Ann Arbor's DIRTHAMMER!

Humility Rehabilitation Clinic
The DIRTHAMMER! is not for brittle egos. It will, on any given Tuesday evening, with the right mix of riders, peel away the simpering layers of anyone's pride.

Joe L!!!!!!!! is Partly Right?
Joe--and we all know which Joe I'm talking about, right?--mentioned, in a recent forum, his interpretation of the DIRTHAMMER! origins. It, from his understanding, was begun by Paul Kundrat, Ric Lung, and Ian Lockley, leaving from Northville and emanating forth along local dirt roads. Joe's from Northville. He has pride in his fair village. My guess is that he goes to sleep at night imagining the Tour de France beginning its two thousand plus mile odyssey from Northville someday soon. I'm right, aren't I Joe? Knowing Joe, it could happen.

Well, Joe found snippets of truth in his overexpanding tube of exploding speculations. And half a fact is better than none. And, let's admit it, the DIRTHAMMER! is part legend, part myth, and part delusion anyway.

The DIRTHAMMER! (all caps--as declared by Paul Kundrat) was, in name, Paul's baby. But, and here's where Joe slips down his greasy off-camber hill of truth, this dirt road ride has been going on in Ann Arbor for a while, even before it received the DIRTHAMMER! moniker. And even as the newly rechristened DIRTHAMMER! it originated out of Ann Arbor, beginning from Barton Dam to be specific. So say both Paul and Ric.

Early Origins
According to veteran roadie, Jim Levinsohn, this dirty experience began as an easygoing ride on mountain bikes in the pre-cellphone days. (At first I read it as pre-cellophane and I thought, wow, that is old.) He, Doug Heady, and a guy who is only mentioned in the history books as Dixon wanted a change of pace after a heavy dose of spring and summer road racing. They called this the Dirt Road Ride. Exciting, huh? The regular route of the ride that we now know evolved over time, mostly through the considered attentions and endless wanderings of Jim and Doug.

It has become a route ingrained in the subconscious of anyone who's ridden it repeatedly. In full hammer mode it takes less than an hour and a half to complete, perfect for a Tuesday evening late summer/early fall CX season prep and workout as light fades from the northern hemisphere. The rolling hills are cruelly ever-present and almost perfectly placed to highlight any weakness in the legs of its miscreant participants.

Even in those early "mellow" rides, Jim notes, strange things happened. Dave Koesel fell so hard in a sprint that he was knocked out. He did regain consciousness and finish the ride, but if anyone's come across Dave since (for instance racing a fixie--and doing well--in the Ann Arbor Runway Spring Training Series), this will explain a lot. Paul McMullen, an Olympic 1500 meter runner, rode with his running shoes (truly clipless) and wailed on everyone. Jim and Doug were even chased by a child's remote control car. This is a ride as much known for its imagination as for its exhilaration.

Rebirth
Time passed. Somewhere along the way it lost its sparkle and languished for a while in obscurity. Then, around 2002 or so, a critical degenerate mass reconvened, only this time with cross bikes. According to Paul K, "it picked up momentum with regulars that included myself, Rich Stark, Ric Lung, Brian Rosewarne, Randy Herman, Tom Archer, and others. Inclement weather and darkness were not inhibitors and if you got shelled it meant a solo ride back to A2." Paul, who eventually became president of the Velo Club, considered it the hardest ride the club had to offer.

I picked up on it a year later and I remember regular and irregular luminaries such as Blair Dudley, Ken O'Day, Nick Durrie, Andy Weir, Jason Lummis, Ben & Wendy Caldwell, Jim James, Julie Bellerose, and I'm pretty sure Joe L!!!!!!! among many others, kicking the hurt in as well.

The beginning of the ride has two iterations leaving from Barton Dam, both heading north along Huron River Drive. The first and most common turns right across the Foster Bridge and up the far too soon hellishly steep Country Club Road. The second goes out to the equally unforgiving Tubbs Road climb. Some riders are mercifully dropped this early in the ride and given the freedom to enjoy themselves at their own measured pace. For those who still hang on it's a leg ripping evening of affliction ferociously rolling northwest all the way out to the incessantly undulating Walsh Road, left on Merkel and up a devious little pitch that's dropped many stout riders, and back southeast on Zeeb, Farrell, Jennings, Stein, and Maple, returning to Barton Dam, often shrouded in darkness at this point.

The point of the DIRTHAMMER! is its relentlessness. It builds momentum, reaching not one crescendo but dozens of them. If the pace slackens, it's immediately reignited by those with the freshest legs going off the front, much to the chagrin of those who feel they've just put in the last their own weary muscles have to offer. Whining and groaning is part of the dialogue. It's one ride that's meant, by definition, to repeatedly grind every last ounce of energy out of the legs and lungs, then require more.

The DIRTHAMMER! by any name is an institution in this area. It's a ride that helps racers prepare and stay in shape for the fall cyclocross season, and many use it to lock in their form for Traverse City's ICEMAN in early November.

Whoa! Wait a minute. Maybe the DIRTHAMMER! started in Traverse City. Hey, I'm originally from Traverse City. Yes, yes, it did start in Traverse City. And soon the Tour de Fra...

If anyone has further truths or fabrications to share about this infamous ride, let us know.

..................................oRo...

The Denial of Dangerous Drivers

Limitless Speed
A couple weeks ago I learned something that came as a big surprise. Unless otherwise posted, the legal speed limit on rural dirt roads in this state is 55 mph. Knowledge comes to us through interesting messengers sometimes.

I was standing at the edge of Liberty Road about a half-mile or so west of Zeeb shooting a photo of the sign at Devine Preserve, part of the Washtenaw County Parks system. Liberty at this point is a dirt road. Or, as designated by the state, a gravel road. It's a long straight east-west line of a road. I heard something in the distance and looked to my left. A car was headed my way with a large trail of dust billowing behind. I raised my camera and clicked the first photo. The car was rapidly approaching. I Iifted my camera for the next shot and then realized that the car was not slowing down. I took a step to the side of the road and turned to watch it blow by at an amazingly high rate of speed. There is nowhere else to stand or walk on dirt roads unless you want to be in the layer of brush and poison ivy.

Communication
I was immediately pelted by a barrage of small stones. I stared at the car with a combination of frustration and disbelief as it receded toward Zeeb. I then did something that I don't do much. I moved to the middle of the road, lifted my right arm and erected the middle finger on my hand. I saw no other way to signal my discontent with such a foolish, rude and dangerous act.

I never raise my middle finger. As a cyclist there are all kinds of indignities that are suffered in silence, though I do mutter here and there. They happen at least once on most rides. I'm not used to the rudeness or ignorance of drivers, but neither am I in favor of lowering myself to their level of immature behavior. But in this case I felt I needed to let this driver know that what he did was both dangerous and ridiculously stupid.

Even at that rapidly receding distance his discerning eye noticed my small upraised middle finger. His brake lights came on immediately and he locked the brakes of his car in order to stop, spraying more gravel. He turned the car around in the middle of the road and returning at a high rate of speed he came back to where I stood, which was now in the middle of the road. I was curious to see what kind of person this was and what his rationale was for his actions.

He looked to be in his mid to late thirties, puffy faced. His jaw was firm and he was screaming at me even before he brought his car to a complete halt. "How dare you give me the middle finger!" he shouted.

"You were going awfully fast," I said. "You sprayed me with gravel."

"It's a 55 mile per hour speed limit," he retorted. "That's the speed limit. I have every right."

"It's just inconsiderate," I replied. I can't say I felt calm, but I kept my tone even and unemotional, though I felt my heart thumping at a high rate of speed. It was hard not to match his level of furious anger, but I realized that the best I could do was let him know my position. I didn't know if he was drunk or high or what, but he didn't seem so. He just seemed angry. He was probably angry about a lot of things other than my middle finger, but that certainly gave him something to focus his energy on.

Irr-rationale
He began to exaggerate his argument in order to win his point. "You were standing in the middle of the road. What do you expect when there's traffic going by?" I wasn't standing in the middle of the road when he passed. I was now, but at that time I had enough sense to move as close to the edge as I could so as not to be run over or get pelted too intensely by flying gravel.

We were not more than three feet apart and I thought it rather interesting that I could actually confront someone who'd performed a foolish act on the road. While biking I've been yelled at, pushed off the road by the deliberate movement of 3000 pounds of metal, blown by at excessive rates of speed within inches of my handlebars, had people scream in my ear while they lean out their car window, and had objects thrown at me, not because I did something to instigate such acts, but simply because I was in the same road as they were in. A guy once pulled his pickup out of a subdivision onto Huron River Drive where I was riding and proceeded to use his front bumper to edge me off the road and not just into the shoulder, but into the adjoining brush. We watched each other the whole time as if I were a sheep he was carefully herding. It was all very slow and deliberate. But when he was done, he didn't stop to talk about it. In every case, none of them stopped to discuss the situation.

So when this guy decided to come talk to me, I was kind of honored and a little taken aback. Granted, I wasn't on a bike, but I was the body in the road and he had the indisputable advantage with all 3000 pounds of encompassing vehicle at his disposal. One funny thought crossed my mind as we were talking, though I wasn't there to argue with him or rile him up any more, so I didn't bring it up at the time. I wondered that he'd been in such a hurry, yet he was wasting a lot of time justifying his actions to me as we spoke there in the road together. If he had been driving at a safe reasonable speed, he'd probably be a good part of the way to where he was going by that point.

Of course, he was going to prove to me he had every right to do what he did. And at one level, he was right. The foolish law gave him the legal right to travel at 55 on a gravel road.

The Law
However, there was a part of that law that I think he missed. Here's how it goes:

Michigan Vehicle Code sets the statewide maximum speed limit on all unposted highways at 55 mph. Gravel roads are included in this. Gravel roads are currently excluded from the process of lowering posted speeds through a Traffic Control Order due to the changing conditions of these roads. The Basic Speed Law, MCL 257.627, adequately covers these changing conditions by requiring drivers to "drive at a careful and prudent speed not greater than nor less than is reasonable and proper, having due regard to the traffic,surface, and width of the highway and of any other condition then existing." (italics mine)

--http://www.michigan.gov/msp/0,1607,7-123-1586_27094-73839--,00.html
Michigan State Police: Traffic Laws FAQs

The part I emphasize is the part he missed. The "careful and prudent speed " part. It apparently didn't adequately cover these changing conditions for him. I really do hope that someday, before someone gets seriously hurt by this knucklehead and knuckleheads like him, that he feels some shame for his actions. He didn't feel it that day from what I could tell, but by the time he left he wasn't yelling and he knew that he'd passed a flesh and bone human being who respects his right to travel carefully on our roads, but who isn't impressed when he acts so irresponsibly.

Honey is Sticky Stuff
His final words were helpful, but not in the way he intended. "How come so many people give me the finger when I'm driving the speed limit?" he asked quizzically. "It happens all the time." The comment dripped with irony. He'd dipped his hand into the beehive of self denial. There was a long pause. I sighed. He really did look puzzled. If he was that ignorant, it was going to take a lot of work to get those angry bees of revelation flying around his head to have any effect on his thick skull. Meanwhile, he licked the witless honey off his fingers, turned the car around and hurried down the road in a cloud of dust.