April Highs and Lows

After what seems like, and has been, months of this:

We had a day that was closer to this:

We weren't in short sleeves or anything, but we got to wear sunglasses with dark lenses. Sixty-five miles and five thousand feet of climbing with an assortment of teammates. We had sunshine and blue sky. Despite riding parts of this route dozens of times, for the first time we had views of the snowy Olympic mountains and chamber of commerce views of the tall buildings of Seattle.

In the afternoon I donned shorts and sandals (and a long sleeved shirt) and pretended it was summer.

I'm getting fit. I feel really good after yesterday's epic. Thank you sir, may I have another? I just need to keep pouring on the miles (with climbing mixed in). I saddle up and do it again. It wouldn't be as fast, but I could do it.

On the downside, I have to travel again. My work has taken me to some pretty cool places. I've been to Paris, London, Montreal, Munich, Rio, New York, and South Beach.

This time, I don't even get to go to beautiful and desirable Dubuque:

Not this time. I'm off to freakin Wichita. The highlight of Wichita is the Hotel Old Town:

A sharp eye will recognize the Stevie Nicks shower curtain.

I shall employ my duel talents of optimism and denial and have a good time.

Thank you sir, may I have another?

Yeah, it was that wet...

The email went out Friday. The ride rolls out from the cobbles at seven AM sharp. It was supposed to be wet. 100% chance of rain wet. I was up early and checked the radar map. The map wasn’t green; it was yellow. It was raining hard. We usually think there is fine line between stupid and epic, there was no line today; this ride would be both.

As I was gathering my stuff for the ride I spotted my camera. “Not today, it’s too wet” I said out loud. On the drive to the rendezvous, I plucked a pair of toe warmers out of the glove box. I game them a kiss before opening the pack and sticking them to my socks. The rain was slapping my windshield as I drove.

We gave each other fist bumps like most morons do just prior to all manner of foolish undertakings. It was raining pretty hard. Like solders following orders we rolled out with minimal emotion.

We stopped for a moment whilst Sam made a brief clothing adjustment. As I was stopped, a drop of water from a power line fell as if aimed by a sniper, and went down the back of my neck and chilled my whole body. A cold rain continued to fall.

I looked out across Lake Washington. It was so dark and grey it looked like a black and white photograph. The ride was going to be so epic, the story should have been told in monochrome.

As we crossed I-90 there were whitecaps and the wind was blowing. For the first time in two years I closed the pit zips on my rain jacket. Dave kept going off the front. We three chasers; El Hefe, Hardman, and Evo spent the early miles trying to catch him. It seemed to be raining harder now.

The rain was unrelenting and we found ourselves crashing through puddles the way one does the last lap of a cross race. We seemed to have a mindset of, “I’m already soaked, and it’s almost over.” The only problem was; we were not nearly done; we had just started.

We were in Medina when Dave needed to take a natural break. Considering the neighborhood, we stopped at a gas station. While Dave was using the bathroom, Hardman bought a cup of cocoa, to show some patronage while El Hefe hung out in the walk in beer cooler to try and warm up. He passed the cocoa around and we all savored a sip or two.

Dave contemplated taking a bus back home and his body language revealed how cold he was. He mentioned how his feet were soaked. The store clerk, I’ll call her Marge because I could believe she was a Marge, offered Dave her socks. She said they were men’s socks and that her feet were clean when she put them on before her shift. Even with all of the sarcasm I have, I can’t say anything except that was among the nicest things I’ve seen in a long time. It was bombing rain outside.

Dave did take her up on her offer of two plastic bags which he promptly inserted between his shoes and his failing Pearl Izumi Cyclone Shoe covers. We scarfed food in hopes of stoking a fire in our bodies and warming up. With our bellies full we again set out.

The road was being resurfaced, so it was as rough as the cobbles we had started on. We kept the pace conversational and asked about each other’s gloves and shoe covers. Today was the test for all of our gear. I opened and closed my hand. My (waterproof) gloves were soaked. The temperature was in the upper thirties. The rain wasn’t ever going to end.

We climbed out of Kirkland and my glasses fogged up. My feet were now cold. My core was still good. Our bikes were covered with road mung. They looked like they had just finished a Cyclocross race. Mud on the chain stays and seat stays and down tubes.

We stopped in Kenmore for a second natural break. Would the bathroom have hand dryers that blew warm air? No such luck. For a moment I thought the rain had stopped. It hadn’t.

As we pointed south for the return to Capital Hill we were greeted with a stiff headwind. We had the weather trifecta; cold, wet, and windy. We plodded toward home. We were on the home stretch and each of us suffering quietly. I took some solace that there would only be thirty-nine more days and thirty-nine more nights of this biblical storm.

Dave kept popping off the front, not so much because he was aggressive, but because he was trying to warm up. After passing through the University of Washington we began to climb. Standing on the pedals only served to stir the water in my shoes and pump the warm water that had been close to my pruned skin away, and draw the colder water close to my skin.

“Guys,” Dave offered in a tone that concerned us. He sounded like he was about to confess something serious. “I’m just going to go straight home and sit in my hot tub.” We continued to climb and as we neared Dave’s house he bid us farewell. I don’t know if Dave changed his clothes or just dropped his bike and stepped into his hot tub in full kit. Either way, I respect him.

Hardman, El Hefe and I stopped at Fuel and started to acknowledge reality. I wrung out my waterproof gloves and then winced at the resulting puddle. I searched in vain for my second cleat cover and had to concede I had lost it somewhere along the way. It was still raining.

We were all soaked. What was the best part of the ride? The end was the best part. We all knew exactly what we were getting into when we started. It was as rough as expected. We didn’t whine and our bravado was all tongue in cheek. The warm coffee was good, but we were so cold we knew the path to warmth involved a shower, and so our respite was brief.

I didn’t even think about putting on my soaking gloves, I just wedged them into a back pocket and rode the half-mile back to the war wagon with bare hands. At the car I plopped my wet clothes in a pile and climbed in.

I drove home sitting on a towel. Once back I had to do the full Post-Cyclocross Race routine. I hosed my clothes off and washed everything. I hosed off the black gunk that coated my rims.

The shower was welcomed and the washing machine did its job as well. My boot dryer was called to service and my shoes are there right now.

I think I’ll get up early tomorrow and do it again.

The first K is the hardest

My 2012 training miles passed the one thousand mile mark today. I am still feeling my Saturday in my legs. Saturday was a combo of 56 hard miles and yard work. I'm not sure which contributed more to my suffering, but suffer I have. Today I felt like I was always a couple gears too high. to my great surprise, as I neared home, my legs started to feel good again. Hope !

Wintertime is NOT over

We delayed the start of our ride an hour to let the storm pass. It didn't. It didn't rain the whole time, near the top of Cougar Mountain there was snow mixed in with the rain.

You know it's cold when everyone offers to pump up the flat tire.

El Jefe, who must carry some special delegation from the UCI, takes the opportunity to perform a surprise inspection to ensure Tim's bike is fully compliant.

I marvel at how many clothes I wore today and I wasn't overheating. We went long and it never made it to 40 degrees. Luckily it wasn't just wet, it was a cold wet.

The rain wasn't a problem

Bombing rain on the ride in this morning. I was dressed for it and I was fine. The evening commute was dry but windy. Really windy. Like I was riding uphill with brake drag and low pressure windy. I was slow. Uphill into a headwind is a double whammy, but downhill with a headwind is like a broken promise.

0303 2012 News and catch up

This was the shower curtain in one of my hotel rooms on my recent trip

I didn't realize Stevie Nicks had her own line of bathroom furnishings

My travel to Montreal was cool. Wichita, not so much. Next up ? Platteville, Wisconsin.

Good ride today. 55 miles, 4,500' of climbing, 2,500 calories.

You can spot the experienced winter riders around here. They have form fitting clothing (no baggy jackets). Something under their helmets to keep their heads warm. Any of a thousand options for gloves, and ragged shoe covers (no points deducted or added for duct tape).

Physical Therapy IS Torture

So when people talk about Physical Therapy most of us have images of massage and gentle stretching. That sounds kind of fun. I think the following image may be more appropriate to the actual experience:

Not only is PT hard work, but it hurts. I heard the only difference between visiting a torturer and a Physical Therapist, is that the Therapist has magazines in the lobby. Bart, a Jedi Knight among Therapists, pushes my knee is a direction it isn't supposed to go. It hurts. I try to relax, but seeing the direction he is going it makes as much sense as staring at the sun. I close my eyes and hope no tears escape.

"This is insane," I think to myself.

"Now walk around for me," Bart says like a proud papa. I get off the table and walk without a limp. I smile and shake my head. Bart knows exactly what he is doing.

I then get series after series of exercises that have my muscles quivering. I work and sweat until I receive my reward of an ice pack on my knee. Done. The road to recovery is bumpy indeed. I gotta hook up with Crash John for a ride...

ONLY riding is riding...

The hardman of the modern peloton, Jen Voigt
I had arthroscopic surgery on my right knee on the 17th. I woke up in the post op with an ice bag on my knee. I was able to walk out, but the tradition of leaving in a wheelchair seems to be a sacred cow that I decided not to challenge. After Hottie got me home we had a snow storm that was followed by freezing rain and I spent two days at home with my work computer in front of me and a different ice bag on my knee.

Remember that first ride ?

That weekend I spent twenty minutes on the trainer with no tension and it felt okay. I got the stitches out this week and went to physical therapy twice. I got on the trainer again mid week and even went to spin class yesterday. The knee is coming right along and I have been following the direction given me by my doctor and my physical therapist.

Warm sunshine, a tailwind, and all day to enjoy it...

We had a dry day today and I decided to ride a few miles on the road nice and easy, in the daylight. It was such a joy to spin my legs. It was as if I had not ridden in years. I almost felt like singing, but I elected not to ruin the moment for myself and others.

Having so much fun my jersey burst open !!

As Hottie starts her much longer road to recovery, I look forward to her being able to have that feeling of flying when she too is able to enjoy the simple joy of riding a bike.

Soon, Hottie, soon.

Forty-Eighty-Four

I broke the 4,000 mile barrier in 2011. I won't say how many miles I did ride. I think I shall follow in the footsteps of Fat Cyclist and have a contest for my countless readers to guess how many miles I did in 2011.

Write your guess on a $20 bill and mail it to me.

Happy 2012.

SCX Season Finale 2011

You gotta read it, I'm not giving anything away..

It looks like I have another arm coming out of my chest doesn't it?

Rain, rain, rain, rain dominated the days leading up to the climatic Cyclocross season finale at Monroe. My brake pads were shot so I replaced them in anticipation of a muddy, gritty secession. A couple spins up and down the street and I would be good for the race that was still a couple days away.

I did math and tried to figure out what would have to happen for me to get on the podium. You drop your lowest finish and the final was worth double points. If you took out the low races, I was fourth with 302 points and there was a guy with 301 and another with 300. Scott, who was nine points ahead of me was traveling and wasn’t sure if he would make it back. The guy with 300 points had been first or second in every race and even though he was two points behind me (he missed two races and was still in the hunt), if he showed up, he’d beat me and thereby pass me on points. I made a list of predicted finishes and I expected to end up fifth in the series.

I pumped up the mud tires, but didn’t put them on the bike. I had managed to end up with the team tent last week, so I was bringing most of the team gear and the car looked like Hottie and I were refugees.

Loaded for bear..

I hadn’t set any specific goals about trying to follow any particular rider, or make sure and beat that guy. I just wanted to race, have fun and be done. Tim and Sam showed up to cheer for Dave F and myself, which was nice. Tim was convinced I could podium. He is as much of a numbers geek as I am and he made it sound simple, “You just have to beat those guys.” I tried to argue but he would not be deterred.

I put on the mud tires and did the pre-ride. It confirmed the course was to my liking. I did grab the brakes on the screaming downhill only to realize the mud tires had narrower rims and my brakes were almost useless until I tightened the cables.

We had set up the tent and now it was raining harder and harder. Something that perplexed me last year was what to wear in hard, cold rain. If you layer under your jersey the cold water wicks through the layers in milliseconds. I pondered this all summer long and never came up with an answer.

I put on my team vest over the unitard and slathered embrocation on my legs. I selected my socks based on their being thin and wool, so they wouldn’t hold much water, thereby not adding pounds to my feet when soaked. The vest turned out to be perfect for the conditions and a question I had been asking since last December was finally answered.

At the start line I peeled off at the last minute and my teammate Tim, gathered up our muddy layers and I looked around. No spinner John. Scott was there, I wished him luck and meant it. He said he drove sixteen hours on Friday to be here to race on Sunday. There was a river of water on the right side of the starting straight away, so I took a slot on the left.

I got a decent start and hit the first sharp corner fifth or so. On the long power straight I lost some places and when we turned and began the grass climb I was about tenth.

“I gotta move up,” I said to myself and got out of the saddle. I passed riders with ease and had moved up to about forth as we hit the venue trademark down, and up off camber.

Evo running instead of crashing

I had decided to run it and dismounted early and cut it high and tight. I found myself second after that section. After a stretch of road we had a stupid steep climb and then we were in a mud bath. I was still sitting second and then we went into the mud pit of despair. There were no good lines and we were again in a bunch of five when we hit the sand.

I used my Portland riding experience and took the line where the water was. Once the ground is saturated, the water pools on top, but the surface under the water is stable and you can ride faster through those lines. I shot ahead and found myself in first. I wasn’t about to do all the work and so I just tried to ride good lines and see what happened.

Sloppppy

We crossed the finish line on the first lap and I was still in first. I wasn’t cooked, so I didn’t panic. I pushed on the long straight and waited for someone to come around. Nobody did.

On the grass climb four riders shot past me and I tried to catch the wheel of rider number four. He got a little gap, but I kept drilling it. We had a huge gap on everyone else.

When we completed the second lap the announcer said I was fourth, but I hadn’t passed anyone that I remembered. We were catching some lapped riders, but generally had clear sailing on the course.

I was ahead of Alex who was Mr. 301 and Scott was behind him. I didn’t know who was in front of me, but I was going about as fast as I could imagine. I figured the third lap was where I would either succeed or fail. I got out of the saddle after sharp turns as much for speed as to try and discourage anyone chasing me. I tried to ride smart lines and could see the riders in front of me, and those chasing me.

At the end of lap three they said I was fourth, but I still figured I was fifth.

Cyclocross can be.... Refreshing

After the grass climb I could see Alex, Scott and Dave F coming after me. I still had a gap and was pushing. I thought that if I managed to stay ahead of these guys a by-product might be catching the rider in fourth (since I was sure I was fifth).

Tim and Sam were yelling for me and it helped. I saw a Cucina rider in front of me and while I thought there had been two Cucina riders in the group of four that passed me this guy was gassed and I figured he was a lapped rider and I tried to catch him.

Cresting the run up !

I got closer and closer and then when we hit the mud pit of despair I stayed close, but kept my own line in case he crashed or stalled. After the mud I was close and then we hit the double barriers on the asphalt and I was right on him. He cut me off when he remounted and I sat behind him as we entered the sand. I had his wheel on the corner and then I exploded and passed him and kept going. There was no reaction so I assumed he was a lapped rider. I kept on it and as I approached the line they said I was third.

Slip sliding to third !

I really was third. It was my highest finish ever in a Seattle Cyclocross race. Scott finished sixth. My teammate Dave F was seventh and Alex was eighth. We all shook hands and posed for a picture or two.

I made it back to the tent and Tim told me there were showers at the restroom and I grabbed my bag and headed off to get some warmth in my bones. I was about to take off my shoes when I changed my mind and walked into the shower in full muddy kit and shoes. I undressed and dried and was getting dressed when Tim burst in and told me I had finished third in the series. I made the podium !!

I'm gonna need a bigger helmet !

I managed to beat Scott by three points. If I hadn’t beaten the last Cucina rider I would have been fourth by one point. Scott congratulated me. I told him I had been racing in this category for seven years and it was about time I got some bling. He was almost as happy for me as I was.

I made it to the podium with two minutes to spare and when they called my name I was jumping up and down like a caffeinated contestant from The Price is Right. I got a bronze colored cowbell for third (gold and silver for first and second). I also get two free races next year.

Spinner John’s teammate Alex came up to me after the race. He had clobbered me early in the season and battled me in the middle and I beat him in the last few races. He commented on my improvement and asked me what I did to make such a difference. I told him the absolute truth, “I have no idea.”

Hottie and I stuck around all day while she took pictures of the races. I had a celebratory Brat and it was okay. A while later I had a second one and that wasn’t such a good idea. It was easy to follow me that day as I kept the cowbell around my neck.

The next morning I went to spin class on a Monday for the first time in many months. I was in full team kit, which I have never done. Spinner John didn’t say a word to me as I walked in. Finally as we were warming up he asked if I had ridden the day before.

I whipped out the cowbell which had been tucked into my jersey.

“Third place on the day and third place in the series,” I shouted.

I rang the cowbell and the class clapped. Spinner John was stunned.

It was fun to get on the podium. I can think of a hundred things that are more important, or mean more, but it was fun. For a season that started under such strange circumstances, it sure ended on a high note.

Tired body and semi race report MFG #3

Does anyone work as hard to be mediocre as I do?

Weights twice a week. Fifty plus miles of bike commuting each week, some of it is pretty darn fast as well. Intervals. Spin class. Core work. Weight loss. Improved results? Not really.

To be fair, I haven't been a hundred percent. In fact I have so many parts of my body that are less than a hundred percent I can no longer do the math in my head. Still I am soldiering on and hoping for improvement.

Tonight I have aches in my knee (both knees now), low back, quads, shoulder blade, neck and hamstrings. I pushed hard on a couple parts of my commute home and I'm paying for it.

Each time I take a shower I discover a new scrape or bruise. I know how I got the cut on my left ankle, but how about the long scratch on my right calf? I don't so much mind having the cuts and bruises, but that fact that they keep surprising me makes me feel like I am putting on someone else's clothes and finding a tear in the shirt.

Let's hope the coming races bring some success. I could use it.

Of note is that in last weeks race I started in the second row and thanks to some wide parts of the course I was able to move up. Half way through the first lap I passed a guy and looked up and there was a monster gap to the leaders. I just kept plugging as I could hear Spinner John chasing me and he was absolutely suffering. I could hear him fighting in corners and getting tangled with riders, tress and tape. How did I know this about someone who was behind me you may ask? John talks out loud as he races and his grunts and groans are broadcast for all to enjoy (or not). Soon we caught the tail end of the 35 year olds and when we completed the first lap the announcer called out that I was leading the 45 plus group. I realized that when I had seen the big gap, I had taken over the lead.

I kept the gas on and lost a couple places on the second lap, but still felt good. Near the end of the second lap I came out of a corner and got out of the saddle to attack and when I cranked, the power spun out my rear wheel and I slid out and hit hard on my side. I got up and in the blink of an eye I lost five more places.

We were now in the thick of the 35 year olds and passing wasn't easy. My dear mom was out ringing a cowbell and cheering me on. For some reason I have been able to hear her voice cheering me through a crowd since I was a kid. My early effort caught up to me as did my sore back and bruised knee/quad combo. One of my teammates passed me and I cheered him on. The thought of putting out more effort to stay with him seemed impossible and I just hung on. I did out sprint a guy in the end and my overall place was better than last week, so I shouldn't complain, but I guess I just did.

The ever shifting baseline

In my profession the whole point of a baseline is to provide a benchmark that remains constant and that all activity can be measured against. My cyclocross racing life has multiple variables; hence setting a baseline for comparison is next to impossible. If you don’t believe me, see below:

IMPOSSIBLE SETTING A BASELINE FOR EVO

As you can see they are right next to each other.

The start of the Cyclocross season is always a crapshoot for me. Some years I have started and expected dramatic improvement, only to find I am finishing with the same jokers as I was last year. Last year my revelation was how stinking fast my category had become. It took me a few weeks to get moving, but I was very pleased with my campaign.

The baseline part of the equation comes as I try to balance one side of the equation (training, etc) with the other (current injuries/ailments/age). If I have better cornering technique, but lower fitness, then what will be the race outcome? If I have more miles, but less intervals, how will I finish? How can I compare this year to last year when so many variables are in play?

This year I start my season with a different kind of fitness than I have ever had in the past. While I think strengthening my back has been successful, I injured it three weeks ago and it isn’t quite a hundred percent yet. I have a solid base of weight workouts, but my plan to add intervals in September was foiled by the back injury. I have a lot of miles this year, but very few super long rides and that may be good or bad, we will find out. In RAMROD I expected to crash and burn and I flew instead. Since cross is an event lasting thirty-five to fifty minutes, my conditioning might actually be well freakishly well suited to the races ahead.

"El hefe" and Treefarm in 2009

On a personal note (and remember this blog is all about me), the events of the summer have left me emotionally worn down and I sure don’t have the fire in my belly. Old men, racing around in the mud wearing spandex, is in fact as absurd as it sounds. I can usually talk myself into taking it seriously enough, but my head isn’t there just yet. The sounds from the real challenges in life are just too loud for me to tune out right now.

Eye of the tiger ?

Spinner John has been preparing for the season like it is D-Day. He hasn’t said the words, but it is absolutely clear that he is gunning for me, me and only me. At this point I think I would almost rather have him beat me than have to listen to his excuses for not doing so. After finishing a place or two behind him in the first two races last year, I went on to destroy him the rest of the season. The result of this success was enduring an endless string of his reasons why he didn’t beat me every week.

So as I enter my seventh Cyclocross season, I might be in the best racing shape of my life. It is more likely that my fitness is on par, or below par as compared to previous years. In stark contrast to this possible high level of fitness, my hunger to compete is almost nonexistent. While my motivation to win may be in question, I sure hate to lose, so stay tuned to this station.

30-06 for 2011

The famous 30-06 cartridge has little to do with today's post. The point is I passed three thousand training miles last night on the commute home.

By the way, I caught up on my posting today.

Aw shucks. Well, as a matter of fact..

But my waist is the same as it was in High School...

The other day someone was lamenting their chronological weight gain. They then asked me how I stayed so skinny. My first impulse was to deny being skinny, but I enjoyed the moniker so I let that slide. Then I was about to dismiss the comment with a reply to the effect of, “just lucky I guess,” when I decided to be honest. “I work like hell to keep my weight down,” I said out loud. I’ve ridden almost three thousand miles so far this year, and I say “no thank you,” a lot more than I want to.

When I was younger I ate breakfast from a cereal bowl that was the size of my head. I could kill a half gallon of ice cream by myself in a day or two. I would take two sandwiches in my lunch. When our group went out to dinner, we took our total number of guys, divided by two and ordered that many extra-large pizzas. Now I eat cereal out of a dish that probably holds little more than a half a cup. I still love dessert, but again the dishes are getting smaller and smaller. I weigh myself almost every day.

Sometimes I feel hungry and I tell myself that is okay. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not any kind of pillar of self-control. It is just that the bar for what I consider indulgence is so much lower than it used to be. Last winter when one of my teammates was trying to goad us into riding farther, his comments about being wussy, or being girly-men didn’t faze me in the least. But when he asked if I had been putting on weight (which was without basis, just another attempt to coax me to ride longer that day) he hit a nerve.

I think I train pretty hard. While I don’t live a life of self-denial and endless suffering, I do try to use some judgment on my diet.

What is stunning to me is that after doing all that, I still get my butt kicked by plenty of guys who are so much fitter than me. I suppose I could lose another ten pounds and train even more, but I’m not sure I am willing to pay that price.

Cross Camp 2011

Our bikes were flying. We had trouble keeping them on the ground.



Someone asked me how training camp was and I told them it was, “fast, fun, intense, relaxing and scary.”

We had the van loaded up and FUEL coffee in our cups and we were well on our way before eight Friday morning. We lamented that we were making the journey without one of our stalwarts, who had to stay to monitor a patient following surgery. If all went well, he would be joining the reinforcements coming over Saturday. We discussed the recent Tour de France in detail and speculated on all manner of cycling minutia. There was a light but persistent mist that didn’t let up until we were high in the Cascades. We expected, or rather hoped, it would be dry and sunny on the east side of the pass. We were right/lucky and it was nice.

On route to camp

One of our team members has a vacation home on the sunny side of the Cascades and when we rolled up, he stepped out to greet us. We unloaded the bikes and dropped our bags inside. We changed shoes and rode to the local general store and bought cold sandwiches, chips and drinks. After eating we returned and dressed for an afternoon ride.

With our cross bikes between our legs we hit the trail, and the sun felt wonderful on our arms. We had not yet seen summer in Seattle, so we soaked in the sunshine with the enthusiasm of a thirsty man drinking water. We started slowly and less than five minutes from the house, Matthew had our first flat. Changing out the tube like the seasoned veteran he is, we were soon on our way loving the single track trail. There were some small rollers that were fun to power up and then carry your speed over the top and down the far side. “Flat,” was yelled from behind. This time Sam was the victim. We all took the opportunity to add a few PSI to our tires. There would be two more flats on this Friday ride and we would refer to the ride distance as “a four flat ride.”

Sam led us in a rolling, rollicking rendition of "YMCA."

The trail had some rocks that necessitated backing off on the speed at times to avoid even more snakebites (pinch flats). When the trail was good we ramped up the speed and it was pure child-like fun. We were hot, but didn’t dare complain. We stopped by the house and grabbed thongs, suits and towels and pedaled up the road to a wide spot in the Methow River and jumped in.

Part of being President is having someone else carry your supplies

Nobody can style the team kit like the man we called "Flats."

Having the sun dry your skin in five minutes was a thrill we had forgotten in this summer-less summer.

We knew the stars were aligning when we enjoyed a tailwind all the way back. With man-like communication (almost none) we all pitched in and soon we had a salad, pizza and pasta salad for dinner. I brought some cookies Hottie had baked for us (is she cool or what?) and we savored some chocolate happiness after dinner.

Saturday brought the promise of a perfect day. Once again, with nary a word eggs and toast were cooking and soon we were seated outside eating and figuring out plans. We opted for a trail hike/run that took a lightly used foot trail that zigzagged straight up the south side of the valley. As we climbed the views just got better and better. A check of the watch told us we needed to turn around and after tightening my shoe laces we dropped back to the valley floor. As we turned toward the cabin we saw the Saturday reinforcements had arrived, and now we had ten middle aged bike riders.

We repeated the lunch at the general store and then we returned and dressed for the epic of the weekend.

Sometimes a "BEFORE" photo is a good reference point

This time we went down canyon and the single track trail swung back and forth and we challenged ourselves to go faster and faster. We were snaking back and forth upwards of twenty miles an hour. I found myself altering my position on the bike to increase my stability on the bike. My thoughts jumped back and forth between, “I can’t believe how fast we are taking these turns,” to “Wow, when I do THIS with my body weight, I feel almost…stable.” Brad had billed the weekend as “cross camp” and it was actually turning out that way.

Rolling on the road..

Instead of gravel made from rocks along this trail they have recycled glass that gets heated and turns into glass pellets. These beads are like rock gravel in every way including slowing you down like an anchor being dropped. If you get the light just right, they can look like a shooting star rooster tail, and it looks sooo awesome.

Preparing for track starts on the suspension bridge.

We crossed the road onto a jeep trail on the other side. We were riding on fire roads now and in addition to weaving back and forth, it climbed in chunks and we challenged ourselves to keep the pace high. Attack, turn, turn, attack, turn, turn power on; somehow we had a rhythm going and we were flying up these hills. It felt like we were on motorcycles. Our president misjudged a hill and went down hard; ending his day. That is all I’m going to say about that.

Our flow was interrupted as we collected a few more flats and then we stopped in town to buy some more tubes and Kevin needed more sealant for his tubeless tires as well. While we were stopped I downed two more bottles of nuun-enhanced water. The day was warm and we had lots of miles ahead of us.

Don't worry about how this looks. He's a doctor.

Just as we were ready to roll, Scott looked down to see that his rear tire had flatted just sitting there. It is difficult to maintain the façade of being serious cyclists when you have this comedy of errors that we called the flat parade. Marc was nursing a sore back and el Hefe was out of commission so they abandoned in town.

The remaining eight climbed out of town on paved road and in four miles we turned off a spur and the climbing got serious fast. We were exposed, and the sun cooked us and I gave thanks for full zippers. The grade would let up to four and five percent and then return to double digit steepness. The pavement ended and still we climbed. I watched my GARMIN. It had read 2,150 when we turned off the road. My cross bike has a single 42 tooth ring on the front and my legs were working hard just to keep moving.

We passed 3,000 feet. Then we began to string out and at 3,600’ we regrouped. I drank the last of my water. After a short stretch with a mild grade it was full on once again. Everyone was hurting as the grade would not let up and when you blinked, the loose stuff caused you to spin out. It required concentration and suffering. Finally we topped out at the cattle grate at 4,750 Banker Pass.

With the climbing behind us we headed down toward water, food and showers. We had 2,900’ to drop and about a dozen miles before we could call it a day. The road down followed a river and we were in shade on loose gravel with intermittent washboard that left our teeth rattling.

We made the most out of the chance to get more flats and our tally ticked up and up. We would finish the day with nine flats spread out over 50 miles and almost 4,000 of climbing.

Dave and his back up singers

I felt great and my theory about mixing Hammer products with different products with simple sugars proved correct. Just like in Ghostbusters, don’t cross the streams.

When we finally spilled out onto the valley floor we turned west and rode like the hungry fools we were. When we got to Brad’s place Sam and Marc had been shopping and were preparing dinner.

Before I washed off my "tan."

We showered and gorged ourselves on pasta with bacon and cheese, hot dogs, a green salad, and the last of Hottie’s cookies. We all drank like fish. I had no less than six bottles of water after returning and finally felt hydrated about ten that night.

Can you say "cooked?"

I was sore and it was comforting to see the others stretching and rubbing sore muscles and sucking down ibuprofen.

Each evening was filled with tire patching..

The effort of the day made sleep a welcome friend. After the dishes were done the conversation was short and we were soon horizontal.

I rose earlier than most and whipped out a double batch of competition scones. It may have been everyone was hungry, or far from civilization, or just kind, but the scones met with grand praise.

Can you believe we're doing it again ?

With mild trepidation, we donned our kits for the Sunday ride. We again headed east retracing the beginning of our epic the previous day. Despite sore legs and tired bones, after a social roll out, the pace ramped up to a furious pace on the single track.

Bee sting to the forehead

The uphill rollers were even faster today.

A bee tried to bite Matthew on the chest, but you can't bite through STEEL...

About ten miles in we took an alternate path and climbed some super steep loose trail that required skill just to stay upright. I leaned back to maintain traction as my quads screamed for a break.

At the bottom of the "plunge." Hmm, it even sounds steep..

The trail continued sharply up and if you stopped, you would be walking to the top. Finally the grade lessened and to a person we all blurted our joy at completing the climb.

The return was equally wild, but we had grown comfortable on our cross bikes at scary speeds. When we got to the house, we quickly packed and lashed the bikes for the return trip. To save time, we drove to the wide part of the river and washed the trail dirt from our bodies. We changed clothes in the woods and soon we were on our way home.