less than a hundred miles over three days, so how bad could I possible feel?

Pretty bad, apparently.

I'd not given much thought to how much my legs would be "suspending" me over all the slabby rock bits.  After two days, I felt like I'd been riding for five.  I tried napping with my legs propped up on the headboard, but there ain't no replacing the magic of  Squeezy Leg Bags™.  I'm an idiot.

So wake up when we're supposed to (this time), XL coffee, preservative pies, and drive over to the Gemini Bridges area.  Dare I say I'm familiar with the area because I rode there over two decades ago?

Let's not.

I remember the long road approach through the canyon, and I'm quickly spat out the back further than I was yesterday.  The people I've gotten used to being around got away from me... until we finally climbed up an insane grade on the road.  Get some places back, and when we get on the slabby climbs, I make my way slowly back to where I'm used to being in the field...

Well, that is until I take a wrong turn because desert happens.  I don't stray too far from the path, but by the time I heard "WRONG WAY," I came back to the trail and had to wait for the train of riders that I'd just passed earlier to go by before I could hop back on the trail.  Meh.  Gotta protect that crypto coin soil tho.

The was some respite from the slab chunk gnar in the form of meandering desert single track that gave me enough of a break to look around and grab a drink, but it was very short lived.  It was time to go right back to getting jack hammered.  I felt like every single muscle in my body was getting fully worked, to include my tongue and whatever holds one's eyeballs in their respective head part.

Oh, and then we got to the trails with cliff warning signs... so, that was pretty cool.

I spent a fair amount of time terrified with whatever might be looming to my right.  Is it a "cliff cliff" or just a "cliff-like cliff?"  I didn't wanna know.  Stay far left and keep the sphincter fully tightened.

Eventually, I popped out on the road returning us to the start finish, and because I'd been riding in a  relatively reserved manner any time I sensed cliff-related danger, I had the gas to give 'er on the climb out of the canyon and get some spots back...

Only to lose a couple of them on the flat road right before the finish.

I ended up 22nd outta 65 riders in the 50+ class (we lost five guys from day one).  Dahn got 15th outta 70 riders in the 40+ class on his squishy FS SS bike... but I'd like to point out that those fields were oddly stacked as Dahn woulda been 7th in the 30-39 and 3rd in the 20-29.

Stage racing must attract old people.

There was no SS class... although they'd had one in previous years... and we did have four people riding SS... but whatever. We have no class.  Dahn, Marcus, myself and Dave can just pretend that we were special.

I got what I really needed outta the experience.  I wanted to see how hard Moab Rocks would be on a turgid SS, and now I know.  It is.  Hard.  Like rocks and math.  The race provided me with the swift kick in the dick that I needed to start thinking about the rest of the year.  It's also convinced me that I'll probably go ahead and bring my squashed Vassago Meatplow V.9 to Breck Epic... because... burrito.  I love a challenge, but I think mebbe eight (or nine?) times is enough.

Moab Rocks 2022: Stage Two

Dahn is way more on his game than I am and already looking at results before day one nap time has a chance to begin.  I was 21st outta 70 in the 50+ class after day one.  A far sight better than the mid-pack I expected on a rigid single speed, but nothing that's gonna get me on the next season of Dancing with the Stars.  Oh well.
Enter day two. 

Dahn: "What time did you set your alarm for?"

Me:  "5:30."

Dahn: "It's 6:15."

Me: *jumps outta bed, throws on shoes and a jacket, runs over to the convenient store, returns with XL coffee and preservative pies in five minutes*

We're looking at a remote start thirty minutes north of town.  I was banking on being up with loads of time to relax, but I messed up the AM/PM thing.

Side note: We literally watched this episode of Seinfeld VIA boredom-fueled channel surfing that evening.

A 45 minute scramble and we're out the door.  Drive out to Klondike Bluffs Rd, past the start, and out to the remote finish.  Ride the three miles back to the start to stand around in the stiff breeze and get cooled down all over again to the point of shivering.  That's me.  Overrated and underdressed as always.

The long rolling start sees me spit out the back way quicker than the previous day.

To be honest, I don't remember much about Stage Two.  Once we started climbing slabby bits of rock, I made my way past other riders.  Slab, slab up.  

Slab, slab down too tho.  Let some of them riders back around.  The only relief was the occasional smooth desert single track that was nine times outta ten going straight into the headwind.  Getting to the aid station well beyond the expected mileage, I swapped my computer over to map mode to avoid getting my hopes up that the 25.5 mile stage would actually be anything close to that (it wasn't).

I got 28.19 miles and almost a thousand more feet of climbing than advertised, but this is America.  We don't complain about getting more than we paid for.  We expect it.

Instead of the previous day's recovery (beer, lunch, beer, nap, beer), I went with beer, convenient store burrito, lunch, nap, and then beer.  I'm sure that will do wonders to reduce the overwhelming sore feels I have in most of my body parts that are made with muscles and stretchy bits.

Moab Rocks 2022: Stage One

I'm still choking on the dust...

Moab truly doth rock.  That question has been answered.

Best to start at the beginning?

I've already complained about my rearranged travel before I left (thanks, American Airlines!).  Despite the challenges before us, Dahn did a diligent job driving us four hours whilst I sat in the passenger seat starving and dehydrated to get us to the registration table with fourteen minutes to spare.

After having our presence acknowledged, we checked into the Adventure Inn... which would put a roof over our heads and be serving breakfast... after we'd already be heading to the start line... but it's just a Frogger hop across four lanes of Moab traffic to a convenient store with XL coffees and preservative pies... so okay.

Stage One:

We're rolling out the door and we make it about fifteen seconds from the motel before Dahn realizes that the gear he swapped over to after the True Grit (the last time he rode the bike) was popping and clicking on his full squish SS, so...

Ominous pre-race gear swappage.

I'd already mapped the route to the start line at the school in my head, but we fell into herd mentality and followed some people who didn't know where they were going.  You know, as you would.  We eventually got to the school and sorted ourselves into the starting chute.

The day started with a no-shit thirteen (or fourteen... apparently the Canadians still haven't figured out wheel sensors since the last time I did a TR race back in '06) mile climb out Sand Flats Rd.  Once the neutral rollout vehicle pulled aside, I quickly found myself off the back of the haves and falling into the strung-out have nots.  I was more than eight miles into the climb before I remembered that I'm in one of the most beautiful parts of our fine country, and I should probably take a look at my surroundings.

My surroundings being the four inches in front of my tire.

Round a turn and I can see the road clinging to the side of a rock wall ahead and the ants climbing up it in the distance.  Further along, the surface turns visibly gray, an indicator that the road is paved... because it's too steep to hold up to erosion to not be.  I end up walking about fifty yards of blacktop.  Meh.

We finally turn off the road and on to Porcupine Rim.  I've only ever been a tourist here.  Stopping at every overlook.  Sessioning technical bits.  Taking photos.  Not this time.

I pucker my sphincter every time I can sense that I'm closer than twenty feet from potential death.  I know I can't logically fall off a cliff from this distance, but... aliens?  We get to the Snotch, and it's comical to watch grown adults sit on the steep rock face holding their bikes in awkward positions slide down on their lycra covered backsides.  From that point on, I got the experience I was looking for when I decided to come here. 

I'd never been down the Porcupine descent on a rigid single speed.  I've wondered what it would be like for more than fifteen years.

Now I know.

Great googly moogly.  I'm so used to just slam banging my way down 99% of this trail, just leaning back, pulling up, and launching off the ledges.  Now I'm hunting and pecking and doing my best to stay outta everyone's way.  I have to remind myself, I wanted this.  I needed this.  I've wanted to see how bad the Moab Rocks Stage Race would be in a turgid manner, and it's delivering in spades. Eyeballs loosening in their sockets and kidneys getting tetherballed around my spine.

Hold on for semi-dear life, and then in the most unceremonious of manners, the finish line is just there at an odd point in the desert where the land goes from one government agency to another.  We still have to ride the rest of the way down (which is 50% harrowing for me due to my fear of heights and also death) and then back into town for a 34 mile day in the legs (and arms and lower back and upper back and neck).

Lunch, beer, nap, racer social, beer...

Costco beer is still beer.

And early to bed.

I'ma hold onto the rest for next week.