fast brad

…Or not to ride, inside

From Maine to Florida, we’re stuck in a cold snap that has passed “snap” and hung around for two weeks now. For cyclists, it couldn’t be a worse two weeks—most of us are just getting started on our annual, winter training plan. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying… In eastern PA, I don’t think we’ve had more than one day above freezing these past two weeks.

Me? I have about three months until my first big race, so it’s time to start logging the hours. And when the temperature drops so do training partners, waffling about the cold, and resigning themselves to the trainer. The trouble is, I really don’t like riding inside. I didn’t do it once last year and I don’t plan on doing it this year. The only exception being for specific interval workouts.

When it comes to logging hours, outside/inside is not a one to one swap, although I constantly hear accounts of guys riding three or four hours on the trainer. A good coach once told me, take the hours you plan to ride outside and cut them in half if you’re stuck inside. The trouble is, on a trainer you don’t coast downhill, or up to an intersection. On a trainer you don’t soft pedal while the new guy catches up, or while discussing the best route that will get you back in time (to remain in your significant other’s good graces).

The mental stamina it takes is different too. The option of stopping is always right there, and sure there are strategies to keep you going. Read a book, watch a movie, watch the Tour, or the Giro, the Vuelta or the spring classics, or even (and this is admittedly pretty cool) taking a ride through Google’s Street View. But you’re still surrounded by reasons to stop, other things to do, other things you should be doing.

To me, that’s a lot harder than braving the cold. I think the trouble people have with the cold, is leaving room for doubt to creep in—”Well, let’s see how cold it is in the morning…” or “Let’s see how warm it is by eleven.” or “I don’t think I’m riding if [insert weather excuse here].” You’ve left yourself an out, basically saying “I’m probably not going to ride.” I prefer to be more decisive, along the lines of “Suck it up.”

So, on Friday evening I stopped by South Mountain Cycles for “happy hour” hoping to find others to suck it up with on Saturday. Cush mentioned there was a decent group gathering about 9:30 and heading out for around four hours—perfect, count me in. So, Saturday morning I head to the shop to find everyone has bailed, except Cush and Selene. It wasn’t even that cold, just around 24° F.

With pleasntries exchanged and insults traded, we decided to head out towards Hawk Mountain with no particular route in mind. Other than the cold it was a beautiful day, the sun was shining and the traffic seemed unusually light. We chatted about this and that, and quite a lot about those who bailed, but even more about how glad we were to get out on the road. We only stopped twice breifly, for a nature break and to decide which route to take back. When we got back to the shop we had just a shade over four hours under our belts—and it didn’t even feel like it.

On Sundays I almost always head out to the derby, so Selene already knew the answer when she asked what I was doing the next day. I knew she was fishing for something other than the derby, especially since two weeks ago there were half a dozen minor incidents on ice as well as a crash that saw three people off to the hospital. But I wasn’t going to try to talk her into it, if you’re on the derby you have to want to be there because, well anything can happen.

I was surprised when she decided to join me—not that I thought she couldn’t handle it, in fact far from it—but because I think she’s actually smarter than that! Selene knows enough to do what’s best for her, to follow her training plan. And the derby, quite honestly is something she doesn’t need to do. Regardless, I’m happy that she and Cush choose to join me on Sunday. It’s good to have company when the mercury is topping out at 17° F and you have to put a shot of vodka in your bottle so it won’t freeze.

It seems that just about everyone bailed on the derby. We got to the velodrome at the same time as Paul and Bobby, but the parking lot was empty. Paul called it time to go, we left and promptly ran into Kuklis and Ryan—who decided two days on the trainer was just too much. The derby loop is normally tempo out and hammer back, but it looked like a mellow derby today with our little band of brothers, and sister. Eventually we picked up two more guys wich brought our number to nine, small for the derby but a decent sized group for a cold ride.

Predictably, at the turnaround, Paul drove to the front ensuring a brisk pace back. So it wasn’t going to be too easy. We settled into a pace line with everyone taking their turn, although I sit out more than a few. My legs felt a little empty from the sudden increase in training volume. Once again the miles, and time roll by, and before we knew it another derby was in the books. I don’t know who “won” since I dropped off the pace on the last kick up.

Now we had roughly forty minutes back to the shop and after half of that I hit the wall and bonked hard. It was the kind of sudden exhaustion and emptiness in the legs that will make you wonder if you’ll make it back. But from experience, I knew that I just needed to dial it back a bit and keep pedaling. So I did as Cush and Selene disappeared over the next rise, and then slowed wondering where I was. We spun the last ten minutes easily, chatting our way back to the shop with three solid hours in. No big deal.

It’s experience. Experience you won’t get sitting on the traininer. It’s knowing you’ll survive the cold, knowing what to wear, knowing what to put in your bottle. Experience telling you you’ll make it back even though your legs are trying to tell you otherwise. I was riding three to four hours a week at the end of December. Last week it was twelve, this past weekend alone was seven. So here’s my point: Suck it up. Get out there, earn your experience—there is no substitute—you’ll be glad you did.

Here we are in 2010 already and everyone is getting their training plan in order. It’s been a while since I’ve posted, so this will cover what’s past, as well as what’s ahead. 2009 ended in a blur with FSX finishing up, the holidays looming, trying to get a business started and the busiest month of the year at work. And what’s at the end of the long, hard road? Trophies!

With two weeks to go in FSX I was reminded about the trophies, which I’ve crafted for the past three years now. With everything going on I had neglected to get them started—and the concept floating around in my head was a little more complicated than previous years. So, with three days to go I buckled down, lost some sleep and got them finished.

I actually really like making them, but finding the time was tough. This year there were three trophies: The Overall Champ, The Fastest Human and The Fan Favorite, won by: Josh, Matt and Robi, respectively. I think they came out pretty well, with a touch of Italian steel in the way of Campy cogs.

Of course, those weren’t the only trophies handed out at the end of 2009. The last derby of the year awarded several. This was due in part due to an overnight drop in temperature, selectively freezing wet roads. A handful of people showed up with road rash, caught off guard by the black ice—among them, me. And then Bruce went down hard on his elbow in the parking lot, breaking it.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it… when we hit Fleetwood and started to string out, some wheels must’ve touched somewhere behind me. I heard the tell-tale “zzzip” of tires, but it was too far back to really tell what was happening. When we got back over half the group had disappeared and as stragglers rolled up we learned of the crash. It wasn’t until later that day that I heard the news of a trip to the hospital for one pour, helmetless soul—and a full week later that I heard about the guy with a broken neck. The good news is he’s home now, up and about, but what a way to end the year.

Back to awards for performance, instead of poor luck or decisions… Local racer, Laura Van Gilder, was nominated to the US Cyclo-cross Worlds Team going to the Czech Republic, Jan. 30-31. She’ll be representing the US for the second time, having also earned a spot on the team last year—her first season racing cross—where she finished 19th. I can honestly say that I can’t think of a better person to represent the US. She is one of the nicest, most upbeat, professional cyclists I know, and clearly a fierce competitor as well.

The honor of representing your country comes at a price though. Figure, what it costs to get you and your bike(s) to the Czech Republic, add in fresh cables, tires, brake pads, handlebar tape, food, lodging, car rental, and then a couple hundred more—just in case—and you still might come up short. To help make sure Laura doesn’t come up short Bill Elliston and Ray Ignosh are organizing a couple of January cross races in Emmaus, to raise funds and to help keep Laura sharp. Keep an eye out for the announcement—if you just feel like helping Laura out now, they’ve also set up a place you can send donations.

I’m a writer! Really. Well, sort of…

A short story I wrote for Bicycling was just published in their Jan/Feb issue. Now, to be clear, I don’t really think I’m any kind of journalist, but it is a pretty good feeling to see your name on a byline for the first time.

For many of my friends it isn’t a big deal—they’re on the creative end of “the business”, journalists, writers, authors, and editors, publishing stories, magazines and writing books. My editor on this story is one of the most talented writers I know and I wouldn’t dare to suggest—or believe—that my name belongs among the pages with his, but it’s a start. Hopefully I’ll be able write another story some time.

If you happen to see a copy of the Jan/Feb issue, check it out—on page 54. My story accompanies six pages of fantastic race photos by Charlie Samuels.

The PA State Championships were last week followed by the final race in the PACX series. And today concluded the last weekend of the local cross season with Phillipsburg Riverfront Cyclocross. While everyone else raced P-burg, I stayed home to get caught up on my growing list of things to do. I am fried. It’s been a long year full of ups and downs. I didn’t really accomplish any of my goals, but I did have some memorable races.

Now it’s time to regroup, set a course for next year, and enjoy some fun rides between now and then. I’ll also be spending time on a project that’s been brewing for the past few weeks—embrocation. Yes, that sticky, gooey, slimy, oily, waxy, smelly, hot stuff cyclists put on their legs. I’ve been cycling most of my life, but only started using embro a couple years ago. Now I look for excuses to use it.

The thing with embro is that it never seems to perform exactly the same, some days burning from the moment you put it on—other days waiting ’til the post ride shower to light up your legs. So, as I pondered the possible reasons for this, I began to develop theories why, which in turn got me thinking I could make my own.

As it turns out I can. I am in fact making my own embrocation. Some of my friends are already testing it and I’ve been getting some really good feedback. Right now I’m working on the performance issue, trying to get the burn started earlier and tone down the shower firestorm. I’m also developing some complimentary products designed to enhance the “embro” experience—so far with good results. There are four different products in the pipe and three of them are close to ready.

Watch for them in the coming month.

I’ve been busy, plain and simple. Busy racing, busy at work and busy with a new project.

The long story…

Almost two weeks ago was the Mercer Cup USGP cross race. I spent the week prior getting the camper ready for two consecutive days of racing. A week out the weather looked great, until a little mid-week hiccup of rain lasted three days.

Mud, that’s all you need to know. Day one: I wasn’t feeling too peppy and didn’t register early enough so I started from the back. I actually had a pretty good first lap and by the end pushed my way into the low twenties—not where I had hoped to be, but it wasn’t a bad ride. Day two: It actually stated to dry out a little. By a little I mean it was thickening up in places and a line was starting to wear in. I had roughly the same start position, but I was able to get a good first lap. And then I kept my momentum up, passing people right up to the finish. Twentieth, if I had registered earlier and started a couple rows up, I might have made the top ten.

We camped at the venue with Ryan of Flanders and company, so the rest of the weekend was spent heckling riders. Ryan Trebon has the misfortune of a name close enough to “Rusty Trombone” that heckling him became a whole other form of sport. Add some beer and you’ve got non-stop hilarity—what more could you want? Apparently the answer to that question is “a midget, a racist grade school teacher and a coke dealing prostitute on probation.” Again, that’s all you need to know.

The week prior to that was race number four in the PACX series: Spring Mountain. I got the call up and a front row start which was perfect. An easy start slotting fourth at the first turn. The race went well and I controlled things as best I could. A few guys passed me up in one of the fast sections, but then I snaked some inside lines in the tight turns, put some power to the pedals and put some distance on them. I ended up third which I was pretty happy with.

I took this past weekend off racing. Saturday off the bike altogether, and Sunday rode out to the derby for sixty miles. Crap, the derby wrecked me. The longest ride I had done for the last three weeks was a little less than thirty miles. No rest for the weary, though… I got home and finished up the yard work for the season, picking up all the leaves. Which brings me to my new project.

I’ve spent a lot of time doing research the past couple of weeks. The end result after a couple hours work on Sunday night? A proto-type product that I’m not quite ready to share with the world yet. I’m pretty excited about it though. It seems to work pretty well and I think people will want to but it. In a couple weeks I should be ready to unveil it here. So check back, if you’re a cyclist training this winter, you might be interested.

Suffering²

Everything in South Jersey is sandy, and with the recent rain it was packed down pretty hard. So, the course was fast, really fast. I went in thinking this was a good thing—I’ve been improving steadily this season and I rode the last couple of Derbys really well, so I’m feeling a little confident about really rolling it. I wasn’t feeling too great, but that isn’t necesarily an indicator of how well you’ll perform.

Doubling up again in the Elite Masters and the Elite races, I was hoping to crack the top ten in the Masters if I had a good day. At the start they called up the first two rows and I managed to snake my way pretty far up as riders were called. With a good spot on the grid, all I had to do was get by maybe fifteen people to make it to the top ten.

I wasn’t expecting what my legs gave me, which was nothing. Usually I get a pretty good hole shot, passing a lot of guys off the start. Not today.

Okay, so it wasn’t the end of the world, it just meant I had to keep my head in it and the pressure on. There was some guy on a mountain bike with wide handle bars that I just couldn’t seem to get around. If I moved right, he did. If I moved left, he did. I was getting pissed, but the real issue was that my legs just weren’t going all that well.

Each lap the course goes down on the sandy beach, which they’ve softened with a tiller, for about fifty yards. I ride in without hitting the brakes, dismount at full speed and hoist my bike running. I pass mountain bike guy and a couple others. Okay, now we’re rolling, if I keep it up maybe I can salvage the day.

For two laps I reel guys in and pass them, mostly on the technical sections. There is a short sandy hill with one packed down line on the right where I can ride to the left in the loose sand and pass. The run up is through an amphitheatre with five steps about thirty inches high and fifteen feet apart. I know the rythym I need to hit and pass two guys there.

When I start to feel like I need to recover I decide to let the guy on my wheel take a pull only to learn the last four guys I passed have been sitting back there. Okay, we can work together. I drift to the back and try to keep an eye on things, make sure gaps don’t open up in the middle. The thing is, the only gaps start opening right in front of me. I just don’t have any top end today and three of the guys get away. I’m pushing as hard as I can, and I watch them slowly roll away.

For a couple more laps I fight for my place with a few guys. Some I catch and some that catch me. On the last lap I pass Fat Marc by the pits and wonder what happened to him today. I’m hoping he’ll jump on my wheel and push me a bit, but it seems like he’s already resigned with his lot for the day.

Twenty seventh, that’s where I ended up for the day. Not anywhere near where I wanted to be. Yozell won again, with a well timed attack just before the finish—congrats to him, he’s flying. Now to decide whether to go home or race the Elite. Who am I kidding, I know I’m going to race it, I’m just conflicted about sucking for another hour.

So, I’m sitting at the back in the Elite staging area trying not to look like too much of a fool when I get a call up. What?! You’ve got to be kidding me, might as well call the guy blabbing on the microphone up too… Normally with a good start, from the back, I can ride into the group a bit and hide in there for a little while. But this far up guys will be running me down—which is pretty much what happens. By the first turn I’m the last guy. I hang on for a bit, but by half a lap in I’m all by myself. I ride as hard as I can, and actually, riding really well—just not fast. I have all the lines dialed in, which will happen if you run enough laps I guess. The two leaders lap me with one to go, finally ending my suffering. I can’t help thinking “what took you so friggin’ long?”

Thanks to my brother Eric, who showed up to watch me suck wind. It had been a while, so it was good to see him regardless. Thanks to all my friends who cheered for me on the course, while I probably don’t look too happy, it does help me keep my head together. They say you’ll have good days and bad days. I think someone owes me a good day.

Saturday

My truck needs to be inspected, but apparently it needs brakes all the way around before they’ll pass it. So, with no racing this weekend, the brakes were on the top of the project list. I figured on just a couple of hours to get it done, and wasn’t far off. The problem with doing a brake job is that you have to tear it all down to make sure you know exactly what parts to get. Of course once it’s all apart, you can’t drive it to pick up the parts.

Everything came apart easily enough, with no surprises—I needed front and rear brake pads as well as front and rear rotors. Tracy had to go into town for a haircut, so I took her car while she was at the salon and picked up the parts at the NAPA store. With that done, I went to hang out at the bike shop until Tracy was all prettied up. Naturally, when I settle in with a cup of tea, the phone rings… she’s done, but then she decides to walk to the shop and have a coffee. Bonus.

When we get home I have to work quickly, we have a wedding to get to in the afternoon. Luckily everything goes back together even more smoothly than it came apart, and I finish with just enough time to get ready to go.

I had been procrastinating for a couple of weeks, putting this off, counting on some expensive/ time consuming surprise, so it was a relief to knock it out quickly. Total cost: $377, with a $50 mail-in rebate, and one bloddy knuckle.

We got to the wedding with about 10 minutes to spare. Pam is a friend of Tracy’s, they ride together a fair bit, and I know Gary from the Sunday Derby. Their wedding was nice, they seated us at the cyclists’ table so we got to learn the names of a few people we see around all the time. Everyone was going out to the casino afterwards, but that’s not my thing—so we were home by 10:30.

When we got home I had a few things to to get ready for Sunday. Ryan invited everyone over, after the Derby to test out the BMX track he built “for his son.” So, everyones has been digging up BMX bikes for the past two weeks. I really don’t need another bike, so I decided to resurrect one of my old mountain racing bikes. The idea was to single-speed it and turn it into sort of a dirt jumping bike. I had to strip all the parts off it and dig through old parts for a riser bar, cassette spacers, tires and an appropriate chainring.

In my search I also found an old Bontrager bass boat glitter green saddle, perfect. One of the old hydraulic brakes had seized, but I had some old spares as well, so the brakes were in good shape. I found a 36t chainring and crank, that paired with the 18t cog I had, should be about right. Some other odds and ends out of the bin, cassette spacers, tires, riser handle bar and grips. I get everything together around 1:30—I’ll just have to stop at the shop for flat pedals and a short stem.

Sunday

So, it’s off for fiftty miles in the AM, including a solid Derby effort, then over to the shop. The guys at SMC are great, when I ask Taylor about some BMX pedals he says I can have his—he’s putting different ones on his SS anyway. So pedals, check! I find the shortest stem they have and I’m ready for BMSchneX—the new name for anything involving Ryan’s Schnecksville BMX track/backyard.

When I walk around the back of Ryan’s house, I’m struck by three things: 1. it’s smaller than I thought, 2. it’s bigger than I thought and 3. my god, his wife is a saint.

The track is narrow. Most of the track is three to four feet wide, I was picturing six to eight, so head to head competition will be tight. On the other hand, the track takes up more than half of his back yard—and all of his side yard.

We walk the course discussing lines, transitions, rhythm, momentum, gaps—like we know what the Eff we’re talking about. A few sections are run, some dirt is moved around, and eventually we got to try to burn a couple of laps. Ouch. One lap, around sixty seconds, had nearly everyone out of breath. That’s beside how it felt in the legs. Holy crap, this hurts, I don’t feel so good about my fitness now.

Eventually we get to what happens with a handful of cyclists, who race road, track, cross and mountain bikes, on a BMX track. Competition. First it was single lap time trials, Steve was fastest on a Cannondale BMX bike with full face helmet. Then is was timed beer chug, plus the single lap time trial, which I think Keith won due to superior chug technique. Then we got to the 10 lap, BMX, Madison, absolute chaos. Someone made the rule that after the exchange the rider going out could cut the course anywhere, to get to the next exchange. So at any time, someone could be riding cross course with riders bearing down on them. There were more than a couple girlish screams.

At some point Steve went straight over the turn one berm, like a ramp, and disappeared from view momentarily—only to re-appear, airborne and upside down, flying into a pine tree. Kuklix simply could not master one turn, sliding over the top with his childhood Mongoose, set up more to look cool as a teenager then to actually function properly. Matt brought a 29er that was simply too long to make it around the tight track. And my makeshift bike worked great, except hat the chain kept falling off anytime I really pushed it. With vertical dropouts I had no adjustment and it was just a tad too loose. I’ll fool with it some more, I think I need to gear it a little lower anyway.

I left a little early and missed the ring of fire event later in the evening. Apparently, someone had the brilliant idea to soak the course with gas, light it up and ride the ring of fire. Everyone survived, but Matt’s Niner frame got singed a little when he dropped it in the fire. Seems like I miss all the fun.

I did it every day this week. I’m not bragging, or proud. It’s just that I like to do it. Sometimes I do it with friends, sometimes by myself. I’m not a role model—I don’t use protection. I’m aware of the risks and it’s my decision. I don’t care if you think less of me.

I’m sure you know I’m talking about something else, and that this isn’t particularly clever. But the fact is, I like to ride without my helmet. Up until last year, I wore one without fail from the time I started racing.

Now I work for a company where I can get out for a lunch ride. Between the bike, clothes, bottles, shoes, towels, spare tubes, helmet and everything else being shuffled around, something is bound to get left behind. Eventually the day came when I forgot my helmet, so I just rode without it. It wasn’t a big deal. Some time later, it happened again, but it took three or four times to stop feeling naked, and well, start to realize that naked feels better.

I’ve ridden with a helmet for more than twenty years. I don’t hate it, I don’t like it, I hadn’t really given it much thought. I just put it on because it’s required for racing, and of course, for my own safety. But, before I started racing, I was just a kid. I grew up without helmets. I raced around on home built choppers, bmx bikes and later ten-speeds. My friends and I scavenged lumber from carpenters working on homes in the neighborhood, building ill-engineered ramps that made local legends of the fearless among us. We raced down hills with tears streaming from our eyes to see who could get to the bottom first. We learned about hand brakes. We played bicycle tag that invariably ended with someone scraped up and bloody. We lived on the fun, excitement and freedom that our bicycles gave us—masters of our own destiny, at least until dinner time.

It’s not that a helmet deprives us of that exactly. But that layer of insulation, protecting us from the dangerous world out there dulls our senses. It frames the top half of our view of the world, an ever present shell we peer out of. I hadn’t noticed the wind, the rain or the sun become incomplete experiences—but they had. I hadn’t noticed, until I left my helmet home a couple more times.

The weather this week has been clear, cool and sunny, some of the nicest days so far this fall. It’s on days like these that I forego the helmet. The crisp fall air and the awareness that these might be the last nice days for a while, somehow make it feel more “right.” There is a simple perfection in pedaling, the wind in my hair stirring the life inside me and a pure, uncluttered view of the world that makes the experience whole—or perhaps wholesome is the word.

It’s not about taking risks or adrenaline, it’s not about independence or rebellion and it’s not about looking euro. It’s about feeling every sensation that makes me remember why I love riding my bike.

The Morning After

I woke up this morning stiff and sore, knowing yesterday wasn’t over yet. Yesterday was still packed up in my truck. Getting home at 7 last night, I had just enough time to shower, eat and take care of the bikes before I went to bed. It had rained for three days leading up to Granogue, yesterday was a long, wet, cold, muddy day.

Breakfast first. Four eggs, scrambled with cheese, a banana and a granola bar. I know—granola?! It was either that or cookies, and I’m trying to make better decisions. As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned that all that stuff that never mattered, matters now. So, breakfast is followed by stretching… and then it’s out to the truck.

Cycling bag, spare wheels, tools, water bottles and a twenty pound garbage bag full of dirty cycling kit. I start on the clothing first since it’s the only thing with the potential to be ruined by putting off. Our South Mountain Cycles team kit is bright orange and blue, and the bight orange is, well, bright. It doesn’t mix well with mud and I’ve discoverd that it won’t stain, if you wash it right. That entails rinsing all the mud out by hand until the water runs mostly clear, then laying it out flat in the tub and gently scrubbing with a soft bristled brush. Fun, huh? I’ve got to talk to them about a cross kit: brown and blue.

I doubled up again, and that means two sets of dirty kit, or about 30 minutes of clean-up. They had shoulder numbers yesterday, so six numbers to un-pin. Yahoo, that takes about five minutes alone. I hate dealing with pinned on numbers for road, track and cross, they’re just such a pain in the ass. I have to look into that 3M spray glue product I’ve heard about…

Once the clothing is done, the rest is pretty easy. Take the race day supplies out of the cycling bag, wash out the bottles, tools and wheels go in the shop and a quick look over the bikes to make sure I didn’t miss anything last night. Everything looks good, except the brake pads which are gone—I’ll need to replace them before the weekend. The pit bike was fine because I didn’t even need to use it.

Two Muddy Races

Driving down to the race, I was figuring on getting there 2 hours before my race. I was only semi-motivated since I’ve felt like I was getting sick all week. And with three days of rain I’ve been off the bike since Wednesday. I didn’t even bother to bring my trainer, I just wanted to race and come home, keep it simple.

It occurred to me that they would have call-ups based on series points, then order of registration. Damn, I don’t have any points and I waited until the last day to register, which means I’ll start at the back. That won’t be an issue in the UCI Elite race for two reasons, there are only thirty five guys registered and I don’t really expect or hope to do more than hang on and finish. In the Elite Masters, though, I’m screwed. With a good ride I might actually be able to make the top ten, but there are ninety guys registered. I’ll have to get by eighty guys to get into the top ten. Crap.

When I arrive it’s still raining lightly, and it looks like the Master Me 35+ are finishing up. The course is a slimy brown stripe in the grass and guys are running, sliding and falling. I find the registration tent and inside the mud is two inches deep. Well, it looks like cross season is really here now.

I get changed and put a rain jacket on and head out on the road for twenty minutes or so. With a good coat of embrocation on my legs I’m pretty comfortable. They were calling for temps in the mid thirties, but it’s in the mid forties which is totally bearable. I get back to the truck, strip off the jacket and heavy gloves and head to starting grid, conveniently enough just yards from my truck. Call-ups are going pretty much as expected. Then I get the thought, “what if they suddenly say, ‘and everyone else’?”, so I move up a little—just before they do.

Good. So, I’m not in the last row, but just ahead of it… every inch counts though. I make a point to register for Mercer Cup when I get home. When the gun goes off we have about 200 meters of pavement before we hit the grass, err, mud. I make my way through a lot of guys, but can’t tell how far up until the course turns a bit… Maybe I’m up to thirty five?

The course isn’t too bad. Really muddy, but most of the guys are sticking to “the line” which is usually the worst place to ride when it gets muddy. I ride the opposite side from the line and try to cross it in the turns, this gets me by a couple of guys either going in or coming out. At one point way too many guys fight for the messy rutted line and maybe ten of them get tangled up and stop, bonus for me.

It goes like that pretty much the whole first lap and I think I’m inside the top twenty, but it’s hard to tell now. The whole race is broken up already, so I just ride as clean as I can chasing who ever is in front of me. The bike works flawlessly, it has tons of clearance and the mixture of grass and mud has virtually no effect on it. A lot of guys get things jammed up and have to pit and there are more than a couple broken derailleurs.

The running is killing me, but I do it any time the mud is too gummy to ride through quickly. It seems like a lot of running, but in reality it’s just a twenty five meter run up and a shorter, steeper run up, plus a couple short odd spots. There are people cheering for me here and there, as well as the folks trying to goad you into the bad line on the descents. By three laps in I’m pretty much where I’m going to finish, I just need to keep it together.

I finish up just two places behind Joe P, he confirms we’re around the top twenty. I would have liked to be a bit higher, but okay, I’m happy with that. Now I’m thinking clean-up and go home—and bail on the Elite race. The reason I’ve been doubling up is to get more practice on my starts and get more time racing. There is no substitute for the intensity of racing, well there is, but I’d rather just race. Anyway, with the course this muddy I won’t really be riding at that intensity, the challenge becomes not quitting. It’s a different type of training.

It takes about forty five minutes to wash off the bike, clean up, get dry and warm. Still mulling over racing the Elite, I walk up to check on the results but they’re not posted yet. It seems like they’re having difficulty sorting out the muddy numbers. Sooo… since I’ll have to wait for results and I paid my entry, I might as well kit up.

I have nothing to lose, even though it won’t be the training I was hoping for, but I figure I’ll get lapped and pulled a little more than halfway through. When I report to the staging grid I just head to the back, with no points, no ranking and no hope, there will be no call up. There are only about 40 guys in this race so navigating the start will be easier than the last race, although faster. I shift to the big ring and a gear I can spin up quickly, then wait for the gun.

When the gun goes all hell breaks loose. I quickly run down the cogs just hanging on, but click one more gear and pull into the group, passing a few guys just before we hit the mud. A quick glance to be sure I’m not last and I pick my line to set up for the first series of turns. Having already run a full race, at least I feel dialed in on the course. Gaps open up, but on the next downhill section I close them up. Then we hit the steep run up and I’ve got nothin’. My legs are exhausted, and as long as I’m pedaling I can kind of fake it. But the running, is so, slow.

I’m finally completely dropped, a couple of guys go by so I must be close to last. I buckle down, pick my lines, ride the mud as clean as I can keeping a steady tempo. There are a couple spots on the course I can really roll it out and I try to hold the momentum for as long as I can. Then on the long run up guys start shouting at me, what the hell are they saying? It finally connects they’re yelling “BIG MONEY!” and when I look over, they’re pointing at a dollar bill, pressed into the mud. I alter course and snatch it up.

I say “thanks” and “keep it coming” as I stuff it in my jersey—I feel so cheap and used. Somewhere after lap three Ryan Trebon laps me, so I’m counting on getting pulled. When I come through the start/finish I look for the officials, but don’t see them… WTF? I ride through looking back and I spot them, in the trailer, sheltered from the rain. Dammit. I don’t want a DNF, so I continue. Wicks, Frattini and someone else go by, I’m getting pulled for sure this time. Four more go buy, this should cement it. But, when I roll through again, nothing, they’re still in the trailer. Ok, another lap, whoops, there’s the bell—last lap? I hadn’t counted on it, but I got the whole hour in, albeit down one lap.

There is no line at the bike wash so clean up goes quicker this time. I get the pit bike, and despite my wrecked legs, jog back to the truck just to try and keep warm. Bikes and shoes go in the back, dirty kit and towels in a plastic bag, put warm clothes on and it’s time to eat. First a recovery drink, then a delicious donut from the Emmaus Bakery and a banana. And a Gatorade. Then it’s off to check on the results. Masters are finally posted: 18th, not too bad.

I check the other side of the board for the Elite results and they’re already up. I start at the bottom and work my way up—what? I finally see my name, 23rd? Can’t be right. I go into the tent to explain that I think there has been an error. They’re assuming I think I should be higher, but I explain that I’m pretty sure I was about last—that I was lapped by at least eight guys. They confer and indicate they have me at one lap down, lapped by eight guys. Hmmm, okaaay… and “Oh, how long will you be here? We have your prize money, but the protest period isn’t up.” Some discussion and we decide they can get it to my friend racing Sunday.

Wow. That was a surprise. I actually ended up doing ok. Thinking about it, it’s a high point for the season. A good day all around, the mud has always been good to me. Some other good things on Saturday: Laura Van Guilder gets second (and stitches, not good), caught up with old friend Racer Bert, met Gabe Llyod, Gui Nelesson and Fat Marc.

Almost a perfect weekend… Doubled up again at Iron Cross Lite, finishing 6th in elite masters and 5th in the elite race—that’s right 5th. It was a good thing there wasn’t one more entry, I would’ve been out of the money. At least I stayed on the same lap as the winner.

Sunday I opted for the derby. I was just going to sit in and spin, at least that was the plan. Once we hit Fleetwood guys were on and off the pace which pissed me off, mucking up the plan. At the bottom of Topton hill the pace was easing up so I pulled out and let my momentum carry me up. I could see five up the road and pissed as I was, burried it and tried to ride across to them. I was pretty surprised, I made it. The rest of the ride I was in the red, but at least it was steady. They dropped me gearing up for the sprint, but I didn’t mind, it was a good ride anyway.

Then it was back to the real world, after riding all weekend I actually had to get some work done around the house. The lawn hadn’t been touched in a while because the tractor has been giving me trouble. The hydrostatic transmission was just barely working and the hydraulic fluid keeps foaming up and overflowing. I was thinking maybe it was so low the pump was pumping air—it seemed a reasonable enough explanation.

So I added some new fluid, started it up and hopped on. Better, but still not right. Okay, maybe a little more fuild… I shut it off, add some more fluid and hear a faint noise. Sort of a drippy, running fluid noise. Looking under the tractor I find the source of the noise in the form of a growing puddle of hydraulic fluid. Great, $5 a quart and it’s pouring right through the trans.

So much for simple fixes. I remove some of the body work to find the hydraulic oil filter coverd in oil. But where is it coming from? I can’t see because there is a drive shaft and flex coupling in the way. In fact, the coupling is right over the filter. In fact, the flex coupling is touching the filter. Grabbing the coupling I find it is loose, really loose. So it’s been wobbling around smacking into the filter until it wore a hole right through.

Crap. That means I spend the afternoon walking the yard with a push mower, not the best recovery. At least it’ll be an easy repair, assuming I can find the part, which I do on Monday, for $100. So, now the lawn is mowed and I have the rest of the week to think about recovery.