I slept in today

Some people think cyclocross is boring. Can you imagine ? Give this guy a cowbell and turn him loose..... I think this was one of Santa's helpers getting rested for the big night..

Curtlo CX frame review

Proud Evo with the orange machine

I was assessing my season and had come to the realization that my bike handling skills had gone from a D to a B. It was a long time coming. Then reluctantly I realized it wasn’t me, it was the bike.

In 2009 I was fortunate enough to upgrade to a Curtlo Steel CX frame. For a completely custom frame it was very affordable and it was built by a true veteran frame builder residing in the wilderness Nirvana of Winthrop, Washington.

My past CX riding had been on three different aluminum frames. I started on a Specialized CX frame with a Campy drive train. I later sold that frame and went to a Kona Jake the Snake. I added a carbon fork and although I painted the Jake and loved the way it looked, I was forever washing out the front wheel and it just didn’t seem to want to hook up when the terrain was rough. I picked up a spare Ibex CX frame which I built into a single speed, and despite the anonymity of the Ibex bike name, that frame (to me) handled the best of the three aluminum frames. The Ibex later evolved into a commuter bike for me.

My hope was that a custom steel bike would fit me better and provide a more compliant platform. I could not imagine being any happier with the results. I wanted a more upright riding position to improve handling and a slightly sloping top tube to give some clearance without looking like a step through frame. I was able to pick my color and discussed my desired ride characteristics at length with Doug Curtiss (The “Curt” in Curtlo).

I am big for a cyclist, but I am usually able to find a decent fit at the top end of most stock frame sizes. Lucky for me, I am not tall or wide enough that I need to shop for clothing in special stores. About the only real oddity is that I run 180 cranks when I can find them, and for my cross bike I haven’t found them.

When I first saw my CX frame, it was proud to be in my team color of “Eddy” orange and sported a tall head tube, which I had said was okay. The sizing was perfect and it made going from my road bike to my cross bike painless. I had asked for the holy grail of bike building, a compliant back end for traction and comfort, and stiff front triangle so when I applied the power it went into forward progress rather than frame flex. Once again, the Curtlo frame delivered. The elegant tubes were shaped to provide the stiffness I wanted and the seat stays are gently curved to enhance the compliance. The joints are beautiful and the simple lines give the bike a timeless look that speaks class.

I had won some SRAM swag at a race a while back and had set up my commuter with SRAM Rival controls and drive train. My oldest was riding that and when I was tuning it for him I was so impressed with the ergonomics I stripped off my Campagnolo Record right shifter (and Chubby left hand brake lever) and installed the SRAM shifters. They work like a dream with my Campy Chorus back end. I picked up a Dura Ace crankset (175) with worn out rings and painted it black and coupled that with a Chris King BB to complete my Rodney King (Can’t we all just get along?”) build.

The frame is able to handle the stiff crankset, yet I can stand up for anything loose without losing traction. I still have to keep it planted to maintain grip on slippery mud uphill’s. I can roll through corners faster and with much more control than any aluminum frame. I also haven’t washed out my front end once all year. It is light and agile and the angles are perfect for cross.

A few seasons ago the guy I always found myself battling in the final lap was a fellow named Steve. I would power past him on climbs and long straights only to have him squirt past me on technical sections. I was all muscle and he had the bike handling skills. Although I haven’t seen Steve for a couple years, this season I was the one with the bike handling skills and when I combined that with the power that I still have, I was pleased with the results. Part way through the season I also made the leap to tubular tires and that was also a huge improvement. Based on the time I rode on clinchers, I am convinced the frame was fully half the equation.

Evo flying atop the Orange flash !

There is more than a little Karma packed into the frame from its builder Doug Curtiss. While some proudly point to their carbon steeds that were made far away in smelly factories by people wearing (I hope) hairnets, goggles and breathing apparatus. I feel an eerie power from the Zen that went into metal tubes that were measured, cut, ground, shaped and welded by a man whom I have met and talked with. I know the bike was made in a place where the air is fresh and the snow piles high in winter. I am honored to ride the handiwork of the artisan who crafted my bike with the same skill that he used built bikes that were ridden in the Olympics and in races around the world.

This is an awesome ride !

Say goodbye to Hollywood

Lights, camera, traction ! For what I sincerely expect will be the final time in 2009 I rolled out of my driveway a few minutes after five in the morning for a pre work training ride. The air was a brisk 34 degrees and my face felt like I had just splashed on a heaping helping of Old Spice for the first five minutes. The climb warmed me and soon only my eyes were cold.

The new batteries were a huge improvement to my feeble light, although I still yearn for the Light & Motion Stella 150N which strikes a good balance between cost and performance for my occasional pre dawn outings (and can be found on sale from time to time).

My purpose this morning was to just log some saddle time, burn calories and not go hard. I will confess I really enjoyed the last part. Especially since there was abundant frost on lawns, cars and the like, this was a day where not being in a rush was a much safer way to roll.

I am realizing that my training needs more contrast. I am riding a few days a week, but I haven’t really allowed myself many “easy” days. I need to make my hard days harder, and my easy days easier. I think I have inadvertently trained myself to go at 90% all the time.

When I left work last night the moon was rising in the east (where it usually does) and the sky was cloudless and the moon looked like a spotlight. This morning the moon was in the western sky and still as bright as ever. Even as I pulled into work this morning the moon had not yet set. It was a reminder of how short the days are now.

Next week I will be racing in Bend where it will be sunny and below freezing. While I spent all last winter perfecting the 35 degree ride, it will be colder in Bend, and I will be racing instead of just riding.

Stay tuned.

Seattle CX Series Finale Monroe Race Report

I guess I thought it meant lungging..

With mixed emotions I bid farewell to my 2009 Washington State Cyclocross campaign. It was a great year and I truly enjoyed the camaraderie of being on a team. The foolish (and I would not pass up an opportunity to be foolish) among my team will be journeying to Bend, Oregon for the Cyclocross National Championships in December.

I raced in all of the 2009 Seattle Cyclocross races as well as the warm up races of Starcrossed, the Rad Racing GP, and the Labor Day flat tire fest. I am expecting that the scene in Bend will be worthy of a report or two and I am expecting an epic final chapter to my Cross Season saga. I will therefore end my ruminations about the season and confine the balance of my report to this race.

On a last minute whim, I decided to run a local neighborhood fun run on Thanksgiving morning. Perhaps a hundred runners set off in a light grey drizzle and Zach promptly bid me adieu and shot to the front of the parade. He would finish a very honorable third. I found myself moving up and to my amazement I think I collected what has become my race place, fifteenth. The large meal later that day was uneventful, and I went to bed only a little sore from my race.

I slept in Friday, but when I did decide to get up, my legs screamed at me. My quads, my hamstrings and my calves all felt like they had been beaten with metal pipes. I ran competitively in high school and college and despite thousands of miles of cycling, and limiting my runs to a short jaunt once or twice a month, I somehow still see myself as a runner. This perception may finally be changing as it took a concerted effort to get ready to ride Sunday. Massage (thank you Hottie), Aleve, hot showers and finally a visit to the Shoreline YMCA to soak in the hot tub Saturday evening, were all aimed at getting this broken rack of bones ready to go fast Sunday morning. I’m not sure which race or illness I am still recovering from; but I spent an amazing amount of my four day weekend sleeping. The slumber helped tremendously and I was able to suit up and complete my Cyclocross mission this past Sunday.

When I was loading the final provisions into the war wagon Sunday morning the only thing that really hurt was going down the stairs. Since the only running we normally do in Cyclocross is on level ground for barriers or uphill for run ups, I figured I was safe.

I was wrong yet again. The course had a downhill-off camber-uphill sequence that looked like it would be best to run it at least on the first lap in heavy traffic.

The start was the usual circus, and I gave up some spots only to gain them back quickly on the grassy turns. I had two guys that were near me in points, Bob from Old town whom I had just snagged last week at Sedro Woolley and Francisco who I had battled most of the year. Bob and I were separated by a single (drop the lowest race) point and whoever prevailed Sunday would prevail in the series. Up on “the grassy knoll” I was chasing Francisco and Bob was chasing me. I fought to keep a gap and whenever there were hairpins I could see my teammate Mike ahead and I was on Francisco’s wheel and Bob was behind me.

When we came to the downhill-off camber-uphill challenge, I knew it was going to be painful. This first lap as everyone bunched up and grabbed their brakes to creep down the steep loose hill under some semblance of control, I dismounted and blasted down, across, and up and passed four or more riders. The downhill hurt and a patient person could search and find my contorted face on Hottie’s smugmug site and laugh at my plight.

The loose corner was best negotiated with an outrigger..

As the race wore on, Bob lost contact and Francisco and I were closing in on Mike. With half a lap to go we had gapped any other riders in our category. I sat on Francisco’s wheel and, like a hungry cat, I waited to pounce. The downhill-off camber-uphill sequence went fine and I held off till the run up. I blitzed him by taking a steep line to the left that was more like climbing a ladder than stairs but it gave me the inside line as the course turned left. I muscled through the wet sand and deep mud had a good corner coming off the hill. I stomped it on the gravel road and took the pavement of the finishing straight really, really fast. I crossed the line and I’ll check the results to see what his time was. To my amazement I wasn’t as cooked as I have been after other races. Perhaps my tender legs had kept me under control?

Hottie continued to shoot the races and got some outstanding shots on the day. I collected some swag when they started tossing it to the crowd. While I may not be able to win many awards in Cyclocross races, if they gave away finishing positions based on how well one did on jump balls, or how well one could jump and collect swag when standing among women who average less than five and a half feet tall, I’d do okay.

Woolley Cross Race Report

Davo earning his spots !

In stark contrast to last week’s race that was so close we didn’t even need to get on the freeway, this week we headed out before dawn. Seven AM saw the war wagon on the road with Hottie and I armed for our respective battles. The grey sky looked foreboding and the cold rain was relentless. This was primo Cyclocross weather.

In every other season, my business travel has taken me away and I always missed a series race or two, this year I have been in every race. Consequently I have earned enough points to be in a good position on the call up list. In the past I was always glad just to get a call up, now I am in a prime position on the second row and that is about as good as I could hope. This pathetic shot at middle aged glory has kept me pushing hard and my patient Hottie has been fully supportive of my quest.

This past week I was again flirting with the fine line between training hard and killing myself. Friday I left work early because, despite my finely honed denial skills, I suspected I was getting the flu. A ton of sleep and a lazy Saturday later, I was feeling almost okay.

Spring in rural Washington is a festival of greens. The greens can be so bright they border on florescent. Conversely, the winters in the low lands are full of fields of matted green grass and stalks of brown weeds and the skeletal remains of blackberry bushes alive under dark skies. Fallen leaves form a layer of brown decaying slimy ooze that never ever dries.

We arrived at the venue to find abandoned drafty farm buildings and the green and brown foliage described above. Everything was wet and the rain just kept coming. I opted to walk some of the course under my trusty umbrella to prolong my dry state. I saw riders out on the course warming up wearing parkas with mud stripes up their backs. This was going to be a slop fest.

I dressed and added an extra layer to peel off before the start and rode my extra wheels way, way, way out to the pit at the far end of the course. I rode the course from the pits back to the starting area. For the first time all year, I didn’t even ride a full loop of the course. I wasn’t quite a hundred percent and the cold cut me to the bone.

At the start line I checked my front tire and it felt hard so I let out a few psi. Then I felt it again and it was softer than a sponge. Big problem and maybe two minutes till the whistle. Panic time. When I had first checked it I had been leaning on my handlebars so my weight on my front tire had made it seem harder than it was. A quick dash to the Kona tent and a friendly pump from a stranger had me race ready. I returned to the starting line and took my spot. I was chatting it up with a guy from Old Town Bikes and I took off my jacket, pants and beanie and tossed them aside. The rain had slowed and I was hoping it hold off. I was wrong.

At the whistle I got a good start and was happy with my position when a few heroes shot past. Forty five year olds dreaming of glory I suppose. On the sweeping right hand downhill we were still flying from the start and a pile up on the right side made my line on the left the only place to be. Three lanes of riders merging into one lane caused me to grab my brakes.

“Holy crap,” I thought as I squeezed my brakes and felt almost nothing. I had switched out my front brakes and put on some new pads. I had meant to ride the CX bike on Friday to break in the pads, but as I said earlier, I felt poorly Friday, so I didn’t ride. I had essentially no warm up today, so my brakes were getting broken in right now! Stoooopid, I thought to myself.

The double track road had some puddles and that just led to splashes. Then the road turned muddy with large car-sized puddles. Most riders were riding single file on some grass to the right of the road but a brave soul in front of me tore through the mud and I elected to do the same. This proved smart as I passed about five riders who had been forced to slow as they took the single line to the right of the bog.

I hit the barrier/run-up combo and moved up again. Some bumpy grass took us past the pits and then another speed draining bog had to be navigated before a slippery, but straight, downhill. Then we were churning up a slippery uphill that required you to sit to keep your back wheel from spinning out and then Batman, more barriers. Then we were on a long boggy mud fest that took herculean strength to keep your bike moving even in your lowest gear. Some elected to run this but running in mud takes a ton of energy and seemed to be slightly, if at all, faster. The end of the bog brought you to a gravel road.

Before you think we were riding on a gravel road I need to clarify that while it was kind of a road, and the surface was indeed gravel, it was deep, soft, easily displaced gravel that was akin to riding in soft sand. So while the gravel did serve to clean the mud from your tires like a rock tumbler, you were still working super hard and going super slow. After what seemed like an eternity, the road firmed up and soon you were in your highest gear flying toward the pits.

Some tricky turns on slippery grass brought you to a slip and slide descent on an S-curve trail with hill on your left and a cliff with blackberry bushes below it on the right. The climb out of this ravine was slimy and required lots of power to stay upright.

Sam at the bottom of the S-Curve downhill

A couple of grassy loops and then finally onto firm double track to head back to deep speed sucking grass just before the finishing straight.

This was a power course that had a few technical sections. The steep descents were generally handled at a cautious speed and the turns, with few exceptions, were sweepers that asked for power rather than bike handling skills.

I was in between my two teammates. Mike was a few places ahead of me and Dave a few seconds behind with an Old Town rider in between. About half way through the last lap the Old Town rider who I was talking to before the start passed me. I hung on his wheel and would not let go. I passed him on the long bog and he passed me back where the gravel road firmed up. I trailed him through the pits and down the slip and slide S curve. When the grassy turns dumped onto the double track I took the left lane after he took the right. I stood on the pedals and muscled past him. I could sense him giving up and kept the power on through the grassy bog and onto the finishing straight. I finished and rolled up to my teammate Mike who had finished eleventh.

I was fifteenth on the day and the final effort had taken whatever I had left right out of me. I slumped over my bars and fought to catch my breath. The fellow I beat congratulated me and we shook hands. Dave rolled up and was as spent as the rest of us. This was his first really muddy race and he had a look of astonishment. It is hard to believe grown men and women do this for fun. This was a good race and everyone was glad the suffering was over.

The cold rain had increased during the ride and most riders, including myself were sitting second in a race with hypothermia. I left my bike at the team tent and let my pit wheels enjoy the rain as I raced back to the wagon and stripped off the muddy layers. Shoes, gloves, jersey (with number – I’d unpin that at home) and finally knees and bibs all into the wet bag. Standing on a rubber mat with a small towel on top I wrestled dry socks onto my wet feet. I put on layer upon layer as well as my thick beanie and warm gloves. I looked around to see other riders performing their post race rituals. A woman had a blue tarp covering the entire back of the inside of her Subaru and she tossed her muddy bike, soiled clothes and everything else in a heap, apparently without care, no doubt intending to sort it out when she could feel her fingers. At the back of a pick up truck a woman handed her man a coffee thermos which he opened and poured the black contents over his feet to wash and warm them. The steam rising told me it was warm, the lack of screaming told me it wasn’t too hot.

I returned to help Hottie with her shooting by sheltering her with an umbrella as she did her magic. I am sitting eleventh in the series and will have a good position for the series finale next week.

Sprinker - SSCXWC 2009 Doing the Double Cross The confidential report

Finally the race weather was cool enough to embrocate. After donning my long sleeve jersey for the first time this racing season and warming up I returned to the wagon and opened my precious jar of gooey heat. Slipping on a latex glove I took a finger full of the orange fire and smeared it on my exposed quads, knees and calves. The warming smell of Cyclocross wafted to my nose. The start at Sprinker seemed all too fast and sketchy for my conservative judgment. I hit the first corner about twenty-fifth and spent the rest of the race moving up. I was running just over thirty psi up front and about thirty-four in back. The tubies bit like vampires and I kept the rubber side down.

After a consistent, though unspectacular 15^th place finish, I made my way to the war wagon. The intermittent rain had come and gone during my race. My bike had a thin, but thorough coating of mud and grass. I managed to get it secured for the remainder of the day’s travels, and changed into some dry duds. I found the superstar photographer and provided her minimal support as she shot it up for the next two races.

Although John “The Destroyer” McHale had offered to keep his bike a mono cog for an additional week and let me race that, I had opted to return Sam’s Kona to the mud from which it had originated. The decision turned out to be a lucky one as once again John proved himself the bicycle torture test. His herculean strength resulted in multiple mechanical failures on the varied course. How do you break a brake?

After the 11:15 race we sped to Taco del Mar and refueled our bodies for the remaining items on the agenda. Once we were heading south on I-5 the rain did exactly the opposite of what we had expected and got heavier and harder. Occasional glimpses of blue sky gave us fleeting moments of false hope. Speaking of hope, as the radio signal for the Sounders game faded, so did their playoff hopes. Three miles from the Columbia another deluge told us that while we would surely get wet, the racing in Portland would be epic. On the way down I had placed my gloves, which were wet from my race, over the defroster vents and flipped them every few minutes like pancakes to try and get them dry. On a whim, I had hung my long sleeved jersey on the back of my seat hoping it too might get dry.

We found a parking spot and walked toward the scene of the crime. The riders leaving from their Cross Crusade races looked like battle weary soldiers, covered with mud as if they had been swimming in it. More than one thousand mile stare from these broken souls told me all I needed to know about the course conditions. These spent men and women walked bikes with broken derailleurs, glopped so completely with mud that if someone walked past you with your bike, you wouldn’t recognize it.

We were greeted by the smell of barbeques and wood fires mixed with the scent of frites, waffles and hop beverages. I would say the scene was a circus needing only a juggler, but there was in fact, a woman dressed in black leather juggling torches. Bagpipes competed with several small stereo systems, but the drum corps provided the definitive backbeat for the afternoon festivities.

Battling sensory overload we made our way to secure my race number and get some finer points on the schedule for the race activities. Back at the war wagon I ducked under the tailgate as the rain kept coming and dug out clothes for my second race of the day. I was delighted to find my jersey had dried so the short sleeve jersey and arm warmers stayed clean in the bag. I put on clean bibs, knee warmers and undershirt. Sealskin waterproof socks were the ticket, although I put my 20/20 colors on over them. While image isn’t everything, it is something. Lastly I put Kevin’s super fro hair over my helmet as some level of costume was de’ rigueur for the day.

We lined up semi- Le Mans style. Those wearing thongs, skirts, tighty-whities, or shirtless were fighting off hypothermia waiting for the starting Whistle. I spotted Jenny in her 20/20 kit with an added fairy skirt for effect. She had a foot or so of course tape attached to her helmet to indicate she was one of the fairer gender riders. This seemed odd to me as NO amount of mud could result in the males who were cross dressing being mistaken for women.

The start had the expected chaos of two hundred and fifty riders squeezing onto a course that was ten feet wide. The run up was steep, crowded and slippery. Then we hit an off camber of oozing mud that I never figured out the best way to navigate. I ran it twice and rode it twice, each time convinced that what I had just done was wrong.

Quickly we were headed up a slippery hill that you just had to muscle/run/swim/slip/claw your way up and then your silent prayers were answered. After thinking, “enough slippery uphill,” you hit a downhill that you had to pedal to get moving. Though once moving, pedaling, braking or coasting had no effect on your speed as you slid down and onto pavement. Going fast felt strange and soon you were sliding down another steep off-camber and then pavement again. Then we did an infield loop where you could receive offers of bacon or beer while enjoying barriers. Finally we heading out to remote mud bogs alternated with sections of gravel road forcing an ever changing cadence. A hub deep one hundred meter pond provided the full spectrum experience.

Then returning to where you started you rode through the Thunderdome A monkey bar dome thirty feet high that would have made Buckminster Fuller proud. Swinging inside were cunning assassins trying to knock unlucky riders to the ground. Having climbed up the outside of the structure were screaming fans that kept up a raucous roar in the dome. After escaping the din you repeated the carnage of the lap described above until the day was done.

The costumes were plentiful, to the point where riders just wearing team uniforms looked out of place. Popes, Friars, Missionaries, Nuns, and Men dressed in Parochial school girl uniforms only added to the blasphemous atmosphere. Odd bikes, including a big wheel (I mean a really big wheel, 48” in diameter) and built for purpose tandems made it at least one lap. Those of us less encumbered, were able to enjoy multiple laps.

When the race officials finally shouted, “you’re done,” it was received with mixed emotions. The conditions of the course meant everyone had to work hard just to make it around. Costumes only added to the challenge. However, being part of the spectacle and having fans screaming for you, felt so good I was sad to see it end.

Sam’s bike was by now, unrecognizable. If not for Kevin’s “trolling” wig, my own sweet wife would have been unable to spot me. Back at the wagon, I hosed the bike and brushed off the globs. Laying down protection from the mud, I carefully put the bike INSIDE the car for what was to be a rainy drive home.

Then I peeled off sopping wet muddy layers and put on clean, dry clothes. My dirty clothes sack was bulging from two wet races. I splashed water on my face and wiped it (almost) clean. While the photographer edited photos on the Mac most of the way home I enjoyed the remnants of tingling warmth from the morning’s embrocation. I also smiled a weary smile, warmed by the memory of pulling off the long distance double cross.

Yankee Fans raise your hands !

So the rest of us can stab you in the heart..