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.

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.