An opinion: found in Canada.

Chain, Chain, Chain...

Boyne Mountain Marathon
50 Miles, All Uphill - Yes, it is Possible
M. C. Escher Proved It

First, it was a brand new Sram chain. Second, there were only five in the 50+ group, so there was a good opportunity for a podium finish. Third, simple navigational skills are a plus in mountain bike racing. Fourth, at least one of the five DNF'd.

The Course
I arrived early so I could ride a bit of the course before the race. It was warm with a light rain, though once in the woods, the cover was so complete that everything was dry. Eventually the skies turned blue. The first part of the course was relatively flat to rolling, then about a mile in there were some major topo spikes that were short, but very steep. I need a lot of warming up before my legs are happy with turning the cranks on these, especially after climbing some inhuman grade for fifty yards or so then hitting big roots or sand. The glaciers had dumped some real serious grinds into these little hills and 150 million years later or so my legs were feeling the effects.

This is a fifty mile race and though I realized it was at Boyne "Mountain," I wasn't sure how challenging the hills would be. I mean, one way to set up the course is to go up the hills with switchbacks. The climbs might be long, but they're not air sucking steep. Another way is to use the leg deadening method and go straight up the slope. These rip the quads into nice shreds. This race had a mix of climbs. The course was bisected by a paved road about two-thirds of the way in. The north side of the road had tremendous singletrack and those short witchy, biting vertical climbs. The south side climbed the resort's ski hills through the woods. These weren't as steep, but they went up and up and up. There was little relief from flats or downhill slopes on these.

I, of course, parked in the wrong place and had to move my car ten minutes before the start. The parking lot wasn't too far off, but far enough to get my heart pumping pretty good, fearing that I wouldn't get to the start in time. I did just fine. Amazing how worked up I can get. Unnecessary, but I do it anyway.

We lined up and I found my little group of 50 plussers. All the groups were sent off at about 30 second intervals. Right behind us were the Expert single-speeders. I was to find out later that these guys were unrelenting and I was passed by a few at about halfway through the first lap. Anyway, we set out and one guy was a jack rabbit right away, three of us stayed together for some time and the fifth settled into an easy pace behind.

The fifth, I think his name was Will, was nice and friendly at the start as we waited. It was a pleasant way to start a race. He introduced me around and worried that I'd leave him in the dust with my impressive Priority Health kit. I was also the only guy who looked like a pack mule with about twenty extra pounds of fluids hanging off the bike or strapped to my back, so I really didn't know what he was concerned about. I'm a believer in fluids in 50 mile tear-your-heart-out and make you sweat races. Others in the race must have had people handing them things because some went off happily with only one little bottle. That would be nice. My cadre of groupies and team support staff was not present, so I was the designated water carrier. I was Hans "Solo," and Sam M(alone) all in one and I wasn't going to do this thing without a lot of electrolytes and water.

The three of us set a reasonable pace until the biting little hills when I wasn't yet up to the task of pedaling all the way up. The other guys were and it gave me an opportunity to let them go ahead. The one thing I really like about racing cyclocross and mountain bikes is that I tend to find my own pace and work from there. I'll find others who like my pace and work with them, but if we don't get in sync that's ok. I either stretch out on my own again or find someone else to work with. As usual, there were bikes strewn all along the trail plucking away at their own pace.

Through the first lap I tried to get a rhythm with the hills. The single track was fantastic and tricky and you were up down and around all over the place. I'm not sure what the rules are for riding at Boyne other than race days, but I'm coming back just to cruise around with friends. The trails are a joy to kick about on.

About half way through, my gears began to get ornery, but I just figured that was because of all the steep ascents and the undue amount of tension it was putting on the chain. But I did notice that others alongside me weren't having the same issue. Hmmm.

One lap down and I was already aching, but I didn't feel like I'd cramp and there was a good stretch in which to recover after passing the start/finish line. I can't say coming off the mountain was relaxing. There were numerous switches on some wicked descents that kept the muscles working hard, but they were also invigorating in a masochistic kind of way.

In that first lap I was passed by only a few of the younger Sport class riders and I'd passed a number of younger Experts, though my 50+ group was still ahead somewhere. I just hoped they'd fry and I'd use my pace to catch back up.

Wandering
Ok, so I can't get points for navigation. About a third of the way in on the second lap I did manage to find a whole new and exciting trail with one large hill that yielded beautiful panoramic views. I do have a problem with daydreaming at times and I used one of those moments not to follow the little red arrows used to chart our trail. If I would have turned around at the top of panorama point the damage would probably not have been too bad, but I decided to plummet down the other side thinking how cool and sandy and steep the descent was and thinking all the way down that this wasn't familiar at all. At the bottom I looked back up hoping that someone would appear on the ridge. It was very quiet. I began to pedal back, got mired in the sand and pushed up the rest of the way. With a return along the trail I saw other riders pedaling through the trail that I'd missed. I'd probably gone about ten minutes out and back. Not a good plan in a race.

I hopped in behind the navigationally gifted and cranked along. My legs, fortunately, had loosened up and the witchy steep climbs were doable at this point. Guys actually got out of my way as I went thup, thup, thup up and over. My job at this point was to stay on the designated race course. On one of the long climbs up the mountain I passed someone who asked if I was lapping him. I thought that would be interesting after a lap and a half on a 12 mile course, but he said he swore I already passed him twice before. He did look familiar and I know I'd passed him once before I got lost, but twice? Exhaustion delusions were beginning to take over his mind. I could have toyed with him at this point and left him a puddle of insecurity on the trail, but I told him my story of woe and cranked away toward the top of the ski hill.

Links
Within twenty feet of the top, my chain skipped, then everything went loose. I tried to shift gears, but all was silent as my legs spun in the pedals. I looked back and right behind me, laid out in the trail, was a snake in a straight line. I hadn't seen it when I passed. Then I realized the snake was my chain. It looked so well laid out. So in line with the single track. A couple minutes later the guy who I'd passed a couple of times passed me. He looked down and groaned as I sat there in the brush breaking my chain. Another guy offered me a connector link, but I didn't want to compromise his race. My race was already a mess. Nearly everyone who passed asked if I needed help. An amazing group of racers this mountain bike crowd.

It was very peaceful at the top of that mountain as I tried to decide what to do. Eventually, Will, the fifth rider in my group passed--and asked if I needed help--and I still had a ways to go before my chain was back on the bike. I said all was good. I was already imagining an alternative reality, lying on a Lake Michigan beach with my wife and daughter who were wandering the area awaiting my return.

My chain back on, I headed over the top of the hill checking the gears as I shifted up and down. I missed the turn onto the race trail. Man was I not in this anymore. A couple of guys yelled to me and pointed out the trail as they disappeared into the descending woods. I looped around and plummeted down the trial. On a couple of short sharp rises, my chain was still dancing unsettled about the sprockets, so I decided that my race was over. I didn't embrace the idea of getting deep onto the woods on a third lap only for the chain to snap again.

Finally
It's not my favorite way to end a race. My favorite way is to do the whole thing. And though the course was a tough one, it was also full of challenges that were a thrill to tackle. I did two laps and my legs felt like they'd gotten a great workout. I'll have to get this chain thing straightened out before Ore-to-Shore. But, as I said, water is important and I knew a beach with tons of it.

Getting Chicked

"Chicked you twice, Pulcipher!"

"I'll bet you can't do it a third time, Johnson."

And she didn't. She just didn't have it in her. I think it was the added pressure that I put on her to actually produce, rather than just sneak up from behind with stealthy attacks. After all, I am one heck of an intimidating sprinter and once I decide to engage the quick twitch there isn't much left but softened asphalt and the smell of burnt rubber. The first big sprint of the evening was the one leading into Waterloo and after one of the shortest lead outs I've ever had from Randy, who looked like he was ready to take a nap or maybe already doing so, I decided to go for it. I figured there'd be a pack of fresh legs roaring up behind as there often is at this Stop Ahead sign, but I wasn't going to look back to find out. This was for glory and sore legs for the rest of the ride.

I'd started a bit early because of the Randy factor, and sure enough as we neared the sign, I caught a glimpse of the first wheel taking advantage of my rash impulsive act. I envisioned more wheels to come, but as that wheel formed into a human being, I realized it was Laura taking advantage of my draft. Her wheel edged out mine as we crossed the line.

"You've been chicked, man!" she yelled. Laura gets a bit ecstatic about these things. She spent the next ten minutes rubbing it in and then bringing it up off and on for the next thirty miles or so. I mean, after all, she did beat the guy known far and wide as Cippo jr., so I can understand her excitement. There are other connections in there, too, because Laura does leopard things and so does Cippo (though I don't), and Laura does ear things and so does Cippo (though I don't, except for occasional waxy build up), so there is something sympatico going on, though the association to me in particular is tenuous.

No one else had dared join our duel, so I wondered about the intimidation factor among the pack. I tried to bring this up to Laura, but all I got from her was a reminder that I'd been chicked. I wanted to ask her if she remembered Molly Van Houweling, because she used to chick me (though I didn't have that term for it at the time) with regularity on our group rides and at Runway, but I let it go.

On the second chick, she took advantage of a head to head duel where, once again, no one else could touch our roaring speed and stamina. We rolled down Scio toward Oak Valley Drive and after a long lead out by Eric and a gutsy but vain attempt by Josh to capitalize on it, Laura and I were wheel to wheel as we neared the sign, but somehow her wheel bested mine. This is where I challenged her to a third attempt at glory. As I said, it didn't happen, though she did roll through the very red stop light at the Maple/Scio intersection trying to gain some kind of feeble advantage. The rest of us obeyed the law and brought our wheels to a complete stop.

She really has no shame. But she is one heck of a good sprinter this year.

Off the Front

I know that when you're rolling along with a constant force it's either going to pop your legs into torpor or lift them into possibilities previously unknown. Rodger's popped me a few times this spring. He and Rich have similar riding styles: gyrating activity that just goes and goes and goes. If anything, they pop themselves eventually, but that's usually long after the rest of our legs have turned to rubber.

A week ago Tuesday, Brian declared the first of probably many rides from town, out through the Poto and back in an evening. It's basically twenty plus miles out on dirt roads, eighteen on the Poto itself, and then the twenty mile return on the dirt. Cross bikes are the compromise choice. An MTB is preferred on the Poto, but cross will pull it off and the forty some miles back and forth on an MTB can be cruel when pitted alongside bigger lighter wheels. People like Lummis are exceptions on their 29ers, but he's an exception anyway.

I know that when I think about doing the Poto on my own, I don't immediately think cross bike. I love tackling it on my Epic. But for some reason, when Brian or Randy or Andy or somebody says let's do the Poto ride from town, I immediately prepare my Fuji for the adventure. I've done the complete circuit alone on the Epic and enjoyed the experience (thought it definitely means an obligatory afternoon nap on the return). But with these guys it's the cross and for some stupid primal reason I even look forward to the challenge.

Rodger was sparking on the way out, which I hoped would mean diminished abilities somewhere along the way and maybe a full bonk on the return. Putting others in pain right away usually brings out a lack of buddy support for their endurance. I like to think I'm supportive of my teammates, but good will only exists when they're making me feel good, not when my face is twisted from too many miles just trying to hold to their wheel and barely surviving.

Andy was strong, as usual this spring, and Brian, strong too, brought an MTB due to a plea from Matt, who didn't. I'll let Brian and Matt work that one out. But Rodger had this little boy catch-me-if-you-can kind of thing going on from the start. I honestly think he loves riding with everyone, but at the same time forgets the rest of us are there. Interesting how some minds work. Even after crossing Foster Bridge and up into the Barton Hills he was sailing along and over the top, while the rest of us huffed our way up. All the way out he often went off the front and stayed there, letting the rest of our egos stew for a while trying to figure out whether we wanted to bridge to his wheel with the risk of overdoing it early on, or just letting him pull farther and farther away. We are weak. One of us usually bridged to his wheel dragging the others along behind. What is it about racer types that just have to reunite the pack even though we feel like our lungs will explode in the effort? Is it genetic? Lack of certain brain cells? Lack of many brain cells?

(Just an aside: We have three Brians on our team. Juxtapose two letters that sit side by side and you get brains. Was that the original families' intent, only they screwed up the spelling? Have we gained three Brians or lost three brains?)

The pace was a bit relentless mile after mile and the Poto lay ahead. Trying to apportion our efforts so the ride back is not only somewhat enjoyable, but even somewhat possible was on everyone's mind. The Poto tends to sap a lot of endurance. It's quite satisfying to do the Poto on cross bikes, since there is some primal excitement about getting beat to a pulp with a no suspension bike and still having the will to ride back. But that has to be tempered with a small amount of common sense. You don't want the return trip to feel like the cranks turn with these floppy things you're ashamed to admit were once your legs. After all, a small amount of common sense is better than none and riding with these guys over the years has certainly helped me understand the limits of my own judgment. I still try to cling to a speck of dignity even with their efforts to erode it over time.

I have a recurring dream. I'm riding with these guys along a thin ridge, deep water on both sides twenty feet below. My bike hits a rut and I'm immediately plunged into the wash. The buckle on my Sidis is caught on a brake cable and the bike is pulling me down. They're all lined along the ridge looking down at me. My face is all that's above water and the bike tugs down as I flail my arms and gasp for air. There's a moment of potential heroism on their part and I can see the quizzical look on their faces trying to decide the best course of action. Andy, Brian, Bald Boy, Rich, T-Bone, Ric, Randy, Peter, Matt, Blair lined together along that ridge. All at once they look at each other, smile and nod. Hands go into pockets. Things come flying out as their arms fling them forth. Chains, cranks, cassettes, whole component systems (Sram Red no less), carbon wheel sets, frames. It's like rain. I get pelted and they catch onto my lycra like magnets. They're all nodding happily as I go down with enough parts to make some really great bikes. I like to think they're on my side.

Rodger is very tall, very lean, and he has this open friendly way about him. He's a Zingermans guy. Runs the deli or something. He says he likes being back behind the scenes, not in the face of the customers, though I'm sure he'd do fine there. He's a pretty affable guy. I'm not sure how he stays so slim in amongst all the offerings around him at the deli, but there isn't an ounce of fat anywhere. I guess the answer lies partly in biking. He burns off a lot on a ride. But I know he thinks about food because he really livens up when we talk about it. He made a paella for a bunch of us one night late last summer and it was like eating Spain. He knows how to put flavors together.

He brought me a bag of Portugese salt on the Worst Day of the Year ride in January. He said it was only a pound. I've been using it regularly and five months later I still have a bit left over. It was the heaviest pound I've ever carried. It sat for the whole ride in my back pocket and it felt like someone was latched on to my jersey as I pulled them through the cold wind. I'm still trying to figure out if it was a gesture of kindness or a not so subtle attempt to slow me down. Like Rodger needs to slow me down. I've tried to get him to understand the injustice, but he usually just smiles and then effortlessly rides ahead where I have to strain more muscles to catch back on to his wheel.

This time, as we stood in the parking lot of Barton Dam, he handed me a nicely wrapped selection of heady rich green asparagus. I envisioned it rubbing against my sweaty back alongside my pump and cell phone as we bounded through the Poto, turning to mushy steamed vegetable matter, so I planted it in the crotch of a tree at the side of the parking lot to pick up after the ride was over. Later, on the trail, as we waited for Andy to repair a flat, Rodger brought up the subject of nice raw sweet asparagus and how wonderful it would taste at that moment.

Rodger was awfully spunky all the way out to the Poto. There was even a stretch along Gregory Road where they'd recently regraded and the stones were big and kicking us about. It was like riding through a poorly paved bad dream for about three miles. Rodger plowed ahead, chatting away. Not an issue. I was in my drops shagging along, worried that I was using too much energy this early on in the ride. For that matter, Andy and Brian looked a bit too relaxed about the whole thing as well. Brian had shamed me into this ride and I began to wonder why I'd let his berating me in an email open me to such a vulnerable state so far from home.

Matt was laying back. I figured he was waiting to wail on us once we hit the Poto. He's one of these all around good riders, but I think his real heart lies in trails, since he's been doing that since he was about two. He's not really that old yet, so it's only been a few years. He's a young lad still trying to figure out whether to wear loafers or laced shoes.

Once past Stinchfield Woods we did the roller coaster roads that take you to the backside of the Poto, right near Hell. They soften you up for the pitched battle of the trails, which were suddenly upon us. Everyone let loose on well worn trail and we had a good pace going. I realized at the first Y that Rodger was already out and away. We charged on after him down the long rocky sweeping path that leads to the entrance of Silver Lake State Park. At the bottom we slipped alongside the gate and took a right that led up some steep embankments. Over the second climb in succession I found Rodger waiting. He bore on in front and I watched his dancing Lemond pounce along the trail ahead.

After a while I looked back and it was just the two of us and it was all I could do to keep him in sight. We came upon a slower mountain biker who Rodger passed, but who then sprang into form and I watched the two of them dice it out for a couple of miles. At Pickerel, the MTB split off in another direction and Rodger looked back. I was there, and Matt was behind me, so we pressed forth along the single-track up to Hankerd Road. There we waited and soon realized something was wrong. Brian and Andy weren't there. No slouches on the Poto, there had to be a problem if they weren't right behind us.

Another biker road up and told us they were fixing a flat. They showed up a few minutes later. We dove across the road and back into the woods toward the two toughest hills in on the trail. We were together over those and out past Blind Lake, across Crescent Drive and up the long sandy hill past the old Boy Scout camp and on toward the bridge between Watson and Halfmoon Lakes. Rodger was still driving on ahead. I didn't know where anyone was behind us anymore. It as enough to keep Rodger in view. We crossed Max Drive, the small dirt road, and did a sandy up and down section before arriving at the halfway point.

I thought we'd hang there while the rest caught up. "We doing the whole thing?" Rodger asked. "Yup," I said, and the next thing I knew he was off again. "Let's do it, then," he said over his shoulder as he rode off. I saw Andy coming up the hill toward us, but Rodger was under way and I figured I might as well do the same. We crossed Patterson Lake Road. I had Rodger in sight until I caught a tree branch between my brake and wheel that skidded me to a halt.

I was starting to wonder if it was smart to have told Rodger we were doing the whole Poto. Now he was out of sight, it was getting kind of late and once done with the trail we still had the twenty mile ride back. With all the exertion on the trail, my legs were feeling the effort. The ride back was going to be painful. A short time later my phone rang. It was Andy. He, Brian and Matt were headed to the party store in Hell. They were out of water. Aborting the rest of the trail route sounded especially good to me at that moment.

I forged on, and about a mile up Rodger was waiting. I told him about the party store stop. Sounded good to him, too, though I could tell he would have been just as happy taking on the whole trail ride. We got back to Patterson Lake Road and turned left, pointed toward Hell. He still looked fresh. You just feel like slapping people like that sometimes, but it wouldn't do any good.

We replenished with the other three in Hell and headed back on the dirt roads. It was tough, as I'd expected it to be, though Rodger was still flying off the front and disappearing ahead every now and then. The rest of us were tired enough that we let him go this time and put up no chase. The only time that changed was along Huron River Drive when Andy and Rodger took off together trying to see who would crack first. A while later when they'd pooped out and we caught up, Rodger said that Andy popped him sometime before Zeeb. Finally. The perpetual motion machine was momentarily stalled. It needs to be that way sometimes to bring the forces of the universe back into alignment. Don't worry though, chaos is only a ride away.

Both Trout & Stream

I don't mind when someone passes me on the Poto from out of nowhere. I think Jim James is a fine person.

It was my first ride of the year on the Poto. Though, as I was reminded by Ben Caldwell, not my first experience on the Poto this year. We did have that day of reckoning sometime mid-winter on cross-country skis when Ben and a guy named John left me alone and floundering after about ten miles of camaraderie and ruthless pace and I spent the rest of the ski fatigued and struggling up and tumbling down the overly numerous hills that the Poto has to offer. I was welcomed with a Bells Hop Slam at the end of that adventure, which was fitting because there were definitely many moments of hopping and some real choice and humiliating periods of slamming that took place along the way.

It's amazing that some scars stay with you for months as reminders of past foolish behavior. Part of my right leg looks like a map of the Red Sea, Saudi Arabia on one side, Egypt and Sudan on the other, (topography and all) after that day out in the snow.

But, getting back to the bike, what is it about people like Jim James on a trail? He passed me on an uphill. I'd been passing one rider after another to that point as they bumped over rocks and into shrubs trying to move aside because I would ride their back tire until they gave in. Then I hear this crunching behind me and I look around and the next moment I'm alongside Jim and I'm the one looking for the shrubs to give him enough room to get by. He had a real friendly Jim James smile. We recognized each other and there was that warm moment of acknowledgment. He was not breathing hard. I've watched people reading books who've breathed harder than he was as he passed me.

His wheel went over the top ahead of mine and I thought, cool, I'll try to hang with Jim for a while, up my game. I learned a lot in those next few moments. First, it was immediately obvious that I wasn't going to do any hanging with Jim. His wheel just kept creating a larger and larger gap between us. He stood up a couple of times and it only made things worse. I thought about standing up, and even tried it once, but my standing and Jim's standing have much different effects. Mine made my legs hurt. Jim's seemed to propel him to another level altogether.

Next, I learned that Jim is liquid as a mountain biker and I am...well...maybe gelatinous would be a good way to put it. He just flows along the trail. He was accelerating through turns, up hills, down hills, through sand, and he was doing it with this ease that looked to me like water doing its natural flow thing. His whole body moved with the bike and it even looked like the trees were working with him, shifting ever so slightly to his rhythm. His organic flow might even be compared to a trout gliding through a stream where every vertebrae has its place in the flow of the body and the water. And as the trout moved ever farther ahead of me I envisioned a large black bear appearing alongside the stream/trail and swatting that cocky son-of-a-gun trout right out of the water and onto the banks of that stream/trail into an environment that was not as comfortable, where he would be flopping helplessly in the leaves, sucking for liquid oxygen.

I met someone on a quiet road ride one day a year or so ago who competes against Jim in X-Terra races. Jim, he said, was the goal. Jim beat him mercilessly each race, but he also gave this guy incentive to improve. I think the guy was my age. Good luck. I imagine he has similar visions of the black bear every time Jim disappears up the trail ahead of him.

A couple of years ago I did well in the Iceman. I won my age group in the Sport class by a wide margin. I was, to say the least, ecstatic. At the awards ceremony I bumped into Jim. He asked how I did. I told him, like a little boy wanting to shout it out to the world, that I won. Congratulations, he said, with that nice Jim James smile. I was so wrapped up in my own accomplishment that I failed to ask how he did. Later, as the awards were handed out for the Expert class, they announced Jim's first place. Someone beside me told me his time. It was like an hour and a half better than mine. OK, exaggeration, but it was a lot faster than I could even dream of.

And here's where my concern came in. The next year I'd be racing in Expert class in that same age group (unless I wanted to sandbag in Sport again) and my competition would be Jim. Well, that next year I had a heart attack a couple of months before the race, which gave me a good excuse for not attending, and I'm not sure if Jim even went, but it doesn't take much to imagine what the results would have been if we had both attended even if my health was good. Yesterday's chance meeting along the Poto carved that in a notch or two deeper.

I'm getting a bit suspicious about that smile of Jim's. It's nice and friendly, but there's a hint of something else. Just a hint, but it's that enigmatic hint. You can read into it whatever you want. I'm reading this: It is nice to see you, Rob, but we won't be here together for very long to exchange a lot of pleasantries and to catch up on old times. Good that we could share this patch of ground momentarily, but unless your legs do something that they're obviously not doing right now, I'm gone.

He passed me near Pickerel Lake and I had him in view after Hankerd, up the first monster hill, and along the long uphill switchback, but by the second monster hill he was both trout and stream and he really was gone.

One other thing. I'm changing my name to Rob Roberts. It might be the key.

Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

-Mark Strand

Priority Health Elite Crosses the Border (Legally)

Paris to Ancaster

I missed out on this race last year. I didn't think I was ready and then my legs lifted into happiness that same weekend at Spring Training Series 4, so I knew that I had to go this year and just take what comes. Andy, Rich, Rodger, and Brian made it sound so brutally fun. But then came this little incident with the heart last fall and I wondered whether that would be one more factor keeping me away for another year. Add to that the difficulties of getting out enough in March to tune the muscles and the doubts grew more pronounced. STS 3 this year was no reassurance. With snow, rain, and most of all a pummeling north wind a week before Paris Ancaster, I was left circling the course alone for a number of laps thinking that bike racing just wasn't my thing.

But through the week the weather warmed and my legs showed signs of awakening, finally, from the long winter. I knew that I wasn't quite race ready, but there were hints that I was on the path, even if that path had a bunch of wheels ahead that I could just barely hold on to. Most of all, I got psyched up about going to Canada with these guys and taking on a new race that had traces of Ore-to-Shore, Iceman, cyclocross, and pace lines.

The day before the race I overhauled my CX bike and totally screwed up the gearing that had been working great up to that point. I know there are basic laws of stupidity that shouldn't be challenged, but if I can provoke them, I will. My chain was dropping five cogs whenever I upshifted. It was quite a leap for the legs to adjust to, spinning like a gerbil one second, then slogging like you're in deep sand the next, and I was sure that single speed Rich would have a comment or two about the inherent evils of cassettes and dérailleurs when he saw me in action cussing away. If it weren't for Randy and Rodger, that's how I would have taken on PA, but a half hour before the race was under way they adjusted one thing and yanked another and the shifting problem became a non-problem. It's not that I'm mechanically challenged, I just put up with more personal ineptitude than others might. And I have had moments when I've trusted other people to work on my bikes only to watch things like trued wheels morph into twisted lumps of uselessness, like making a pretzel from a baguette--after it's been baked. And keep in mind, I was trusting the Hermannator only moments before I had to ride over a leg-crushing washboard of a race for 60k. That's an act of faith I don't want to pursue too often.

If you've never been in a race where hundreds of riders take off at once from a small chute, then you don't know the joys of listening to others use really colorful language and wheels criss-crossing in front of yours by riders who amazingly forget that they are not alone. It's not that there are that many crashes right off, but the miracle that there aren't more. Less than a mile up we swung right onto gravel and that's where the fun began. The dust rose and filled the lungs as we all sucked for every last ounce of oxygen with the pace flying along like bees swarming for someone who just hit the hive with a hammer.

A tire exploded right beside me and shortly after another rider was down alone in the middle of the gravel looking stunned as we all veered around him. Two casualties and we were barely a mile from the start. From there it was pedaling as fast as we could to hold the wheel ahead on a two track gravel rail trail with bikes bouncing all over the place and people yelling at others to hold their line. Nerves were a bit taut.

This is often the hardest part of a race for me (though in this race, calling something the hardest was futile). Even after all the coffee and the warm-up I didn't have something quite flowing yet (though the oatmeal from breakfast was standing strong--more on that later) and all I felt was my lungs trying to find pedal turning oxygen and it just wasn't there yet. Every year I tell myself that I need to work on that, but I just tend to be a slow starter. It was mercifully flat for a while anyway, but that just kept the pace high and everyone together. After a few miles, a few turns and a few different surfaces, the road pitched up and the pack fell apart. I'm sure that it was absolutely beautiful countryside, and I know the weather was perfect in the upper 60s and sunny, but all I could attend to was the gravel, trail, mud, and bumps that changed as often as my daughter's outfits in a day.

I wondered where my teammates were, though I knew most were ahead, since they can handle the fast early pace better than I can. Someday it would be nice to be up there with them, so I could tell their story along with my own, but I'll have to wait until they get older and slow down a bit. I'll just wait. There had also been a big crash near the front along the rail trail that slowed the rest of us all the more. And for some reason the pack slowed a couple of times because the trail was slightly wet. Compared to what was ahead, that dampness was not a hindrance. Why were they slowing?!

Often in these races everything becomes a blur to me. It's just all one series of obstacles to contend with and after it's all over I have a hard time sorting out which followed what. There were a lot of rapid changes of terrain early on and my legs just weren't into much of it for the first hour. They were screaming and I was worried that they'd blow and the rest of the race would be miserable. I was looking for my rhythm and it just wasn't there. I do remember there were open stretches of paved road, wind, a lot of gravel, and quick switches to single track. I got into a good pack on the roads, anywhere from 15 to 30 of us, with a very amenable tandem that was more than willing to pull long stretches, especially down hills. It was hauling and just holding on was a lung buster, but it was better than being out in that wind alone. There was a lot of wind.

On one stretch after the half way point I was climbing a dirt track hill. My body was droning along in agony and my breathing was coming in loud labored wheezes and nearing the top, there was Randy, front wheel off, spare tube in hand. The guy ahead asked if all was okay and Randy said he was doing fine. I, as his teammate, was glad to hear this because I couldn't say a word I was breathing so hard. I think I made a gutteral sound as I passed. I learned later that Randy had decided to run headlong into a rock twice his size. I tend to go around massive boulders. We all have our race techniques.

Oddly, once over that hill my whole being realigned, like someone reshuffling a deck of cards and getting them all tucked in tight. I felt great from there on. Or, if great isn't the best word, I felt a reserve of strength that lifted the race on to another level. I love that feeling.

Then came the mud. The veterans talk about the mud in this race a lot. And it was a challenge. But after riding through a couple of stretches along some single track I was wondering if last year was just a particularly muddy mess of if they were just mud weenies, scared of a little sloppiness. It wasn't that bad. It went on for a hundred yards or so and it was rutted and bumpy, but other than that, ridable. Weenies!

Somehow, the pack I was in reassembled after nearly every dirt section in some form or another. It really was a great relief knowing that you could tuck in out of the wind. There was a point where we had some fine rolling pacelines going, but as the race developed, fatigue seemed to settle into the pack and, as often happens, a few of us did the pulling for the rest. Grrrrrrr. The pulls were short, however, with someone willing to come to the front for relief.

There were fun moments when we'd turn on to rail trails. The pack would slow, go five abreast and then have to pinch down to a single file in order to fit through the gate, then do the same on exiting. The pack was surprisingly good at calling these out and from what I could tell there were no incidents in our group...
...until...
we came to one pinch down between two massive rocks. Nobody called it out. In an instant we were five wide, then slamming on the brakes and funneling down to one. Directly behind me, I heard someone yell, "what the...?" Then a crunch. Then the shouts and accusations and some really nasty language. I slipped through the opening and pedaled hard, but the argument continued behind. I called back, " none of us knew that was coming," and the two seemed to settle down from what I could tell. Or maybe they took their argument off to the side of the trail. I didn't want to know. The race was enough to concentrate on.

I remember a couple of sections that were like cyclocross courses, yellow tape and all grassy fields, but the last one led to a single track that kept us in a row. Then, if I have the order of punishment right, the promised mudslide kissed my front wheel and in it were all kinds of riders, some off their bikes and running, some lying in the mud, some calling for clearance because they were riding through it and over downed riders if necessary. I'd never seen anything like it. A steep downhill filled with mud, farther than the eye could see, carved deep into a crevice with steep side embankments. There was no alternative. You had to do the mud.

And in the mud were scattered rocks bigger than basketballs, logs, roots at odd angles, and riders in your way. The wheel sank down about six inches as soon as I hit it and never rose any higher all the way down. It was about a five minute descent. Down, down, down, all concentration, the wheel getting thrown all over the place, people yelling to move over. I kept one leg unclipped as I bore down the slide, hoping at least for survival and an intact bike and body at the bottom. It went on and on. Then it flattened out and the mud was over. Such a relief!

Twenty feet later it started all over again. Same exact thing. Same exact length, like we were caught in a repeating tape loop. More yelling, more riders falling, wheels in your way, your wheel in someone else's way. Rocks, mud, roots, logs and finally out and wary for the next mile or so. I learned later that this is where Andy decided to explore a new riding technique and to tweak the position of his saddle at the same time. I usually work on my bike before a race, but there are those who make the adjustments mid-pedal on muddy downhill sections. Like Andy. He maneuvered his bike so it would kick up and slam into his butt and throw the saddle off its rails, then he used his rear tire as a saddle substitution. Sure, he crashed, but the saddle was now in the new position. Brilliant, I must say.

I think it was at the bottom of the second mud slide that I saw Brian R. standing and looking as calm as could be. I know it was at the bottom of some mud section anyway because I remember just coming out of a sideways slide, correcting and popping out onto a paved road, then getting sprayed by all the mud coming off of riders' bikes ahead. But there was Brian standing next to a cop pointing for us to go right. "Everything okay," I asked. "Going great!" he said. He looked just as pleased as could be. Maybe he just learned he'd won the lotto or something. Got the call mid-race and decided to celebrate by refusing to go through any more pain. But Brian always has that "going great" look. That casual, hearty Harrison Ford expression. That Brian, he's just so Harrison.

Shortly after that there was a long downhill gravel section (maybe there were some uphills in between, I was pretty zoned at this point and just ticking over the pedals) that had me and another survivor of the mud flying down. I saw a trestle ahead that we had to pass under. There was something orange on the right side just around the other side of the trestle, but it was just a speck at this point. We were making up time, trying to catch the riders who'd blown through the mud and were gone. I was flat out. At various points along the route, whenever there have been hairy turns, there was always someone to point them out well in advance with flags waving and a lot of yelling. I had grown to trust that. As I got to the trestle, I saw that the orange speck was a kid about ten years old and he was sitting there alone, all complacence. Then I saw that on the other side of the trestle was a 90 degree turn. Did I mention that it was all gravel? The guy ahead had pulled up, but I was still hauling flat out. I locked both brakes and laid down a life-escaping-before-my-eyes skid. I hope I peppered the kid with rocks. I just caught the far side of the turn, bounced over some ruts, narrowly missed some trees by inches, and managed to accelerate up the short rise on the other side. I was still on the road. After the race, the guy I was with on that turn told me how cool it was to watch me nearly end my life in a hail of gravel. He said the noise alone was worth the experience.

All I remember after that was pumping my legs over a road, then onto a trail section where people were hollering that we were doing good and it was almost over. I wasn't trusting anyone at this point. What did "almost over" mean to them? Who were these people? My body was back in pain. I think it was in this section that I came to a small hill that became a near wall. It was extremely short, but my legs couldn't turn the cranks once I hit it. Two guys behind began to shout at me to get out of the way. I brought the first one off his bike and running just like I was, but the second pedaled over. I sheepishly apologized, ran up the hill and hopped on the rider's back wheel and pedaled like crazy.

Then we came out of the single track onto a gravel road through the trees and hit some hills. Real hills. There were two hills not too long, but painful enough after all we'd been through. I was chugging over them without a lot of enthusiasm. Like an annoying pop tune passing through my mind were the voices of those people saying "almost over," and my desire to share with them my personal thoughts about almost over. On the second hill I kept a steady pace. Nothing with much gusto. One of the guys I'd ridden with for the last hour or so went flying by me like an SST with a caffeine buzz. I could only stare in admiration. (I was really pissed, but I'm trying to be magnanimous to my competition).

I rolled down the other side, came to the bottom and found a curve that began to rise. Rounding the curve I saw it continue to rise and twist and bend and it was covered with riders who had passed me at one time or another, or riders who I hadn't caught yet strewn all over the place. Very few were still on their bikes. To say the word steep is like saying water is wet. It was painfully obvious and it was painful from that moment on. My bike came to a near halt. I thought of the hill, I think called Mount Baldy in the Tour de Georgia, where riders are standing on their pedals and going nowhere. Only this was dirt. People lined the sides rooting us on. My face was contorted and full of spit, but it didn't make any difference because it hurt too much to care. Worse, I wondered if after this hill there would be another, because I doubted I would have anything left once I was over the top.

I stayed in my saddle and cranked with any last ounce of energy I had. I'd already done a lot of the pulling on the previous hills with the packs I rode with, so my legs were now numb with pain. After every turn there was another turn. It didn't seem to end and people were shouting at us. I passed the guy who'd blown by me on the previous hill. He was now walking, not even pretending to care about the race anymore. He was just blown.

Then, the grade lessened, my legs pumped harder, I went over the crown and there was Rich sitting against a telephone pole looking all relaxed and casual. I'm usually happy to see Rich, but I've never been happier than that moment. "Way to go, Rob," he yelled. I pedaled harder. I just wanted this thing to end. There was the Finish right ahead of me. I rolled through absolutely wasted, but so glad there were no more hills.

They snipped off my timing chip, I pulled around the fencing and over by the Gatorade containers were Rodger and Andy. They looked like a mess, all mud. They both said they hoped they didn't look as bad as I did. Nice to have teammates to keep you in the moment. Sure, I was still sucking for air and not feeling particularly coherent, but I was thrilled to finish.

We then waited for Randy. I told everyone about my sighting of Brian, which probably meant he was out of the race. A short while later, Randy showed up. He'd had some trouble changing that tire, which was a major setback. T-Bone had passed him, he said. He hasn't come in yet, we said. Real head scratcher. We waited. We stretched on the lawn. We got more water. Still no T-Bone. We went and got our complimentary submarine sandwiches. Brian showed up with the Suburban. He'd hitched a ride back to the start and got the car. We wouldn't have to ride our bikes the thirty miles back to the cars. Brian became a very popular guy. We ate our sandwiches wondering how we were going to break it to T-Bone's family that he was lost in Canada. Randy went and talked to the ambulance driver. Always looking on the bright side.

And suddenly, there was T-Bone, crossing the Finish line. He'd flatted and had a bad pump and waited for Randy, who apparently passed him, but did so stealthily and they never saw each other. And we all know how diminutive and stealthy Randy is. Or, the other scenario has Randy taking an "alternate" route (cheating), but since this scenario was presented by Randy, we doubt the validity.

So, we were a team again. We had the preliminary results pretty quickly in terms of our overall rankings, but it took another day to find out how we did in our individual categories. Anyway, here's how it shook out.

Andy: 15th overall
Rich: 18th overall, FIRST Single Speed
Rodger: 32nd overall
Rob: 48th overall, third in the 50-59 age group
Randy, T-Bone and Brian: plagued with mechanicals, with all in good spirits and talking about doing the race next year.

The real gory details are at: http://www.parisancaster.com/Results/P2A2008/Par2Anc60K.htm. I was beaten in my age group by a guy named Hamish and one named Ihor. What can you do? They're probably more than human. Androids perhaps.

I have to say that Rich's placing in the upper ranks on a leg whipping singlespeed is phenomenal. Word was that he was doing a lot of the pulls in the wind for the front group. And we're just proclaiming at this point that Andy is first American. We're not absolutely sure, but until told otherwise, that's the story.

After I returned to Ann Arbor, I weighed myself and I was down to 138 pounds. I haven't been 138 pounds since I was born (or at least since high school). That race definitely shaved something off my bones. It certainly worked off the $8.50 cup of instant oatmeal I purchased at the Sheraton that morning. I need two things in the morning: oatmeal and coffee. There's coffee every half block in Canada at Tim Horton's. It's not close to the flavor of David Myer's Mighty Good, but it does have caffeine. But Tim Horton's doesn't sell oatmeal. Without the inside scoop on the best oatmeal joint in Hamilton, my option was the Sheraton. They threw in dried apricots and sugar packets. My guess is that Hamish and Ihor missed out on this deal. They probably would have taken top prizes in all categories if they were in on it. Don't tell them. I need all the advantages I can get.

Next year, if you like brutality early in the season, do Paris Ancaster. Fun with a little pain thrown in.