Ore-to-Shore 2007

As I was leaving Marquette Sunday morning early, I stopped at a Quik Gas, or whatever you call it, to get coffee, and there was a woman behind the counter who was real chatty. "Hot," she said. "Humid as hell. I'da walked in today, but it's too humid." She was a large woman with teeth that looked like they'd shifted around in her mouth quite a bit, kind of like those number puzzles that you have to move the numbers around to get them into the right order. And these numbers were all out of order. But she was nice and friendly. "I don't live up here for the heat," she continued. "Lived here all my life. Never been anywhere else, and it isn't for the heat. My sister moved downstate, down by Clio. She's locking the doors every time she goes out. Don't have to do that up here."
"It is a beautiful place up here," I said.
"Though there was a guy," she continued, "out in the parking lot when I opened yesterday morning. Stark naked and cutting himself all over with a big knife. Twenty year old with a thirty-six year old girlfriend. She's out with some other guy cheatin' and he's going berserk in the lot out here. Police came and hauled him away. Put him in the psycho ward."
I nodded. Long pause. I was thinking that I'd probably keep my door locked, even up here. Not that I'm against naked guys with knives...I just don't want to risk one of them walking in with my back to the door as I sort through my box of cycling hero cards.
"I was up for the race," I said.
"Oh," she said, "the bike thing."
"The bike thing, yeah."

She actually looked like one of the women Andy described chasing down near the end of the race. There were quite a few of them, since they were the last of the Soft Rockers (28 miles), chugging in after a long day in the saddle. My sense is that Andy spent a lot of energy chasing many of them down. He'd see the prey, pick up the pace, blast by, then they'd wave happily as the manly stud left them in the dust. It must have been quite rewarding.

Then again, Andy did do well with this tactic. He ended up 35th overall out of 518 Hard Rockers (48 miles) total. He was the best of us TWiTs, rolling in at the three hour mark. That's a 16 mph average over a brutal course. Of course, he did it at the expense of crushing the egos of the larger, slower participants he chased down, but whatever it takes is what I say.

Eight minutes later I crossed the line after getting jumped by two of my young compatriots who I dragged for the last few miles of open trail and road because they must have thought taking a pull at the front was undignified. Not that I'm bitter. Nooooo. Actually one of them was a good worker who did a lot of up front stuff for many miles. The three of us were together for about the last 20 miles or so, along with Rich for a while, until we hit the technical rollers and the sand where a cross bike has its limitations. More on that later. But one of the guys, the one I'll call Sparky, was a complete wheel sucker the whole way. There was a point where I made him ride in front of me (the other guy was still ahead doing the majority of the pulling), but Sparky kept looking back at me trying to find an opportunity to get back to his comfortable position in the rear. (Hmmm, was he riding in a suppository type vehicle in the Black Bear perhaps? Hmmmm.)














Rich, Rob, Brian, & Andy

Anyway, Sparky sat at the back most all the way and just talked. And talked and talked. It was an endless stream. Thank goodness I'm getting older and my hearing just isn't that great anymore. (It could also be all those years of headphones cranked up to ear bleed levels.) All I heard was "drone, drone, drone," but man could that guy keep up the stream. Interestingly, at one point there was a short 50 meter single track section and it spurred him to action and he passed me with vigor yelling, "Oooooo, single track, I don't think I can handle this. Oooooooo." As soon as we dove into it, his wheel flipped off of some roots and he went smack face down in the dirt. I asked if he was ok and he said no problem and a few of us sailed by him. I was hoping that was the last I'd see (and hear) of him, but sure enough, a few minutes later I heard this droning voice behind me, blather, blather, blather. Then, as I pulled his sorry butt toward the finish, I looked back and he said clearly, "don't worry, you're doing all the work, I won't jump you." True to his word he...um...jumped me. Youthful exuberance I guess.

I had the joy of riding with Rich for part of the way. At about the thirty mile mark or so I was hauling through some sand, of which there was a ton, since there has been little rain up in the UP this summer. O2S is renowned for sand, but this year it was hors category sand. It was soft and deep and, unlike that major credit card, everywhere that you didn't want it to be: uphills, downhills, flats, everywhere. I was slogging along and all of a sudden I round a bend and there in my view is a nutcase TWiT on a single speed cross bike. I slogged away until I caught up to him and sure enough, it was who else? There are people who do the O2S on cross bikes and there are those who do it on single speeds, but few have combined the chocolate with the peanut butter to come up with such a leg crushing experience. But Rich, as we all know, is Rich. Nothing will ever be the same again once he's crossed your path.

Actually the last I'd seen him was climbing one of the three wicked hills at the beginning. Up ahead of me was this TWiT guy with his legs spinning away and I thought I'd catch him soon and go on my merry way. But it took thirty miles before I saw him again. And they accuse Floyd of abusing things for exploits that are simple compared to riding a single speed cross bike through this Yooper version of dusty hell.

So, anyway, we ride along together for a short while and some other guys join in and we're rolling well and I'm thinking that it's great and all, but since I've caught up to Rich, he's probably starting to fade a bit and since this isn't really a stay together kind of race I'd be rolling on ahead soon. The trail pitched up and the next thing I know, Rich is up front of all of us and pulling away. A couple more turns and he's out of sight. Interesting, I think. I'm on this plush dual suspension MTB that floats like a cloud and there's this nutcase on a SS cross bike that's probably giving him the bashing of his life and we've gone thirty miles through everything that could be thrown at us and he's pulling away again. It was one of those life isn't fair moments for me.

Thank god for sand. That's when I found him once more not too far up the trail. He was slogging again. I slogged along with him for a while, then the trail did a series of fast downhill S turns through boatloads of sand and this time I was gone. It wasn't exactly what I wanted really. Not that I had any soft feelings for leaving a good friend behind, but because I knew that after this battle with the sandy S turns there was going to be a long road section and I thought it would be great if we could pull each other along that. But Rich was slogging and I had a duty to press on.


I got to the road and paced along at a steady tempo, anywhere from 20 to 22 mph, feeling pretty good because it hadn't pitched up yet. I looked back and nobody was behind me. I kept rolling, looked back again and saw a crew of about five little dots back in the distance. A few minutes more and I realized those dots were gaining quickly. As they drew closer, I saw why. There was Rich pulling away at the front, then somebody else for a short pull, then Rich. As we neared the Dead River Bridge (or whatever they call it) we were one happy group. (Beautiful views, by the way. If you're ever not racing over it it's worth the visit. We were a bit busy to sightsee.) From there on it was a series of ruthless uphills, so I was happy to have the crew. What Rich and I soon learned, however, was that the crew willing to pull consisted of two people: Rich and me. Sparky was there and we know his thoughts on the matter, don't we. One of the other guys came alongside me and said my buddy on the single speed had formed a paceline. He got a real kick out of that. A wacky single speeder forming a paceline. Who'd a thought.

And it's here where Brian's saga begins. At the end of the race we waited for Brian to come in from the sand. He took a while, but when he finally joined us in our post race stupors we learned why. At about the bridge he claims he saw me or Rich up ahead. He dialed it up to catch us and just then his tire blew. Interesting it would blow at one of the most majestic sections of the race--on pavement. Understand that up to that point we'd slammed against rocks, plowed over ripped up roots, ridden through razor sharp gravel, and been subject to intense G-forces at the bottoms of plummeting hills. But Brian's tire blows on the smoothest section of the course just as we're in sight.

I don't know, Brian, I'm struggling with this one. Especially since there are blogs out there claiming that they spotted someone in a black jersey with the name of a well known bike shop in southeast Michigan emblazoned across it fishing off the Dead River Bridge. No names have been named or bike numbers given, but it certainly sounds, um, fishy, don't you think? I'm not making any accusations, I'm just putting this out for discussion. I did ride in the back seat with you to retrieve our cars in Negaunee, Brian, and to be honest you didn't smell good.

Speaking of, I did smell good, because I have this great time-release deodorant that really works. It's still working two days later. Heavy exertion actually increases its effectiveness. I have yet to take a shower simply because I don't have to.

Brian asserts that we inhaled at least a cup of ore dust throughout the race and I think he's willing to go into arbitration on this if it's disputed, confident that we actually inhaled over two full cups of dust. There were sections of the race, especially during the early parts when the pack was together, that I couldn't see a thing and depended on faith that none of my fellow riders would do anything stupid. It was dust like darkness is dust. There was no visibility. And for the rest of the race, except for a few exceptions (and especially when that "guy" was seen fishing) there was always dust in the air. You'd spit and it would be red, which was kind of scary until you realized that the region is renowned for ore mining. ("ORE-to-shore"). Duh!

And then it gets into your system, which is like 90% or more water and you get something very special. You've heard the term I could, um, you know, like, expel a brick. No wonder it's called Hard Rock. Duh 2!

The pictures that Alicia took of us are great. I feel like they should put them in Highlights magazine so the kids could "find the raccoon in this picture. The Badger?" We do look scary, but we are smiling after all. Andy thought we looked like coal miners.

After lunch, I went back to my campsite and napped in my tent, flaps wide open so the breeze could flow in. I was out for nearly two hours when I heard a rustling near my ear. I looked up to see an Oberon descending near my left eye. Looking up the long neck I saw fingers and a guy attached. He placed the nectar down and traipsed off. The Oberon Fairy. I knew he existed, but I didn't think mortals were allowed to see him. It wasn't a dream. It was a real Oberon. It roused me out of my slumber and got me motivated to go to the awards ceremony. Off I went, about an hour after it had started. I walked into the arena and saw they were handing out awards. I asked a woman next to me where they were in the order of things and she said "I don't know." I could have said that. I didn't need to ask her for that answer. Jeez.

Then I heard the announcer say, "and now for the Hard Rock 50 to 54 year olds. These guys REALLY deserve a hand for making it through this race." What the hell did that mean? Not that I'm touchy about my age. Then she said, "is Robert Pulcipher here? Apparently the Oberon Fairy had sprinkled some dust on me and I was still in wonderland. I raised my hand and walked forward. I was third place in my age category. There are some perks to age. You can finish 67th overall, but still get a podium position. It is a fair world after all and the Oberon Fairy does exist. (By the way, I bumped into Jason Lummis a few minutes later and he told me that he and his buddies left the beer. They were camping a few sites down from me and thought I could use one. They were right. I like everything about Bells, including Jason now that I know he gives away free beer.)

Rich finished 94th overall, and I can't remember where he placed in his category. Brian was farther down because of the fish, I mean flat tire. Wink, wink.

That's the race from my distorted view. It's my favorite race of the year. It's challenging as hell, but there's a fun spirit to it. And even though Sparky tried, you really can't hide behind anyone to do well. You still have to have the legs to make it work. It's well organized brutality and if you're going to be brutalized you might as well get beat up by the best. And it's a great time to be in the UP. Awfully pretty, even through the dust.