Single Speed World Championship '26

Sorry for the prolonged absence, but...

Skip right past the postponed Watershed Race that I was supposed to do on Oct 4th, and with that off the table, I could focus on getting ready for Single Speed Worlds in Port Jervis NY. And by "getting ready," I mean forgetting clutch items like a rain jacket, layers, correct size gloves (?), spare shoes, etc.

I drove up to Greensboro early on Wednesday so I could watch Watts take care of last minute bike shop stuff and finish building his Vassago Maximus 32".

Inventory for dummies.

The first drop bar 32" bike on a sales floor in all of Greensboro.

Hours later, we were schralping in Danville, VA... Watts getting his first taste of the big wheels.

"I get it."

That's a rave review coming from Watts.

Brewery by a shallow creek, another brewery where I got a Ruben the last time I was there thinking I said Cuban, and a hotel not as far up the road as we anticipated, but whatevs.  Award winning breakfast buffet and all... 

I hear business is good.

The next day, we stopped in Michaux to see what the fuss was all about there.  Rocks, rocks, rocks, logs, more rocks, no trail markers, and not much in the way of speed or what grumpy old people call "stupid flow."  Unfortunately, we picked a route off of TrailForks that finished with a descent... right through private property that had a game camera in the trees at the entrance.  Not wanting to get shot or threatened by a person with a certain passion for the 2nd amendment, we chose the road more traveled (by cars).  We made it to Port Jervis after a stop in Steamtown... or The Electric City... or just plain ol' Scranton to go to a closed brewery and then an open one where I got to find out how much I don't like DJ'ed Music Bingo at full volume.

Friday was the SSWC "group ride" but with "surprises."  I knew what we were in for, being that this is my fifth rodeo... potentially the worst best group ride ever.  More than a hundred single speeders of different strengths, abilities, and blood alcohol concentrations over technical trails with varying concepts and ideas about momentum, gearing, common courtesy, and technique.  Did I expect to push up a steep hill, poach a railroad trestle high above a river, drink a beer, watch someone(s) fall off the trail, bear witness to the strangest mechanicals, and spend more time standing around than actually riding?  Yeth, but I expected anything and everything... so there's that.

Registration chaos.

Our fearless leader...

I found him alive.  No $6,669 reward came my way.  I call shenanigans.

Friday night was time for the first round of deciders for who would host for '27, which was dragging flaming kegs up and down the street behind clunkers (and between the parked cars of the innocents).

Also, a foot down competition that was supposed to get you into the finals or something or other for the champion tattoo?  Dunno.  I knew I would never win, especially in sandals on SPDs, so I entered with the sole intention to take out as many people as I could in both heats.  Someone's gotta do it.  Might as well be that guy with no intentions or chances to get to the winner tat.

Saturday.  The "race."  Three hundred something of us rode outta town, and thinking there might be an advantage to being near the front, we stayed there.

It was not.

We were ordered to remove our front wheels, leave our bikes on the ground, and head up the powerline hill through the high grass and briers to a random point carrying said front wheels.  Being the first ones there, we chose our spot on the hill... and the remaining people chose to fill in the space below us and not behind us... so now we're close to the back row.  Whatever. 

Me... iffin' I had to guess.

That would actually be the least amount of chaos we'd see that day.  

Once Dejay said "go," I walked down the hill, patiently installed my wheel, waited for Watts, started out... and charged around anyone I could get by on the gravel road... thinking Watts was locked in on my six.  Into the first trail and I'm on a train of folks stuck behind someone who's skillset must have been putting their wheel back on and choosing a better place to start than a whole mess of people. It takes a fair amount of effort for our train to uncouple and overtake this engine, but sooner or later, the trail opened up in front of me.  I'm sure Watts has gotta be following closely.

The course was marked well... I think?  We got the route info after midnight with too little time for consideration in the morning, so I didn't know that the three aid stations were just two, one you saw twice and one that doubled as the finish... so there were a fair amount of arrows here and there that caused some confusion... just about everywhere.  I came into the first aid from the wrong direction by just following arrows but somehow ahead of Josh and Buck (who also came from the same wrong direction) even though they were ahead of me since the start.  I'd passed Fuzzy and then found him coming from who knows where to join me on lower Dejay Downs to see people flying down a road instead of getting their dicks beat off on the janky rock and rootfest I'd just suffered through.  Realistically, it was impossible to know who was doing what, so no idea if Watts was ahead of me, behind me, or perhaps semi-adjacent?

IMHOMO, the trails were ideal for an SSWC course.  Challenging yet fun and varied enough to keep you from getting bored and a 20% hike-a-bike off trail for funsies. 

Obvs not my picture, as I was carrying my bike on my back La Ruta style and using my hands to claw my way up.

I have no idea what happened what with all the different interpretations of course markings, but I know I was happy to be done.  Kinda.  No Watts at the finish tho, a beer, some asking around...

I found out from several riders/witnesses that Watts decided to camp out at the final aid station and enjoy himself, so a band of merry men came with me to retrieve (join?) him and get one more rip down Painted Apron.

So... we found Watts.

Commence the shenanigans...

Ohio Josh good at the pew pew.

Costumes were encouraged.  I dressed up as 1988 Dicky.

We ended up being almost the last people to get off the course, Watts swapping his 32" bike for Cjell Mone's coaster brake bike and Josh loaned his 32" to nine foot tall Damo in exchange for a size XXXXXXXXL single speed with swapped brake levers for a bit, which provided some entertainment on the way down.

Dinner...

which we were kinda late for, so I ate a pile of Naan bread and a whole lotta green goop.

Then more BB gun activities and N/A beer chugging as '27 deciders continued, a raffle (I won a thing), and then back to the Fox 'n Hare to close the night.

The next day was a solid rainout and mega-sad regrets about leaving my rain jacket at home.  A small soddened and mildly smelly group of us rode to a mystery location down by the river tucked under an overpass for the champion showdown as well as the decider finals.

The select few were to jump in the river in the 55° rain for some paddleboard smash-up derby. 

Champions were crowned and New Mexico won the three on three on three battle royale for hosting rights.

Only adding this image of the champion tattoo presentation because when I saw me in the foreground, I realized just how badly I really, really, really need a haircut.

The rest of the day was spent with way too much time at the Fox 'n Hare followed by closing moments at Never Lost Adventures.

The long drive back was broken up with a short ride with Buck in his hometown of Harrisburg before another brewery, hotel, and the sad drive back to reality.

*le sigh*

Lorb willing and the creeks don't rise, I will 100% be there in NM next year.  I'm not aged out of a good time just yet. 

Ridge Runout: Sept '26 E'dish

Despite knowingly suffering from extreme garvel exhaustion, I succumbed to peer pressure and joined some frands heading to the third Ridge Runout Garvel event.  I haven't ridden a mountain bike since August 30th, and I've only had 1.25 rides on my new squishy Maximus, but I still figured why not?  

I guess I found out why not.

I acknowledge that jet lag is a real thing, but that said, I like to think I don't suffer human problems like hunger, sleepy, or true bliss.  That said, I didn't do a lot of what you're supposed to do to recover from time traveling backwards six hours after an international flight, and I spent most of my week yawning at work, and passing out drooling on the couch.  Yet still, I figured my body would respond appropriately when asked. 

The course had changed for the good and also the bad.  A new non-neutral start had an added climb before the long early descent that would certainly break the group up and reduce traffic issues and all the associated passing "fun" at 21 mph+.  That's the good.  The bad?  There were portions of the climb that were up a more than 20% gradient.  

Wheels, say goodbye to the bus.

Türd. Nick, and I had discussed riding this together for funsies, but I pointed out that they are much faster on the descents than I am.  Now?  They are distancing me on climb numero uno.  My heart rate is just not aligning with the effort, so I know something isn't working for me.  I did catch a glimpse of Türd ahead of me on the slight dip before the million mile descent, but that was it.

I lived through the ass and hand pounding downhill, trying to keep the weight off my saddle sore that first started rearing its ugly head the week before Girona.  Nick, Türd, and Dung were waiting at the bottom, but I mumbled something about "leaving me" or "being on my own journey."  Or at least I said it in my head.  We rolled most of the flats together, but I kept trying to get away from them, either surging ahead or falling off the back.  I just needed to suffer in my own way and get to the finish line.

When we rolled into the aid station before the long climb back home, I strongly reiterated that I'd like to be left for dead.  Türd and Dung complied, and I ate chips whilst Nick added air to his saggy front tire.  He was kind enough to roll with me for a bit before asking if I wanted company.

"No.  Please.  No."

And like that, he rolled away and left me to toil miserably up the remaining 8.9 miles of climbing solo... but at least I could listen to my Shuffle Mini whilst ticking away at the yellows, oranges, and reds on my Wahoo data acquisition device.

I don't remember the last time I sweated that profusely or suffered so much.  Obviously, I was nowhere near recovered or ready for such an endeavor, but live, learn, repeat.
 

All in all, no regrets.  I had fun hanging out afterwards, and I didn't die... so there's that.  It was a worthy event to make me stronger whilst feeling weaker and human.

And to reinforce my beliefs that bouncing back wasn't happening, Dr Mike and I went for a mountain bike ride on Sunday, and our usual 20-25 mile Whitewater Center amble quickly got cut down to 14 miles when we both admitted to each other we were absolutely whooped. 

The plan is now this:

The Pie and I are continuing the whole "ships passing in the night" thing that has been the last two weeks for almost another month.  I'm going to take this week to do as little as possible and go to bed at a decent hour to see if I can turn this thing around.  I get a weekend off, and then it's The Watershed Race followed closely by the Single Speed World Championships.  

Buenos.  Bring on the mayhem (after I catch my breath).

Jane says, "Have you seen my hubris around?" Girona Gravel-Cation '26

My head is still swimming and will probably continue to swim for awhile.

Up front, I want to thank Burke Burkentstein for planning the trip, or to put it better, coming up with the concept of a plan as no actual "plan" to ride bikes in Spain can be made unless you are entirely flexible and prepared to modify said "plan" every few minutes or so.

I also wanna thank Bill Nye and Dr Mike for being willing to constantly pivot and adapt to the ever-changing... "schedule?"  

There will be no consistent timeline established as I just babble on and on about our trip to Girona (and also Costa Brava and Barcelona).  I will spit out the positives and negatives as they come to mind.

First and most foremost, the quality of the riding was off the charts.  For the most part.  Some of the coolest gravel and sometimes trails but unfortunately we had some bush-whacking and riding on the side of a very busy highway.  We rode two days around Girona, pulled an overnighter to Costa Brava, and went on my favorite ride all week before hopping on a high speed choo choo to be tourists in Barcelona for a day.

I didn't know intimate massage was a thing in Barcelona until I was eyeballed pretty hard by an individual in a particular "come hither" manner, saw a naked man down a hallway, and then finally googled it.  Okay then.  I was more interested in the €8 hair cuts, but I figured with the language barrier, there was no way I was gonna end up looking better than the walking shit show I currently am.

I hope that one day, the Barcelona airport figures out the whole "passport/eye scan/queue/better pee before you get in line/is anyone in charge here?" thing.  Dr Mike and I had made it through the security screening, bought coffee and got yelled at for empty cups at the passport checkpoint even though there was nowhere to dispose of them.

Why are all the toilets square and engineered in such a manner that shit just sticks to the backside completely unaffected by the what seemed to be an ample flow of water?  Mebbe it was just my body's inability to process Tapas and seven tiny cups of daily coffee into anything other than roofing tar in aerosol form.

Old Town Girona was crazy town.  So historical.  So nifty.  So many places closed on any random day (or days) regardless of what Google tells you.  Finding something to eat was a daily adventure, and finding good beer was an epic quest.  There was a place that we had sought out night after night finally opening on our penultimate evening in Girona, and one person ran it all.  Took our orders, brought us our beer, and made all of our tiny plates of food stuffs.  One person.  All in a place the size of a shoe box.

Clothing optional beaches only served to open my mind.  Here we are, just sentient (by our own definition) specks in the universe, and we humans decided to invent clothes and also shame, deciding to be the only living creatures that hides body parts from each other that we all know we have.

People make living wages in the service industry.  It's like... huh?  How did we not figure that out here?

I like being around and in the company of people who smoke cigarettes.  I guess that just brings back fond memories of my dad, bars in college, and America in the '90s in general.  

We rode outta Girona proper four times in four different directions.  A few ding dongs on bikes trying to follow the dots on their computer screens whilst obeying traffic laws and attempting to follow established traffic patterns.  It was an exercise in "pack your patience pants" that was always rewarded once things got more rural (except for those "fun" moments returning to home base on highway C66, especially in high crosswinds). 

Now, peekshurs (some mine, some not).

That's right... my fucking restaurant, and I'll open it any day and any hour I choose, and I will close it if I see you even looking at it with even loose to moderate interest.

Bill Nye watering a compacted compressed tablet towel, I think... although I don't know if wash cloths exists in Spain since we got zero of them in our Air BnB.

You leave all the food options in the main concourse before going through a lengthy passport check when leaving the Barcelona airport and get stuck with giant bags of Kit Kats and a €25 pack of meat in vending machines for your lunch options.

This is a bike shop where you can buy $10k+ bikes that the baggage handlers can destroy on your trip home.

Art, I guess.

The boys went on a tour of the Basilica of the Sagrada Familia that's currently still being built and was designed in 1883 by a creative 8th grader who lived and also fever dreamed Dungeons & Dragons while watching Game of Thrones and snorting Ritalin that his older brother gave him.

I had to kill time while they were touring, so I wandered around the city exchanging money for beer and bathroom access and googling Barcelona sex work trying to solve a mystery.

These pull down doors are in front of every storefront to let you know that a place was closed and also might open some day but probably not during the hours you're there.

I got to dive into a place to watch the final kilometers of a stage of La Vuelta.  I shared the excitement with a man who was one hundred years old who had been writing his memoirs in small spiral bound notebooks.  He taught me how to poop in square toilets, so we are now pen pals.

The guys said this was a some hundreds of years old bar that Hemmingway and also Dali used to frequent.  This is also where Hemmingway first thought of the phrase "for a good time call..." and scribbled it on the bathroom wall.

I'm sure I was either expressing my joy of finding a place that was open or venting my frustration that an "open" place was closed.

Naps were more or less succumbing to exhaustion more than a planned period of rest.

I found this hat in our coastal apartment and decided this was who I was from now on.  Then I woke up and realized I had no idea how I would bring my new lifestyle back with me, so I left it for a future traveler.

I think the guys took this photo on a daily basis.

Chuggles or Chuggies... an actual craft beer bottle shop that was open once and hidden from anyone who sought it out with less than 100% intention and a strong American desire to drink an IPA.

I'm not tired.  You're tired.  Yeth, I brought shirts with sleeves in case we went somewhere fancy.

So, yeah.  Dr Mike discovered a crack in his seat stay before our last ride.  Photos from earlier in the week proved that the airline did this, but to be fair, they broke the other seat stay on the way home making things nicely symmetrical. 

One of the spots that was randomly open on a ride that wasn't really supposed to head this way but it did.

Burke learning the art of washing a bike in the apartment shower that let water flow freely and regularly into the master bedroom with the door shut.  At least they provided a mop and bucket.

Monster Energy drink?  Check.  Condoms?  Check.  Boner pills?  Check.  Blinkie butt plugs (for your safety)?  Obvs, check.

The first clothing optional beach we rolled up on during our coastal journey.  I thought I took the photo from a respectful distance, but my new phone camera was better than I thought.  Hopefully blogger compresses this appropriately.  

Bike lane by the naked people beach after a two beer lunch stop.

If you've seen Catch 22, this image has a real brothers in arms love feels.

We lucked out and someone bailed on their reservations at some restaurant that is ran outta some old boat captain's former house, and this was our dinner view.  The captain's name was not Ron, but for us, it was.

Some place we found that wasn't closed and was willing to stay open late because we like exchanging money for beer and bathrooms.

When it doubt, walk... until a motorcycle, car, or garbage truck drives along the tiny street that designed for horse drawn conveyances.  Probably still walk, lest ye get a ticket from one of the most beautiful police officers you've ever seen.

One of the few places we found that did not serve Tappas.

They grow some kind of trees outside Girona that need swamps to thrive.  This tractor is a water pump and the second biggest tourist attraction in Girona that's not a bridge.

First night at the apartment, and a bunch of grown men threw their dirty laundry... into the dryer.

First mechanical of the week... a non-functioning power meter.  Came direly close to ending the whole trip.

A point a half mile from the top of the first biggest climb of the whole trip, and where decisions had to be made and expectations scaled back by reality.  16% climbs rise faster than the price of diesel.

I think we were in a mall and looking for the Pinocchio store to turn right through to get to the food court.

Pretty sure none of us had done a dry run of fitting AND packing our bags for the overnighter (tags still attached to the bags here).  No matter how unprepared everyone else was, pretty sure I was the biggest fail.

I forgot the my Topeak frame bag did not fit with large bottles... and I brought zero regular bottles.  Then the USWE bag that I ran once came outta my travel bag with a broken strap.  I ended up filling all my pockets, stuffing the USWE pack with the barest of essentials, securing it with a zip tie (later), and strapping my flip flops, shorts, and t-shirt to my handlebars.

I didn't die, and I was able to brush my teeth and charge my phone.

Not the last time we would encounter stairs on our "route."

The only carpet fiber bike to make the whole trip unscathed.

This was a literal traffic jam on the way back to Girona from the sea.  I told him to get on the sidewalk.

From doo doo laden farm fields that almost rattled the flip flops from their semi-secure location...

to a highway where there was zero chance that semis going 90kph could give us the 1.5m of safe space unless we crawled into our own assholes (I did).

This was before we gave up on riding down a trail not trail that was littered with detritus and the scattered hopes and dreams of all the riders that came before us.

On our way to a high speed train to Barcelona on a quest to find more sun burn and beer that wasn't Estrella.

I had the most excellent time.  There is a talk of doing something like this annually, and once I get over the travel anxiety of it all, I'll probably book my flights and practice saying hello, thank you, and beer in some other language.