Iceman 2008 - Flat Out Haul

Lost and Found
Andy approaches these races with one thing in mind. Explore new lands yet uncharted. I think he and Rich should always stick together. Rich will get him to the end, but then again, there won't be those spontaneous discoveries that make life so interesting. He went off on some adventure along the Iceman trail this year with the same group of guys he was with at Ironcross. Ironic that they found each other again in two separate races so far from one another, but it does happen.

In the Ironcross, he wandered away with these guys into far off trails that were yet undiscovered in a world where we think everything's been found and there's no new path to explore. But Andy has proven that wrong twice--no, three times now-- within a month. He also wandered into the final Jolly Pumpkin race after we were under way because he'd decided on the way to take the short cut through Black Woods Pond and got all twisted around on their trails leading to nowhere.

There are places in America that Amerigo Vespucci and Lewis & Clark left off the map and Andy has now ventured deep into the underbrush to ferret them out. But these places aren't where you'd expect they'd be. They're here, right here, in the second wave pioneer areas of our great land where those very same pioneers padded through on their way to grow corn in Iowa, make dust in Kansas, and push on to Yuma where they'd identify key areas for terrific movie backdrops of silhouetted cowpokes perched among panoramic vistas of red rock mesas later to be zapped by dune buggies leaping them for those cool photo shots of VW undercarriages flying toward the sun. But they passed through too quickly and left small passages of unexplored trails and gravel back roads untouched by human bike tires and it's been Andy's mission to delve into the belly of these virgin territories.

Miraculously, in the isolated terrain between Kalkaska and Traverse City, he found one again. A lost trail amidst carefully charted quiet areas and roads carved out by oil derricked four-door pickup trucks. Areas where even the X's weren't placed to indicate his strayed direction. And in his frustration amidst his small cadre of wandering pedallers, he'd jump off the bike to stab at his tire with a multi-tool, forgetting that he still needed that tire to get him home once he did find the path with the red arrows. His fellow riders told me about this. Andy doesn't remember. He'll talk about changing the tire, but not about stabbing it. If you mention the stabbing, he'll change the subject to archeology. Worse, after all his wandering he still pulled in an excellent time of 1:48:00. I want to get lost and do that well.

Humility Wasted
And there's Wendy Caldwell of Bendy and Wen fame, who spends all year riding to and from anywhere all the time day and night ice rain sleet snow sun and sweat, who decides that this year she's going to turn on the turbo on a 27 mile cold morning and take third in her Expert category. I saw her at the beginning cheering me on as we all tried to stay warm before our heats ripped into the course. I had to pry the result out of her at the Resort the night of the awards. Doesn't anyone understand the joy of gloating when you hit the podium? It's validation that all of the year's effort amounted to something. You brag, you jump up and down, you let the finger point in your direction for the right reason for a change.

At the end of the first day of cyclocross at Vets Park, she said okay, that's enough of that and decided to spend the next day on the Poto on her MTB instead of putting herself through the hell once more that is Vets. Very smart move and I wish I would have joined her, because my legs were toast after--no, during--that race and I'm not sure they ever recovered for another blast of intensity that came a week later at Iceman.

Funny Looking Bikes
And I haven't seen Ben much at all since the early part of the Jolly Pumpkin CX series. I've been racing my tail off and I don't know what he's been doing, but then he showed up at Iceman with a cyclocross bike. We warmed up together the night before the race on the last five miles of the course and he was all spunk and energy. I thought he was half nuts for taking a CX bike out in this race, but later that evening, Mike Belanger showed up with two weapons of mass destruction, his MTB and his CX bike, and he, too, decided on the CX. That's him in the photo.

Both Ben and Mike proved (along with the fact that they are both nuts) what a wise decision that was, especially with all the moisture we'd had recently and then the rain overnight before the race. It made the sand a near non-issue. In a race that's about hauling all out, they hauled and then some, putting in some serious times at the 1:47:00 mark. There must have been a few hairy moments on some of the rough, sandy descents, but there were so few of those areas that whatever they lost in time on those spots they more than made up for on the hardpack roads.

Revenge of the Hairless Arctic Dog
And then there's Riggs. Nothing is more annoying in the world than making Dave suffer all through the fall like a hairless Arctic dog on the Tuesday DirtHammer rides and then he comes in to the Iceman, grumbling about how he's still out of shape, laying down a time that is nearly identical to my own. It's wrong. It means that the world is out of sync. But you know, Dave's done it before, did it this time, and my guess is he'll do it again.

Mighty Good Moment
One nice thing though, was coming across Dave Meyers on the trail and he had an urn on his back filled with Big Chain Blend Mighty Good Coffee. I'm sure it wasn't easy racing with that hunk of metal strapped to his upper lumbar, but man was it good and rejuvenating to grab a cup he handed over, take a big swig and feel the energy explode through the body. I don't think I would have broken 2 hours without it.


Trout and Stream
Once I plopped my timing chip into one of the official's hands and was happily greeted by Mike, we wandered into Jim James who looked like he'd already showered and was ready for a day out to celebrate. He'd won his division at about 1:40 or so, and since his heat started five minutes ahead of mine that meant he'd been hanging around for about twenty minutes before I'd arrived, so he'd had all kinds of time to recuperate, clean up, have a brew, write the second violin part for a quartet composition, and smile that Jim James smile. How can he race that fast? I am so glad that they split up the 45+ from the 50+ because I can't race that fast and he sets the bar way too high.

And to add a few more known usual suspects to the list, there's Jason Lummis, who blasted through the afternoon pro race at around 1:31:00 (which, if I can point out the less than obvious, many of us could have done because these guys don't have to deal with slower riders from heats that were in front of you. I mean, really, my time would have been cut by at least 25 minutes if I didn't have some of those pokey guys on the singletrack. At least 25.) And Marne Smiley who pulled in a 12th spot in the pro-women's race. Vince Roberge at 1:34:00, who also raced a CX bike, in the pro race. Raffy Kronenberg pulled in a 9th place in his youthful category.


Putting a Spin on Things
And then there was Charles Reynolds, who thought that he might just blow off Iceman after a fall of struggling to get his legs to find their place in the sun. Good sense brought him back into the fold of the cold north woods and he and his spinnie legs wound that singlespeed into an exact time of 2 hours dead on to get 11th in his category, proving that he's one of the most balanced athletes I've ever met. He actually works out in ways that balance his whole body, unlike so many of us bikers who have lower bodies way out of proportion to our upper.

The Haul
So that was the Iceman for another year. It was extreeeeeemly fast this time. The energy is like no other race because for many it's the last race of the year and it's hard enough and long enough and fast enough and cold enough and rolly enough to take the legs to a level of pain that will send you off into the fall and winter knowing that you did something good for your soul. There are a lot of people in this race and the energy remains at a high level of buzz all the way through the finish and on into the afternoon semi-pro race. You'd have to scrape real deep to find anything resembling a bad vibe within five miles of this place.

And the lottery's a thing of the past. Hallelujah!

Andy Redux
We just have to keep Andy somewhere in sight so he doesn't end up missing the next season all together. He might just wander off like our old yellow lab used to do, and end up in some pick-up fetch game in a park five miles away and forget about us. If you do find him (Andy that is) out there, keep him fed, keep him distracted, and call Alicia. She's probably wondering where he got off to.

Photos
Except for one or two shots, they have little or nothing to do with Iceman or biking. I do know that. I had my camera with me, but while I was racing I took not one shot. Before the race I'm too wound up to shoot photos. After the race I held a beer in my hands rather than a camera. On the drive up, however, I did take some photos. I took a couple of Mike and our cabin after the race. I took a few the day after as I left town. The tank is in the metropolis of South Boardman, not too far from Kalkaska. The barren landscapes, old house and oil derricks are between US-127 and a town named Sharon that only exists on a map. The old car is in Buckley. By the way, snow came down pretty heavily the morning after our race.


A FEW SELECTED RESULTS
Pro/Semi Pro Men
1 Jeremiah Bishop 35 Harrisonburg VA Trek/volkswagen 1:28:31 2 Brian Matter 61 Sheboygan WI Gear Grinder 1:28:38 3 Mike Anderson 32 Alpena MI Bell's Beer 1:28:44 4 Colin Cares 42 Colorado Sprin CO Kenda 1:28:50 5 Andy Schultz 78 Durango CO Kenda - Titus - Haye 1:28:53 6 Marko Lalonde 58 Madison WI Gary Fisher 29er Cre 1:29:01 7 Michael Simonson 80 Oxford MI Trek/volkswagen 1:29:26 8 John Doyle 45 Mattawan MI Priority Health 1:30:58 9 Jason Lummis 60 Pinckney MI Bells Brewery/ Quiri 1:31:05 10 Chris Peariso 67 Amherst WI Adventure 212 /titus 1:31:06 22 Vince Roberge 73 Redford MI South Lyon Cycle 1:34:01 27 Zach McBride 62 Comstock MI Priority Health 1:36:09

Expert Men 15-18 9 Rafael Kronenberg Ann Arbor MI Mmba 2:00:12

Expert Men 30-34 7 Andrew Weir Ann Arbor MI Priority Health 1:48:00

Expert Men 35-39 38 Bill Mayer Ann Arbor MI Mmba 1:54:47 43 Dave Riggs Ann Arbor MI City Bike Shop 1:55:28 44 Joshua Neider Ann Arbor MI Trails Edge 1:55:52

Expert Men 40-44 10 Ben Caldwell Whitmore Lake MI Kenda 1:47:05

Expert Men 45-49 1 Jim James Ann Arbor MI 1:40:08 9 Michael Belanger St. Clair Shor MI 1:47:24 13 Keith Riege Lake Orion MI Paint Creek Bicycles 1:50:33 20 Mark Caswell New Hudson MI South Lyon Cycle 1:53:17 28 Clark Kent Lapeer MI 1:59:57 Even Superman has days that are less than stellar. (Sorry, Clark, you must have to put up with this kind of crap all the time.)

Expert Men 50-54 9 Rob Pulcipher Ann Arbor MI Priority Health 1:55:15

Sport/Expert Clydesdales 6 Ray Dybowski Waterford MI Wolverine Sports Clu 1:50:54

Singlespeed Men 40+
11 Charles Reynolds Ann Arbor MI 2:00:00 15 Tim Storm Warren MI MacOmb Bike & Fitnes 2:01:42 18 Jason Aric Jones Dexter MI Bell's Brewery/quiri 2:02:02

Sport Men 44-46 10 Eric Michielssen Ann Arbor MI 2:06:08

Pro/Semi Pro Women 1 Amanda Carey Victor ID Kenda 1:45:45 2 Susan Stephens Harrow ON Brodie Bikes 1:47:45 3 Heather Irmiger Boulder CO Gary Fisher - Subaru 1:47:46 4 Lulibelle Webb Dimondale MI Hagerty 1:50:51 5 Erin Vicary White Lake MI Bell's Beer / Quirin 1:51:41 6 Susan Schubel Saginaw MI 1:51:54 7 Amanda Sproat Columbus OH Gary Fisher 29er Cre 1:52:35 8 Nicole Borem Warsaw IN Drt Racing 1:52:42 9 Danielle Musto Grand Rapids MI Kenda 1:52:43 10 Karey Collins Oxford MI Team Giant - Michiga 1:55:17 11 Shari Versluis Grand Rapids MI Founders Racing 1:56:55 12 Marne Smiley Ann Arbor MI Scott Bikes 1:58:09

Expert Women 35-44 3 Wendy Caldwell Whitmore Lake MI Kenda 2:14:44

IronCross VI 2008

IronCross VI 2008
63 miles, over 6000 feet of climbing
(Over a mile of climbing in one brutal session--it just doesn't happen here in Michigan unless you're willing to ride continuously for a few weeks.)

Be Sure to Stop
Just before Station 3, a guy reminded me that this race is modeled on the Three Peaks Cyclo-Cross (www.3peakscyclocross.org.uk) that wanders over the Yorkshire Dales in England in September of each year. It's mentioned on the IronCross web site (www.yellowbreechesracing.org/ironcross), but the reality doesn't hit you hard until the first "run" up and eventually, when you're ready to pack it in for the day, it really sinks in on this third grueling climb. If I were to name either race I'd put a curse word in between Iron and Cross and Three and Peaks. It would at least give you more of a clue about what you're getting yourself into.

When you do ride this race, be sure to stop at Station 3. It's not about Pennsylvanian hospitality, though I will tell you that the volunteers at these are an extremely helpful and efficient bunch. Another guy warned me to do this. "You'll really regret it if you don't," he said. He was right. You have to take a minute here to resupply. I probably should have taken longer, but at least I got more water. If I were really smart I would have begged someone to give me a rear cassette with a 30 tooth. I think mine was about a 26 or so, with 38/48 at the front. The 48 would get no use on the hill, but half way up I was thinking something really, really big in back would help.

Rob (77)

Up
Here's what the third peak was like (remember, over two hours of grueling hills, singletrack, and a vertical endless "run-up" have already eaten your legs apart): Climb. Keep climbing. Climb some more. Some people are walking their bikes. Stand on those pedals. Keep climbing. You're at the top. No you're not. Keep climbing. Another short downhill teaser. Keep climbing. Steeper. Keep climbing. If you're doing 4mph in some of these places you're doing good. Somewhere, eventually, you do reach the top. The brain is so wiped out at this point that it doesn't make any difference any more.

Now, go down. Down, down, down. Unfortunately, by now you've caught on. Out here, going down so much and so far means only one thing. Up will follow. It will. You know it and it hurts just to think about it. But, again, going down takes a lot of concentration. It's so fast that you can easily miss the little black arrows on the yellow background that tell you a turn is imminent. Or a curve is far sharper than you'd prepared for and the gravel road goes to gravel shoulder goes to brush and trees nipping at the handlebars.

The same guy who reminded me about the "three" word had done this race in 2007. "And you returned?" I responded in wonder. He shook his head. "I forgot about the run-ups," he said. "I just forgot." It's like getting a reprieve from Hell, then going back of your own free will because you forgot about the fire.

After the endless journey up after leaving Station 3, with a downhill break and fatigue in every muscle, you'll pass Station 4. Dive on to singletrack with more logs, a patch of deep water and relentless ruts until you come to another climb too steep for a bike even if you had legs left to try and climb it. Put the bike on your shoulder and slog.

Remember that you should have stopped at Station 4 to eat a banana or power bar or suck down a bottle of electrolytes. The last five miles you're almost there, yet feel like you're farther away than ever. The challenges just don't let up. I'm not exaggerating. Really, this is a warning. See the sign at the beginning of this article. It says "Caution." That word sits heavy once you're in this race. Every time you think you've made it through the hardest part, you haven't. There's more hardest ahead.

What's Left Isn't Pretty
Part of it is that your body is wasted by this point. At least, mine was. I remember looking at my mileage and thinking hey, I've gone two miles farther than Ore-to-Shore and I'm still alive and I'm feeling okay and I'm going to make it. A few miles farther, after leg ripping single track with some spiky climbs and rough trail and a truly vertical--not kidding, I'm telling you vertical--descent through rocks along a deer park I realized that I wasn't anywhere near the confidence of a couple of miles previous. This is a race that doesn't let up until you cross the finish line. Either the second half of the course is harder, or it just feels harder, but by the time I reached the next big walk up (notice I didn't use the word run this time), I was wondering if my legs would keep moving, pedals or no pedals. I stopped half way up and either ate something or drank something. I don't remember.

Rich (92)
As usual, Rich outshined the lot of our humble crew. He and his orange gloves kept gathering steam for mile after mile and he was in a great position to finish in the overall top twenty until his 45 wide front tire went flat on the paved road two miles from the finish. He tried to pump it up and ride it without changing at first, but it deflated instantly, so he yanked the thing off and changed the tube as racer after racer passed him to drop his place from around 15 to 22.

What's always funny about Rich is that he usually has a story to tell about stopping here and there along the way to help someone out, like passing a tube to Simonson (who was going through tubes like a persnickety sushi chef rejecting bad cuts of ahi), or checking out the specific species of fish in some lake that we passed (I didn't even see the lake). There are photos of Rich stopped along the way to receive water from some spectator. It's a whole series of shots, so the photographer had plenty of time to zero in on his subject and shoot away.

And just an aside about Simonson. After four flats tires and a broken chain, he'd probably call this the IronCurse.

Andy (204)
Andy on the other hand was doing well until somewhere after Station 2, where he decided to get lost and wander off course so he could sight see rather than partake in the race proper. Sure the area is beautiful and the weather was fantastic, but really Andy I think there are other times to do the tourist thing.

I was probably about three hours behind him before he decided to flee the punishment that is IronCross, but due to his errant ways, I passed him on a blazing downhill at about 35mph as he was fixing a flat about 500 yards from Station 4. He caught up to me shortly thereafter and I wasn't to see him again until the end, when he came in...after...me.

It's always weird to finish a race thinking you know where others are, only to find that you're either way behind or way ahead of someone else. He and Rodger went well ahead of me on the singletrack shortly after Station 4. My legs had blown at that point and all I was thinking about was making it to the finish. There was not an ounce of spark left. I nearly crashed in a section of rutted grass and shortly thereafter was swarmed by a pack of riders right before a major water hole that they all blasted through. So I blasted through it as well. I probably wouldn't have, but they made it look so cool that I couldn't pass it up. It was more than cool, it was icy cold, but at this point in the race it felt great.

It was followed by a rough area of log strewn single track where a major branch kicked up and locked between my brakes and the rim grinding my bike to a halt. I stopped and pulled it out, hopped on and took off.

Apparently, Andy watched the whole thing. Only he was wondering why his teammate hadn't stopped to help him in a time of need. He'd gotten another flat and was standing off the trail without a pump or tube. I, meanwhile, had both a hand pump and a couple of CO2's as well as a couple of tubes. On my measly little 32 tires I was one of the rare racers who still hadn't flatted.

I'm still not clear about why he didn't call out to me, but maybe he was just too surprised to think that I'd blown by him without a nod. Then again, I probably would have tossed him the tube in my jersey pocket, which was, of all things a Schrader. I'd carried a useless tube the whole race.

Oblivious
What people have to understand is that at some point in a race (usually about a hundred yards after the start) I'm oblivious to my surroundings except for the obstacles set out before me and my own little world of thought. I'm just pedaling, often hurting, and there isn't much more that can be asked of me. I've grown ultra paranoid about getting lost, because I know that I get into the race trance and forget at times that the bike doesn't have some innate ability to find its way home. I have to pay attention, and paying attention is not what I do best. So if you're by the side of the road or trail, sometimes I realize that you're there, but usually it's after I've gone by you. And it would help even more if you had a directional arrow attached to your jersey. That way I'd be seeking you out. But that doesn't mean that I'd still recognize you. I'd only see the arrow.

Otherwise, most of the time, I don't know you're there unless you scream some profanity at me. So please, you're job from now on is to look for me if you need my help. I'll stop if I know you need me. I'll be glad to pass you my Schrader. I've learned that I'm not Rich. I don't know how the guy even finishes races, much less places well. I mean, he stops for everyone in need. He probably even stops to help turtles get off the course and little old rabbits on crutches that get in the way of a swarming careless horde of racers. My guess is that he would have spent time along that lake (that I swear didn't exist) inspecting speckles on the fishies if the mood would have struck him--and he still would have beat me by twenty minutes. It's really infuriating.

Anyway, Andy wandered aimlessly for a while until some other rider with a heart tossed him a tube and someone else helped to pump air into the thing.

Rodger (117)
I did see Rodger alongside the dirt road after the KOM fixing his tire. I was flying at the time, but I slowed down and asked if he needed help. I think he said, "Goblue bla bla seeba," or something like that. I didn't, obviously, understand a word, but he wasn't screaming for help so I figured he was ok. He caught me a short while later with a good slap on the back, which propelled me forward for too short a period of time.

I was, at that point with the two leading women riders in the race, as well as a guy named Bill Nagel who was about my age and riding hard even though he hadn't raced much this year. I mention Bill because he passed me at about the five mile to go mark like he'd just started the race a few minutes before. (He's the guy in the picture with me above.) He looked all fresh and sparky and it was an amazing contrast to my feelings at that moment.

I have to mention something else about Bill. He likes to talk and race at the same time. It was like he was channeling Randy out there. How do you guys do that? I'm basically at a primal level of survival with drool rolling down my chin, and you guys are chatting away like we're just sitting at the breakfast table having our second cup of coffee. I mean, he seemed like a great guy, very personable, but polite chat on an endless 7% gravel road rise with 20 miles down and another 43 to go just isn't in my makeup. It's hard enough just to pedal, much less form coherent sentences. Then he disappears for an hour or so after the first run up, then reappears and passes me with five miles to go, cheery and chatty as ever. What basic gene did I miss receiving?

Meanwhile, I remember seeing Rodger not too far ahead of me on the first hellish run-up, but at the top he was long gone and I figured that would be the last I'd see of him in the race. Rodger and I do this tortoise/hare thing. I am definitely the tortoise. And sure enough, at Station 4 he showed up again, standing at the table getting refreshments. I'd just seen Andy, so it was proving to be an interesting team thing as the race drew to a close.

Rodger and Andy passed me shortly thereafter and Rodger patted me on the back again, but this time it was on a singletrack and since there was only room for one bike, the pat kind of had elements of a shove as he wrestled his bike in front of mine. I stayed up and he and Andy were gone.

Greg (111)
Greg, like the other three, was well ahead of me for the early part of the race. I went into this race with low expectations, just planning to survive, while the others really were in it to do something. They were just barreling away early on. But apparently I passed Greg on the first run-up. Until the end I thought he was well ahead of me. He was wearing a jersey from his new team in Arkansas and not our Priority Health kit. Sitting here now I couldn't tell you what it looked like. Out on the course he might as well have been in camouflage.

What I remember most about that "run-up" was the tire on the shoulder of the guy in front of me bashing me in the helmet over and over as I tried to find places where my feet would get traction on that vertical ascent through loose rocks and fallen logs. It was just one long line of weary humanity, a modern Pilgrim's Progress, trudging up that endless hill.

The only thing that I thought would be worse was to push the bike up, which I saw Betsy Shogren, the first place woman, do the whole way. Amazing. Then at the top she rode right away from me.

I guess Greg just found his pace from then on and plugged away. If he wouldn't have moved to Arkansas he'd still have us to help make his life miserable training for races like this. Then again, this past spring, in his early race season collegiate fitness, he was putting the rest of us in agony on club rides as we were trying to awaken our legs from the winter's hibernation.

Anne Grofvert (246)
Anne has done this thing four times. I mean, that deserves a medal above and beyond the call if you ask me. She came in the 9th woman this year. And along the way she managed to spear one of her calves with a sharp shrub in a crash on the first single track. Her leg wasn't a pretty sight at the end of the race.

Wow, You Read This Far...
You Really Do Like Punishment
Those who set this race up and called it "Cyclocross" have a sense of humor. They're sick, sadistic people, but a few hours after the race you do chuckle a bit. Somewhere between Station 4 and the finish chuckling is not an expression that comes to mind unless you've gone over the edge. Cursing is. But after it's over, with that amazing ability we have of minimizing our memories of pain and suffering, we can chuckle and even feel a bit proud of what we just did. Worse, our team even talked about what we'd do next year to improve our placings. Sick. It's even more deranged if you come from an area without hills anywhere near this big or this long. There is just nowhere in Michigan to train for this kind of thing.


Greg, Rodger, Rich, & Andy
These guys don't look so tough without their helmets on.

In lieu of mountains, Andy had the best training suggestion. Go out for a five hour ride with your brakes locked on. That's the Michigan way.

In the end, it's a fantastic race (and I say this after swearing that I was giving up biking forever while suffering between Station 4 and the finish), very well run and organized, and the schwag is some of the best you'll find (nice beer glass, great socks). One thing I'll give them extra credit for is the food. Many organizers feed you the night before, and they did, but after the race you're often on your own, miles from nowhere with nothing open, much less edible. After this race, they fed us well with excellent burritos from Moe's Southwest Grill. After a race like this, you need a lot of calories and you need them fast.

Sonority
I gave the team a special treat on the ride back to Michigan. Somewhere along the Ohio Turnpike the weary effects of race day finally set in and I fell asleep. I know too well what this means and now so do they. My daughter, Lauren, has described it in detail from myriad car trips together. My head falls back, my jaw drops open and I snore loudly. I've even done it in her violin lessons as I waited on a very comfortable couch while she serenades me only a few feet away. I gave up having any shame about this. When fatigue strikes, I'm out. The guys mentioned my sonorous sleep. Rodger was playing some great music on the stereo. I think I was just resonating with that.

Do IronCross at least once. You'll have some great naps the following days. I promise.

Photo Credits
The photos of us on our bikes above were taken by a woman named Judy, who was kind enough to post them shortly after the race. Thank you Judy.
I took the rest.

Fanslow

Laws of the Jungle
I was trying to figure out what ole Fanslow was up to. He was on the front nearly every minute. We rode in his wake for a good part of the race. He was dragging everyone around so much that I was getting worried for the poor guy. I mentioned it to him in one of those rare moments when I went past his wheel. "Yeah," he said. That was it. It wasn't like we could have a good heart-to-heart out there.

Dave has kind of a deadpan delivery most of the time. It has a nasal quality, somewhat like Bugs Bunny’s “Yeah” before “What’s up doc?” He’s not anywhere near as glib or cocky as Bugs, and he has a much more low key corner of the mouth, corner of the eye slyness, with a smile that hints at his abilities to leave you far back in the pack if necessary. Nothing malicious, just the laws of the jungle in effect.

The Power Shake
He comes out to train with the club each year, usually around May, and struggles like hell for a month. Then, as the heat of July picks up, so does Dave's strength. His sprints are almost always good. His quads are built for tractor pulls. But in July his endurance and overall power join in for a lively power shake that's hard to hold on to.

Keep in mind that this is a guy who in real life is a research marine biologist who often sits in a small boat for weeks at at time in the middle of Lake Michigan counting cladocera or whatever marine biologists do. There are times when he can't ride and about the only exercise is circling the small deck or, as a result of misbehavior, walking the plank. For those of us whose legs are hurting from rides with Dave, I recommend we contact his boss and see if we can get him assigned to these Great Lakes adventures as often as possible.

Blank Stares
I did an 80 mile club ride with him last year at the end of July. It was one of the hottest days of the year, full of steamy air and relentless sun. I'd been on vacation for three weeks hiking in France, not once on a bike. It was not using good judgment to ride with Dave immediately after my return. Many others on the ride didn’t know Dave like I did, though a few of the smarter ones did turn back at the twenty mile mark. The rest should have done the same. I wanted a long ride, and I had a foolish sense of what I was in for, so I stayed.

Dave has a straightforward philosophy: if you’re on a Velo Club ride, you’re there to ride hard. I often agree, unless my legs are sore or someone puts me into the red zone too much. It’s a very self-serving belief on my part that as long as I’m the one putting others into trouble I have every right, but if others do the same to me I grumble. (Rodger's had me grumbling since March and there's no let up in sight.) Dave is equal opportunity. If you can make him hurt, that's fine with him. It will just make him stronger. Eventually, he’ll get to the point where you’re the one hoping he’d ease off just a little.

So, for most of the 80 mile ride it was hold on to Dave's wheel or ride back alone. It was one long steady pull at a speed quite a few notches above comfortable. We made it, but there wasn’t much talking along the way and there were a lot of vacant stares as we went our separate ways in Ann Arbor.

A week or so later he powered along at the hundred mile Black Bear race in Grayling, again yanking away out front and keeping the pace high. He finished top ten.

The Full Breakfast Combo
This year was different for Dave and that meant different for the rest of us. From the first ride in May he had both power and endurance and the sprint was explosive. It was very reassuring to me after sucking air behind Rodger and Peter’s wheels all spring to know that now I had Dave. He's an active cross-country ski racer in the winter, so there was a foundation of sorts, but that's no different than any other year. Whatever it was, Dave had the full breakfast combo all set early season.

La Puissance de la Fan
So, we’re going round and round the Kensington hills in this race called the Trophee de Grimpeurs put on by the inimitable Joe Lekovish and his sadistic friends. This race, as Joe pointed out, wasn’t really a climber’s race. It was a race for all-arounders, and in our race it was a race for sprinters and powerhouse riders.

Nobody was willing to go off the front, except one or two riders, who were pulled back after relentless efforts to get away. Dave was in more than one of those attempts. Often, when you hang out there for a while, you deplete the resources and become pack fodder. In defensive packs, like this one, the good riders are often worn down by the steady thrum thrum of the group to reel everyone in. Not enough people are willing to work to get away, so it comes down to just a few stalwart riders or vain solo efforts doomed to failure unless they have the legs and lungs of Jens Voigt.

At the end was the pack sprint. Ours started early, thanks to Larry Bohnsack, who flew to the front on the final uphill, 600 meters from the finish. The trouble was, nearly everyone was still in reasonable shape because the race was so slow to that point. The pack exploded forward using Larry as the rabbit.

It was one of the hardest finishes of my life, both because it began so far out and because it was all uphill. And it got steeper at the 200 meter mark. My legs were lactic loaded at about 400 meters and from then on it was total abandon, like trying to climb a rope by your teeth after the arms have gone out.

When I passed the line, I looked ahead and there was Dave. I rolled up to him as we cruised down the other side and asked how he did. “Second,” he said, with that sly smile sneaking across his face.

Second. A week later he pulled the pack around the Master's race at the Priority Health Ann Arbor Cycling Classic. I think he got sixth place. It was his last race of the year. He's going to focus on the ski season now. Good, my legs need a break. Maybe we can get Rodger to do the ski thing, too.

ROCKY (and MUDDY) and BULLWINKLE, or Mollifying a Moose

Algonquin Fauna
They were between me and the route back to my campsite. Moose are very big animals. They gaze impassively. I was wearing my Spam Stops Here jersey, which is kind of brownish orange. And I had my white Specialized helmet on. I looked down at my jersey and touched my helmet. Maybe to her I was a deer with my butt in the air. Maybe the bike looked like an interesting arrangement of stag horns. That impassive look of hers was going on a long time. The calf half turned on the trail and took a couple of steps as if to say, "c'mon mom, let's get away from this stranger. That butt in the air thing has me worried."

But mom just kept staring. I didn't know if it would be worse to be perceived as a threat to her or to be courted as a possible mate. Maybe dad was off on some tryst with another cute cow. Maybe I was just the guy she was looking for to fill the void. "Sure," I heard her thinking, "I'll take a scrawny stag in a pinch." I felt a chill flutter through my skin. I slowly turned my bike around and eased back on down the trail in the direction I'd come. I listened for hoof steps, but none followed. Fifty more feet down the trail along a wooded turn I waited.

The Lie
These were my first hours in Algonquin Provincial Park. Connie and I had set up camp and I wanted to get out immediately on the only marked mountain bike trail in the whole 4578 square mile park. (To get a sense of the scale of this place, Rhode Island is 2000 square miles.) Mountain bikers get a 16 mile loop. It's quite a big section of trail, considering that there are numerous hiking trails all along Highway 60 and few go this far and deep into the park. The way to get to know the heart of darkness that is Algonquin is by canoe or kayak. There are nearly endless lakes and portages. You come across the portages as you trek around the trails. But kayaking didn't happen for us this trip. Connie and I hiked and I slipped in a bit of biking each day, because I'm a pedal addict.

Minnesing Mountain Bike Trail is "rated at a moderate level of technical difficulty." That's what it says in the official Algonquin trail map. Whoever wrote that is a twisted human being. I'd consider myself a reasonably advanced mountain biker and Connie is an advanced beginner. For as little mountain biking as she does, she's really pretty darned good and can fly through sand and other obstacles that I've seen some very advanced riders struggle through. So, we thought that a "moderately difficult" trail would be within her skill level and still give me enough of a challenge to keep me interested.

Before we started I wanted to reassure her that falling is part of mountain biking. At least it often is for me and for the people I ride with. She didn't believe me. She thought I was just trying to make her feel good. I was. But I fall a lot. That was the truth. Little falls, big falls. They just happen. So I was able to give her a demonstration of my art of the fall when I came upon a wooden bridge over a large ditch.

It was really beautiful out. The rains had created a vernal wonderland of bright green grasses and heavy lidded foliage. The sun dappled through all those leaves and made treacherous little obstacles look like cute postcard shots of happiness and playful joy. This bridge was cute. It was nestled in the grasses at the bottom of a slope and it had a lip on it that you had to hop your front wheel up on. It would have been easy at speed. I was poking along, really enjoying our ride together as we chatted and pedaled up and down these lush slopes of fantasy land. I approached the bridge, popped the front wheel to clear the wood lip and looked down to see a mean spirited little ditch running parallel to and a couple of feet in front of that lip. The front wheel was up as the rear wheel hit the ditch, immediately driving the front wheel back down and into that lip before it could quite clear it. It was a nice, slow motion roll over the handlebars and somersault onto that sweet little bridge, where I continued on over to a sitting position as if it were a planned acrobatic move into a moment of rest and reflection. After Connie's eyes receded back into position, she asked if I was all right, thinking that our ride was probably over. It was my demonstration of Reassurance 101. Proof that falling is an uninhibited craft I've mastered

The Slippery Slopes
There has been a considerable amount of rain in Ontario this year. I think they've broken all kinds of records for wet. But, even in the best of conditions, this trail is definitely a tad above the "moderate" level, particularly the eastern side. It's narrow, twisting, and full of spiky leg ripping hills that are not necessarily short. Most of all there are rocks and mud. Just mud would be one thing. There are many sections that are just mud. These are the deep, long patches of glocky mud that make your heart patter as you approach. But after a half an hour or so I was able to rip through these like they were just spongy hardpack. Even the deepest mud was ridable.

Except when the mud was part of some major ditch mixed with roots that you had to pitch down into and climb out of, usually rutted with other bikers' attempts to do the same. I'm sure there are those who specialize in this kind of thing. Every time I tried, my bike was pitched all over the place until I was dabbing, then giving up in exasperation, my shoes schlupping up the slippery slope.

Mix in the rocks and the game changes completely. These were rocks anywhere in size from baseballs to soccer balls. And almost nowhere on the east side trail were there just rocks. They were almost always mixed in with the mud. I'd head into the fray with a strong resolve, but soon my front wheel was kicked north and my back wheel was slamming south as it combined with a slippery spin in the adjoining mud. Then the front wheel would ram into a soccer ball and the whole thing came to a sudden halt.

Now, like those helpful music lesson cd's that start with the drums, then add the bass, then add rhythm guitar, then the freewheeling saxophone, think of all this--mud, rocks, occasional flowing water--on a 14% slope. That's the true heart of Minnesing. That's what takes this to a technical level that blows "moderate" right off the rim. And this type of condition wasn't the exception, it was the rule, over and over and over.

It was finally Connie's undoing. I felt horrible, because we'd planned a week of this kind of thing and it was painfully obvious that the level of difficulty on this trail was far beyond even the hopes and aspirations of an intermediate rider. There was just too much grunting and grinding up and down these treacherous rock strewn slippery slopes to make it much fun unless you live to prepare yourself for trips to the emergency room. It was definitely challenging me to the limit of my abilities, much less to someone who occasionally gets out on a mountain bike. We realized that unless she was in the mood to walk 16 or so miles of this trail pushing her bike, we needed to find the first turn-off and head back.

We did. It was a half-mile non-stop uphill climb through a rutted wash that was all the things I'd previously mentioned. It was the drums, bass, guitar, and saxophone with a touch of Dizzy Gillespie's twisted trumpet wailing and squealing its tortuous highlights. We walked much of it, in other words. I was able to clip in and scramble up a few sections, but often I'd end up with a tire's width of trail dropping into a rock strewn central ditch glazed with mud and water. As soon as the tire dropped into the ditch there was the choice of trying to ride up through the slick rocks, not really an option, or crank up the opposite mud caked embankment and see if I could ride the tire's width of trail on that side. It seldom happened. There was just too much slipping, bouncing and up. Always up.

And the mosquitoes and deer flies had their way in the midst of all this. I'd slathered myself with deet all over my exposed face, head, neck, and hands, but nowhere else and they soon discovered the joys of gossamer lycra and they zapped away at will, particularly the deer flies. I'd grind uphill in some precarious position with my butt sticking out and wiggling away and sure enough that's where the little pecker jammed its spike. I'd suffer through it and keep pedaling, both hands clamped hard to the handlebar.

Once over the hill it was a short glide down to the west side trail, which was wider and less muddy, but often strewn with rocks and boulders and with long sweeping uphills and downhills. There were parts of this where the downhills went for a long ways and they were peppered everywhere with all sizes of rocks, but it was dry for the most part, and it was a dream if you like to just skip and dance down long spines of two track at speeds over 30mph.

A short while later, we got Connie back to reasonable lengths of trail and then the connection to our campground at Canisbay Lake where she could hang out while I did the next loop in the system. I headed back out and popped easily over the endo bridge with my new awareness of its sly little ditch. I opened the throttle up where I could and found a lot of the obstacles and particularly the mud much more ridable than the first time through. I was hoping that the trail would open up a bit after the spot we'd turned off. It was not so. The constant change of grade, more rocks, more mud, and the new inclusion of streams in the low areas made the going even tougher.

Nearly everything was ridable except for the rock/mud/hill climbs. I really wanted to watch someone do this. I was hoping through the week to find others along the trail who could give me pointers. But to my surprise there was only one pair of riders in the parking lot on the Sunday we arrived and from then on no one. It was my trail for a week. There were plenty of muddy tracks on the trail, but the riders were nowhere to be seen.

It was like trying to find moose or bear. They appeared when you didn't have the camera or when you felt most vulnerable, but try to find them when you were fully prepared and it was like they'd left the forest for a bar in Madawaska to sip Moosehead Ale and snicker away. I know that if I'd done something really stupid on the trail, like go over an embankment into a lake, I would have had an audience of fifty bikers on a group tour, but otherwise they didn't exist. Not that I was really that shocked. After a week on this trail I realized that it would take an intrepid soul to want to venture in. On my last day I did the complete loop and it was exhausting with one mud/rock climb after another. I spent about a third of the time off the bike and pushing.

I never learned about the dynamics of the terrain, but it was hard to figure out how hills can be seeping water all the way up and down, but at the bottom be completely dry. This phenomenon happened a few times and opposed all rules of logic to me. But, more often, the bottom would be many degrees rockier and muddier, often with a stream to ford.

But there was one time as I'd rounded Linda Lake at the far north end and was arcing back southward in the direction of camp that I crossed a sweet little bridge with panoramic views of the lake only to confront a steady uphill climb on the other side. It was ok, though. It was dry. It wasn't even rocky. But it was a long, long uphill. At least it was dry. I could stay on my bike for a change. Nice. From here on, I thought, it will be a smooth steady rhythm back to camp. Then, when I thought the hill couldn't go much higher, it did. And it got wet. And muddy. And rutted and muddy. With muddy washouts and muddy ditches. I slipped and slopped away. I made every attempt to keep pedaling, sometimes with one tire tread between me and dense shrubbery on one side and a muddy ditch on the other. Until the shrubbery reached out into the ditch and I had nowhere else to go. Then it was slip, drop, hit a muddy ledge, and spin to a complete halt. There was no way to hop up and ride from then on. It was off the bike and push. "Moderately technical."

Talk to the Animals
We did more than bike that week. We hiked every hike we could and saw more moose and a bear. And the hikes were varied and gorgeous, sometimes with climbs to the top of large escarpments that revealed views out beyond anywhere you could bike or hike. Out where only the kayakers and canoeists ventured. But Minnesing trail still haunts me. It was green, lush, overgrown and rife with slippery challenges. I wanted to learn to ride it with only an occasional dab of the foot, but I certainly wasn't in that league yet, if I could ever be. But even in its treachery it was alluring.

I did finally get around that Moose cow and her calf by the way. It was either confront them or ride back through the hell from which I'd emerged and that wasn't going to happen if I could help it. It was my first day and I cursed two things: one, that the camera was back in camp with Connie, and two, the fact that I hadn't read any of the park literature yet about how to deal with big wild animals. But at this point my stomach was beginning to rule and it said I wanted to get back to camp on the easiest, quickest trail and that meant passing mom and shorty.

I rode back up the trail toward camp hoping they'd moved on, but of course they stood just as they had before. I stopped and we did the stare thing for a while. Then I did what anyone who's watched Rocky and Bullwinkle from a formative age would do. I talked to them. "You can go now," I said to the mom, like she'd grown up with good English grammer classes and understood my clear enunciation. "I'm coming through," I said in the most mellifluous voice I could muster. (Let's be happy together. Aren't we happy?) I even waved my hand forward, like I was shooing a bad performer off stage. Then I did something really stupid. I pushed my bike ahead of me, thinking I could put it between me and a two thousand pound charging moose and it would protect me like the steely shield of a Spartan warrior. I even puffed my chest up. You can find a picture of me somewhere in my blog. My chest is fearsome, puff or no puff. You'll see.

And with a big gulp I awaited my fate. But either her amorous feelings had subsided, or, more likely, I was an annoyance, but she slowly turned and stepped--in her own version of slo-mo--off the trail. ("Ok, if the jerk wants by I'll move, but I'm not rushing it so he can get back to camp and make up some lame story about how tough he is facing up to a big bad moose.")

I was free. I slipped past them and I was the scirocco along the dry two-track back to camp. It was my first day and I'd seen two moose up close. I was exhilarated.

Yeah... and...they were both big moose. Big...ummm...bull moose...Not bull-winkles, but real mighty, mean bulls. Yeah, that was it...with massive racks. And they were ornery SOBs. When they charged I knew that running was not an option. I stood my ground and tossed my bike to the side so it wouldn't hinder my ability in hand to hoof combat. I looked at each bull, deciding I'd take the big one down first, leaving the smaller four thousand pound bull intimidated. I did all this in the time it would take to clip into a pair of titanium Eggbeaters. When the largest bull came within a few feet he lowered his head, preparing to ram me full on. I dug my right leg into the soft earth behind and leaned forward on the left, lowering my shoulders and helmet donned head, ready to take the full brunt of the blow. As the feet drew to inches, I smelled the moose's roaring breath and heady musk laden hide. I thought, as everything went into slow motion, this guy could use a Chlorets and a dab of Old Spice...

Ore-to-Shore '08

ONE GEAR TO GUIDE US

"We made it through the hard part," Rich said as we crested the endless luge climb at the beginning of the race. I couldn't talk. I couldn't think.




Rob, Andy & Rich
I think I see Andy's problem...too many leg muscles.

For me it was just the beginning of 48 miles of the hard part. Then again, I wasn't on a single speed cross bike grinding away at the only gear possible. I had a whole smörgåsbord of gear options and still I was nearly comatose with oxygen debt. I know this race all too well. It's my third. I know that the hard part never ends. The definition of hard just constantly changes.

There was a light rain overnight, not enough to tame the sand or keep the dust down. Last year's race was the Beijing of particulates. Dust was everywhere and always, particularly in the early part of the race when it was nearly impossible to see the riders around you at some points from the surrounding red cloud. My kit from last year still has a patina of red where the white used to be. Iron oxide is good if you like permanent russet stains.

A Hard Rain's a Gonna Fall
Rich, Andy and I arrived in Negaunee and did our usual putsying about before the race. The clouds were big and dark in places with large patches of surrounding blue. Then nearly all blue. Then a little blue and a lot of clouds. More blue. More clouds. A lot more clouds. Dark clouds. Dark clouds spitting water. More water. Darker clouds. A major drencher. I'd just hopped on my bike for a warmup ride and turned right around and climbed into the car. Cascades of rain poured down. It was only half an hour before the start of the race. The Soft Rock was already underway. Hard Rain/Soft Rock. Yuck!

I'd parked beside a man and a woman who were riding a tandem. A couple of people came up to the guy and I overheard them talking about meeting him at some beer festival somewhere. He looked familiar, but a lot of people look familiar. Some people remind you of one-off versions of Clint Eastwood or Sally Struthers or Bart Simpson. And I'm often wondering when I look at someone with their helmet off if I ride with them sometimes. Anyway, he apparently drank beer and that's where people knew him from and maybe I met him drinking beer.

Then Andy, who parked next to me, said hi to him and chatted amiably. He mentioned that Rich and I were racing from our team. The guy said who's Rob (of course, everybody knows Rich) and I raised my hand. Then I wondered if he was one of the South Lyon riders who showed up at Runway on Tuesday nights. I asked him. Sure enough, that was it. He was Craig. I'd never seen him without a helmet. He and a woman named Cristin were riding the race on a tandem. I figured that those people who rode tandems in this race were paroled inmates forced into it as further punishment. ("No, please, anything but that judge! Anything! I'll never do wrong again in my life. Pleaaaasssse....not Ore-to-Shore on the tannnnnnndemmmmmmm..") But these two were doing it willingly. I don't understand human beings sometimes.

The rain ended about ten minutes before the start. It's not that the sun came out and draped us in its warm embrace, but the dark clouds headed off to pummel someone else and we had dryness as we all climbed on our bikes and clipped in.

In the announcements we were told of a beaver dam that was across the trail somewhere between stations one and two. At least a foot of water. We could plunge in or skirt it on a small earthen ledge, our choice. It was funny because before we actually got to it, I thought we'd passed it at least twice. There were a couple of wide spots on the route that were completely submerged in that renowned russet water. But when we finally did get to the beaver dam it was unmistakable and none in the group I was with were willing to take the chance riding through it. It did look ominous and there were bubbles coming up, which could have been bikers who'd tried to ride through and were now permanently out of the race, among other things.

Sing-a-Long Long Drive
For a minute I have to talk about the ride up. It's a long way from Ann Arbor to Marquette. You have to have a good reason to want to be in a car for that long. I'm still deciding whether Ore-to-Shore is a good reason (8 to 10 hour drive, just to self-inflict a ton of pain), but I do it. I get up early on Friday before the race and I'm off by 5am. Around 12:30 I'm in my campsite in Marquette and setting up my vulnerable little tent. Jason Lummis is usually nearby, already part of the camp scene, spinning his son Zak in the air at propeller speeds.

The drive is long and I did it alone because...I don't know why exactly...but I did it alone. Alone for that long in a car means a lot of music, preferably with a strong beat. The drive up is all excitement and anticipation anyway because of the race. This year I sang. I did this ride with my wife, daughter and our exchange student from Germany one year and the exchange student put her I-Pod on and sang the whole way. She had this very eerie register and every song from her lips sounded like high pitched wind trailed by ghosts. I'm being generously complimentary about this. It was our first week together, and we didn't want to make her feel self-conscious, so we let her eeeeeeeeiiiii away. (We later learned that self-conscious was not a concept that ever crossed her path, but that's a whole different story.)

My singing is no better, probably worse, definitely louder, and simply different. And, again, I was only subjecting myself to this. I was, "riding the love train, love train..." and " I went to school with 27 Jennifers, 16 Jenns, 10 Jennies, and then there was her..." and "If you don't know me by now, you will never never never know me oooOOOoooooO..." There were moments, especially after crossing the big bridge, when I was belting it out. No karaoke here, I was right on stage with the O'Jays, Mike Doughty, and Harold Melvin. We were in the groove.

Mid-race, I was still trying to feel that love and there were a few moments when maybe it was there. Not sure. I felt a lot of pain, though, and in love there is a lot of pain, so there was something simpatico going on.

Powers of Compaction
Let me make one thing very clear about this race. Nearly everyone does it on a mountain bike and still suffers like a dog. It's 48 miles of leg bashing, suspension banging, arm hammering fun (if you think suffer and fun belong in the same sentence). Rich has his own ideas of a good time. He does this race on a cross bike. A single-speed cross bike. Last year he picked too high a gear and paid for it in pain on the hills. The tires are wide--for a cross bike--but not so wide compared to MTB tires.

And much of this race is about sand. Deep, loamy, leg sapping sand. I both caught him and rode away from him on sand last year. This year his gearing was lower. I caught him on one of the less steep parts of the first climb as his legs were zipping along at some warp speed, but he passed me not too much later. I didn't know it at the time. I was apparently already in race stupor mode. The whole race I thought he was still somewhere back and awaited his smiling face alongside me, but I didn't see it until I crossed the finish line and he and Andy were already there.

The rain just prior to the start was Rich's best friend. The rest of us would soon be pleasantly surprised with the joy of compressed sand as the race progressed. But for Rich, it was a wonder. He was able to power over areas that last year were just one big mire of a daymare. It shows in the overall speed of the race. Times were up. I know, I beat my time from last year by about five minutes. It was a fast course. So it was a trade-off. Smoother course, more hard charging. There were moments along the way when I wondered if I could keep up with the pace of the group I latched on to. But we all seemed to fade in and out of strength at odd moments, trading times of power and weakness. But I think for Rich, these long straight on power races are his thing.

I was with a guy I've cyclocrossed with for a few years, Karl. Karl's a couple of years younger than I am and very strong. There was a point midway when I thought he was waning and I passed him with a good acceleration. But a couple of miles down the trail he was still there. It went that way, back and forth for most of the race.

Feeling Good
With around 15 miles to go, the mile markers were prevalent and bold every mile thereafter. I was feeling pretty good at that point. We'd crossed the bridge over the Dead River and done the long climb up the paved section and my legs were still sparking. We went back into the trails and came across a wild downhill section where I let everything go and danced full speed down to the bottom. There are caution signs in varying terrain in this race and most mean absolutely nothing. There was one that warned about a sand section and there was far less sand there than in many other places on the course. But one sign was not to be messed with and that was the one warning about some sketchiness at the bottom of this long downhill. I paid it no mind and flew around a blind curve full speed only to confront a major drop-off into a ditch on the left, directly in my now unavoidable line. I clamped on the brakes and nearly endoed as I went into it, but was able to come to a complete stop at the bottom still upright. The guy directly behind me did the same, but about ten others saw our predicament and slipped to the right along the smooth section of the turn. The guy I messed up was very nice under the circumstances and we jumped back into the pack.

From there it was up, down, up, down through a great series of trails and by mile 10 I thought everything was going to be all right to the end. There was one particular short dig of a climb that was actually fun to chew up. Karl was right on my wheel as we motored over together.

Slower Than Chug
Then we hit mile 9 and the group accelerated once more. But I didn't. My legs wouldn't respond. One minute I felt great, the next my legs felt like they were filled with concrete, particularly my quads. Acceleration just wasn't on the agenda. I couldn't believe it. Karl's wheel went with the rest and I was left on my own.

There's something to be said for food. You should eat it all along the way during an intense race such as this one. I tried. I really did. I sucked at my Hammer Gel and drank all the Gatorade in my Camelback. I had attempted to eat my Powerbar, but it was just more sugar and one thing that was not going right was my stomach's response to all the sugar. It was sick of it. I used to eat Powerbars often. I don't any longer. They're full of fat and I'm off of most fats these days. But I'd forgotten my home made low fat high carb/protein power bar back in the freezer at home in Ann Arbor, so I had to do with the Powerbar. But after attempting to eat some of it earlier in the race, it just wouldn't go down. And I thought I was ok. I'd eaten about a third. i hoped that would carry me those few more miles.

But I need food. I must burn through it like chaff ablaze in a furnace. I bonked one other time in a race and that was at the first Tour de Leelanau. I was climbing the last big hill and feeling great at the bottom, but by the top the whole pack just whizzed right by me and there was nothing I could do to power back up and catch on. I hadn't eaten enough then either.

There's no greater exhilaration in biking than feeling your legs go to that next level up. They respond to an attack or they incite one. Either way it feels so good. There's nothing worse than bonking. The will is there, but the legs won't go. And that's what I was going through at the 9 mile marker. The legs wouldn't respond.

I once drove my Ford Pinto from Traverse City to Eureka, California. It ran great until the west end of South Dakota. And then, for some reason two cylinders blew out. I don't know much about cars, but I do know when one loses power and this was a big thing as I headed toward the mountains. The ride through the Rockies put a new meaning in the word slow. It was crouching dragon slow. It was slower than chug. It made backward look fast. We had lines of cars behind us that stretched east across three Montana counties. Backpackers passed us. Dragging kindling for their fires. My friend Dave once got out of the car and walked to the top and waited for me to arrive.

That's how I felt. I was my two cylinder Pinto. I was now in my own little race, just surviving to the end, hoping that I wouldn't lose too much time after all I'd worked to this point. At the wicked little steep climb near the end of the race I just hopped off the bike at the bottom and walked up. I'd climbed it last year when it was much sandier. One of the guys in my age group went by me and cranked slowly up it, over the top and out of sight. One more place down. Grrrrrr.

In the last few miles, my legs began to reinvigorate. I pedaled hard through some single track on the wheel of what would turn out to be the third place woman finisher. But apparently I was more fatigued than I thought and I crashed when my wheel skipped the wrong way off a root. I was fine, though my right knee now bears the skinned reminder of that moment. Fortunately, two guys were standing there to watch the whole thing. A whole forest to stand in and they had to pick right where I decided to crash. I dragged the bike up and cranked hard those last few miles to the finish and was so glad to see that banner and hear my name called as I passed under. My time was 3 hours, 2 minutes, 50 seconds. I'd really hoped to beat the three hour mark, but it wasn't to be.

Over? So Soon?
And there were Rich and Andy. They'd come in together a few minutes before. Rich was doing well. Andy wasn't jumping up and down. Here was a guy who just tackled a debilitating bout of Mononucleosis through June and July and he was less than enthusiastic with his finish. For one thing, he beat me. By a lot. (Ok, it's not that big a deal, but it was to me.) And for another, how was he supposed to train for this race with Mono? But he did, had a downhill crash along the way, and still did well. My vote is that Andy was monster man post mono. And, hey, he looked good. Andy always looks good. I'll bet the pictures, when I get them from Laurel and the web site, will prove that.

I learned that Jason's pedal fell off halfway through the race and he still managed to finish in 8th place overall. On one pedal! (Ok, he lucked out and found someone to help get it back on tight, but wouldn't that have been a great story?) Maybe I needed some catastrophic event to pick up my game and finish well. I'll work on that next year. Karl was third in our age category. He stayed with our group to the end and rode the wave in. I'll have to see what I can do to him in cyclocross this year.

The results were posted the next morning in the Mining Journal, the Marquette local paper. Rich finished 4th overall in the singlespeed category. On a cross bike. I mean, give me a break. Rich always has to go and do the impossible and make it look like just another day at the races. Annoying, but what can you do? That's our Rich. I think we should take away his one gear. That would do it. That gear has to go.