Lumberjack 100 2010...Or is that Lumbarjack?

Opera Sacrum
My lower back has found its voice. It has become a basso profundo bellowing from the lumbar to the farthest corners of the auditorium. Or woods in this case.

I don't usually have back issues. It sits behind there, in a manner of speaking, quite out of mind most of the time. It does its job well, keeping me from flopping over like an unattended puppet. 80 miles into a mountain bike race, however, and it begins to hum its own expressive tune. Up a steep climb and it runs a few scales, an arpeggio or two. Then, when it finally breaks out in song, it's not to be ignored.

Having never ridden 100 miles on a mountain bike casually, much less in a race, I'd wondered what would come to the forefront of my issues. My fears had been elsewhere. Dearth of fluids, cramping, bonking due to lack of food, hands clamping to the bars like a pair of lobster claws, total brain fade, wandering aimlessly off course. All were likely candidates. Then, there it was. La, la, la, la. Food, this time, was not the issue. Leaning over was. It's hard not to lean over when you're riding a bike. I didn't see a lot of recumbents in this race, so most of us were in the same place on this.

But that back thing didn't happen until later. There are other things to talk about first.

E, D & Beam Aerie
I got a kick out of hearing that there were those who took handups the whole race. Not me, man. I stopped every half lap and ate like it was my last meal. Ever. Nor did I just wait for the rest stops. I had pockets loaded with granola bars and electrolyte gels that I consumed voraciously in the deepest recesses of that course. On top of that, I had a Camelback loaded with water and one water bottle full of Heed in the cage. This race was to be completed with a gourmand's ethic. If there were berry bushes along the route I would have gladly stopped to pick and eat.

These Ain't Real Racers...These is Sears Racers
Mountain bikers don't have the race attitude down yet. They spend far too much time being friendly. They thanked me if I let them pass, or they moved aside willingly if I was behind. They even asked if I wanted to pass, wondering if they were going too slow for me? They chatted happily during the "race," and offered help to anyone broken down along the way. They'll catch on eventually and start shoving other competitors off into the forest primeval, but for now they're an awfully good band to share the trail with.

Part of the problem was the beauty of the place. It was almost a shame to waste by going too fast. That's my excuse at any rate. This is some of the most gorgeous single track as you'll find anywhere. I'm a Michiganophile anyway (not sure if that's legal, but I refuse to go through a 12 step program to cure me of this passion), but the surroundings here are ravishing enough to entice you to slow down and savor it all.

I had a particularly long and pleasant conversation with Mike from the Racing Greyhounds on a singlespeed. I think it was Mike Woods, if I'm guessing correctly from his placing in the results and if it isn't the same guy, we were in the woods the whole time so it's close enough. We talked bike racing and beer and other crucial world shattering topics. He's done all kinds of crazy endurance races and rides and he must have made all kinds of friends along the way with his good nature. It's moments like this that help me realize why this kind of thing is so much fun. His legs were cranking well and he eventually rode away after the food stop on the second loop, but I gladly sent him off with good voodoo.

I rode much of the race with Ron, an Ann Arborite, who's only other race claim to fame was one Iceman. He and I came across one another somewhere about the middle of the first loop and there he was lap after lap alongside me. He was looking for some tips, probably thinking that my boundless experience in 100 mile bike races would provide him with the winning edge. Sure, I've done long races of various kinds in the past, with mixed and sometimes dubious results.

My strategy, as noted above, was to eat and drink the equivalent of a grocery store's worth of food in nine plus hours. I've bonked twice before in long races and it wasn't going to happen this time for sure. That's the only counsel I could offer, but he hung around anyway, though it became apparent to me somewhere in the midst of the second loop that he was strong enough to venture forth on his own without my weary assistance.

On top of it all, I'd bashed my head hard on the new Yakima bike rack at least five times in the past couple of days. I'd just installed it on the top of my Prius and the cross bars are strategically positioned over the doors. I slammed my forehead enough to change the already questionable level of my IQ. It's disputable under ideal circumstances to ask me for advice, after a number of head plows it was not a good plan. But Ron didn't know that. He trusted me. Poor guy.

I think, Ron, that you have this stuff figured out far better than I do. If we meet in the future, bear in mind that I'm still working on stumbling over myself. You on the other hand graduated. Go for it.

I also came upon Ryan from Two Wheel Tango. I didn't know it was Ryan until he introduced himself because he was wearing an Indiana U jersey of all things. And a helmet. I've never seen him in a helmet. All I heard was a voice that said, as I was passing by, "I work there." It didn't register for a minute, especially since I thought this guy was from Indiana, but then I realized he was talking to me with my Two Wheel jersey on and he was referring to that. We, too, had a great chat. Then we came upon a small pack of riders and got all spread apart on the single track and that was the last I saw him.

My Need to Work with Ben on Some Issues
My biggest concern is Ben Caldwell. We started together, but it didn't take long for that to change. I learned at the finish that he was stupid enough to ride nearly the whole thing taking hand ups. He, unlike me with my infinite wisdom, didn't stop to socialize in the start area or the midway stop during each loop. He just kept chugging away, loop after loop. With this ridiculous strategy he somehow managed to stumble over the finish line in a little over 8 hours. I'll have to work with him on this. There was a time I could beat Ben. Some things should never change. I liked beating him. I'm not sure if I like my new role.

Then again, he did let me use his race tent as a place to park my copious quantities of food and drink. I'll give him a break on that. And he is one of the nicest guys out there. He deserves a few points for that. Plus, there was the chance to meet and chat with Jen and Matt, his friends and fellow tent housers whose chairs came in awfully handy after 100 miles. I never thought to bring a chair. It's one of those things you think a lot about after peeling your body off the bike when all is over. Sitting is a good plan at this point.

My only other concern is that Robert Herriman is now in the 50+ category. I've met him. I don't think he's anywhere near 50. He doesn't look or race like any old 50 year old guy. Somebody check his driver's license, huh. The guy's got a scam going and now that he's joined my category I want to put an end to it right here and now.

Logistical Nightmare (Without Sleep?)
I learned that the hardest part of these long endurance races is the logistics. I arrived on Friday evening at 7pm to pick up my race packet, then had to figure out a place to camp, then make and scarf down dinner. A short 12 hours later we were rolling down the road at the beginning of a long day on the trail. It felt like one big swirl in the interim. Plus, I was serenaded all night by some musical species of frog that sounded like bass players in an echo chamber. THWUM, thwum, thwum, all night long. We have late night noise laws here in Ann Arbor. It's time to make it a statewide thing.

Those who put this race together did an amazing job. The course was so well marked even I didn't get lost. That in itself deserves an award. The organization was top notch, with very little left to figure out. Can I just put in a request for the vegans and vegetarians among us. I imagine we're a minority in this group, but we do need protein at the end of the race. Beans. That's all I ask. They're very musical, too. A bowl of those and I'm ready to do battle with my operatic back and those thwumming frogs.

Great race. Great ride. Great job everybody.

If you want to know the results of the race, go here:
www.raceservices.com/10/lj100/061910_all.txt

Sorry there are no race pics here. I was either too panicked (beginning), too busy racing (middle), or too exhausted (end) to lift a camera.

Bikers United @ Bike Fest

Do you scowl when a raceresque biker flies by you? (I do. It ticks me off.) Conversely, do you look condescendingly down upon some lowly duffer taking it easy out on the road? (They slow me down. Grrr.) Are mountain bikers a different breed all together: prehistoric, hairy, mud chewing, knobbly legged, evolution stunted, suspension animators? (Straight answer: Yes.)

This is not a Digression.
It's an Unrelated Topic that Will Pretend to Weave Back Into the Narrative.
This has nothing to do with anything about bikes, but evolutionarily speaking, why do we always talk about prehistoric humans as cave dwellers? How many caves are there in the world? How many places do you hang around with caves nearby? When you think of Africa, where we supposedly began as a species, does cave immediately come to mind? I know, it's a large continent, but my thoughts go to savannah, rainforest, or parched desert. Caves don't register. I think we should get off this cave stereotype.

Then there's always the cartoon of the caveman with the stone wheel, like after a few years, a tweak here and there, they found themselves in Italy and--prestoevovrrrroom--Lamborghini time.

Still Weaving
Even in the Flintstones Fred and/or the cops were on hand carved stone rolling motorcycles. These weren't motorcycles. They weren't even bikes. They were those Strider balance pre-bikes that little kids get without pedals. With stone wheels? Give me a break. I have a hard enough time climbing hills with my Bontrager super lites clamped to a carbon frame. Try it, I dare you, with a set of chunky granite treads.

What kind of images are these that we put into young impressionable minds? They'll carry these chimeras long into adulthood? I'm well beyond a few adolescences myself and only now am I finally catching on. (I know, I'm not a good example, but I'm all I have.) Caves were few. Rolling stones were not ridden by the early constabulary. Don't try to con me with these false iconic cliches anymore. Please. I'm on to you.

Two Cranks, All One
Carrying this ability to categorize others back to our present bike world, who are we as a group? Because we, as bikers, are a group, no matter how tenuously tethered. We go out on mechanisms that roll and make our bodies do the work in order to propel forward. Some of us propel faster than others. Some of us propel fast on flat areas, but when it comes to uphill grades, that propulsion drops off dramatically. Some of us do just the opposite. Some of us propel fast enough to get others behind to grumble. Sometimes the grumblers drift off alone, resigned to their fate or scowling the rest of the way home. Some of us ride to work every day, rain, shine and snow. Some of us only ride on the happy pleasant days.

No Stone Wheels Here

How do you ride? With a group? On your own? Why? To save the planet? To stay in shape? To beat people? Is riding a social event for you, or is it your solitary relief from the hounding hoard? Whatever your reasons, do you see other bikers as part of your larger community or as aliens wearing costumes different from your own? I've heard one group of biker dis another for the style of attire they wear. Baggies dis lycras. Lycras dis pant rollers. Sponsored riders dis plain old plain olds. Step back. Coast for a minute (unless you're on one of those annoying fixies) (I have a couple of annoying fixies). (Love 'em.).

(You Really Think You've Woven This Together?)
Take this thought with you wherever you ride: Caves were the primary dwellings of our ancestors.

From that thought, go here: Stone wheels cruise well.

Next, here: Bikers are a menace to society.

There are a lot of myths out there about us. We all run red lights. We all obstruct traffic. We all destroy the environment on those narrow trails. In a lot of minds, we all get categorized into the same lump. Whether we like it or not, we're dependent on each other. The act of one reflects on all of us. We need to recognize that we're interrelated and find a way to come together. We can't all ride together, but we can show respect to those around us, explain why we're relevant in this combustible world, and help one another out in whatever way works for us. We can also wave to each other. Smile. What the heck. It's a small act, but it's a uniter.

If you want to mull among other bikers of all ilks, go to here this Friday:

Bike Fest Ann Arbor
Organized by the Washtenaw Biking and Walking Coalition as part of the Green Fair
When: Friday, June 11^th 2010 from 6-9pm
Where: Downtown Ann Arbor
Info: wbwc.org

It's a fun event that will bring us together for three hours, and maybe that spirit will carry on through the rest of the year.

Finish here: We are all in this together.

All images except Fred are from last year's Bike Fest Ann Arbor.

Bike Food for the Fegan

Expert Ennui
I like to eat. I think that's part of the reason I like to ride so much. It burns off calories so I can spend time replenishing calories. It works for me. But ever since my infarction (I like the word for its vaguely suggestive qualities of things other than coronary distress) I've changed my diet dramatically. That's not new news to those who know me.

It has taken a while to figure out what's good for someone like me, who loves riding so much and enjoys putting a bit of spirit into many of my rides. Spirit requires energy and energy comes from putting the right things in my mouth, chewing well, then swallowing them. My diet consists of a combination of what I like to think are healthy food approaches. Let's face it, we are in an information age. There's tons of information with a lot of statistical data to back it up and many detractors and promoters behind each approach. Worse, they're mostly doctors or Ph.D's of one form or another with often wildly differing opinions on what keeps us healthy. Who do we trust? Or do we just listen to those who align most closely to our own prejudices and opinions.

With that in mind, I recognized that I am not a doctor (you have to get a degree in that if I'm not mistaken), I don't have a very scientific mind that I know of (though I do like to see what frog insides look like if given the chance, a middle school biology class, and a consenting frog), nor do I like to read a complex analysis of metabolic intake, expulsion, or regurgitation. I tend to read articles that speak in a language I understand--simple--and piece together the parts that I can go along with, shaping my diet accordingly.

Nutrition Mantra
I've enjoyed dipping into Monique Ryan's Sports Nutrition for Endurance Athletes for her clarity. There are thorough technical descriptions about measuring things like body fat, identifying specific nutrients needed for the endurance athlete, and clear guidelines for competition nutrition, to name just a few. She also offers common sense advice like, there are "many destructive ways to attain an overly idealized body composition that may not be realistic for your lifestyle, level of training, or genetics." This book is not simple by any means, but the writing is clear and understandable and you can glean a lot from her information and guidelines.

Let's face it, to keep at it we need to be honest with ourselves. My mantra throughout my active life is that whatever I do has to fit with my goals and interests at the time and that if I'm not enjoying one approach it's time to change to another. I'm not someone who over-analyzes each aspect of my food intake, nor do I spend time anguishing over my training and riding activities. On the other hand, I do take seriously my need for a healthy lifestyle and I like to be prepared for the activities I'm foolish enough to get myself into.

Omnivore to Fegan
Before the infarction, I was an omnivore. I'd eat anything: squid soup in its own ink, barbecue spare ribs, fish eggs, oysters (ocean and mountain dwelling), head cheese, steak (occasionally), lots of chicken, bacon and eggs, butter scones, and so on. Put it in front of me and I'd go for it. I didn't eat massive amounts of processed or fat laden foods, but I didn't deny myself these things at times either. Post infarction I moved into an entirely new intake regimen. Vegan, low oil, and then to mess up the vegan part I added fish, particularly small non-mercury laden fish. Thus, fegan.

It's not a self-righteous thing. You go ahead and eat what works for you and I'm fine with that. My job is to listen to my own body and fend off another painful affair of the malfunctioning heart. I'm not even sure if that's possible, but given the information I've read, I decided to potentially lessen the chances of a repeat. My diet approach is probably a mix of Ornish, Esselstyn, the China Study, Pollen, and my own brand of making sure that baked corn chips and salsa are still part of the equation.

In the process I've reduced the variety of options that athletes are supposed to eat in order to be rough and ready in the face of heavy exertion. Red meat comes to mind. It is a great source of protein and iron readily supplied. Fegans don't eat steak. I have to find these things elsewhere and that's meant a bit of searching for things that I like and things that will do good things for my body. I do a lot of beans and fish, though in general I just try to eat a good balance of fresh foods, mostly fruits, grains, and vegetables in large enough quantities to keep me energized. After doing this for nearly three years I've got a reasonable handle on it, though it's always in the process of fine tuning as my body ages.

I drink a lot. Taken out of context that could be incriminating, but what I drink is mostly water. I use an energy drink while riding to replace electrolytes. I also like coffee and tea in the morning, more tea than coffee these days for some reason. Black teas are fun to explore. Coffee and tea reduce the intake of iron, or so I've read. I'll have to work that one out. I also like beer. Not excessive amounts, but with the beer renaissance now happening in this country and especially in Michigan it's hard to deny myself the joys of a good craft brew now and then.

My guess is, knowing me, I'm not doing all the right things. I'm probably eating too much of one thing and not enough of another. So be it. It's a work in progress. I think about my physical exertion, then try to keep the calories coming with wholesome foods, a balance of proteins, carbs, fluids, and plenty of variety. And exercise. The pedals get turned over a lot.

It is possible to be a fegan and still be highly active. It does take a bit more focus and education than it did in my omnivore days in order to make sure that I'm getting the right balance of foods in good quantity, but that has also helped me understand more clearly where high quality carbs, proteins, and nutrients come from and to appreciate the cooking skills required to make tasty food without the flavorings offered so readily by meat.

None of this will help me, of course, when I forget to eat enough during a race and my legs give out five miles from the finish. That's a brain thing. And that brain thing gets in the way of so many good decisions. I don't care how many tasty Sudoku puzzles I feed it, it still has a mind of its own that doesn't always work in my best interest.

Lumberjack 100: Mind over What does it Matter?

February 1. I clicked the button that said I was entered. It was a moment of elation.

This isn't me. This is Brian. Somebody's trying to give him directions to the shower. He keeps asking where the big fuzzy badger went. He's a bit obsessed about this badger. This is what I'm afraid of. It worries me that post race I, too, will babble incoherently. Not that you were babbling, Brian. The fuzzy badger is right behind you. Can't you see him? Everything's okay.

Now. Realization. In less than a month I'm somehow supposed to be prepared for 100 undulating miles on a mountain bike. A few weeks back I did the Poto twice. Does that count? That's 35 miles. It hurt. Let's do the math. 100 - 35 = No, Not Nearly Enough.

I'm trying to figure out which rig will handle the punishment of the full 100 miles. This is the bike I've been training on. It's holding out well I think. I didn't even notice the saddle was missing. I wonder how long it's been gone?

Worse, I've told others I've entered, thinking I'd get at least a little pity. Instead, I've learned that they know bikers who are entered in Leadville, a "real" endurance race. I get the implication, though I wish they'd pat me on top of the head for the full effect. It's like Michigan's version is some lame junior excuse for an endurance event. It's like I've entered a contest where you have to jump out of a plane without a parachute at 500 feet, only there's another contest where they do it at 1000 feet. Let's face it, the landing's going to require a bit of cleanup either way. Sorry folks, this is still a racy century on an mtb. I may not be Leadville material (yet!), but when you see me during the latter half of this race you'll see true misery, I promise you that. And I look forward to it. That's even scarier. I'm looking forward to it. Explain it to me.

This is the other option. It has a saddle, a definite plus. I even like the metal cross piece on the handlebars. Good for strength. And if I'm out a bit longer than expected it does have a fender mounted headlight--a definite plus. My only concern is that this, plus the pneumatic tires and rack, adds weight. Not sure how much extra I want to schelp around. This one doesn't have a chainguard. Tough decision.

I'm open to any advice. Food (before and during this masochistic exercise--post race food will include beer, that's a given), pacing, survival, name of a good biker therapist?

June 19th is coming. Can't do much to change that.

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

Bike Urban

Logic?





















Medic!





















Awww!

All Images ©2010 Clay House Publications, LLC

Saddle Soar

Discoveries are made in odd ways. In this case, it was an over the handlebars revelation.

It was only after the event unfolded that I saw something in a way I'd never seen it before. I didn't see it with my face in the dirt, of course, nor while out there on the trail, consciously at least. But later. When I allowed my eyes to see. To really see.

I was sprawled there momentarily, face down trailwise, taking a quick inventory of various body parts. One after another responded in the affirmative. My helmet was packed with dirt, but better that than my head. My nose had a buff of trail scrum. I cleared that off without incident. I stood up. That worked. Good so far.

See it?

Body in order, the bike became my focus of attention. The first thing I found as I cast my eyes about was the saddle itself, the soft cushy part at least, downhill, crouching in the dirt like a furtive rat. I moved my gaze uphill to the bike proper. There lay my Epic straddling the ravine, with the discomforting skeletal remains of its saddlelessness shining back, all glistening steel and provokingly sharp ends.

With about eight more miles of trail to ride, hill after punishing hill, those rails didn't look inviting.

I retrieved the saddle, its proboscis broken near the front. I've been known to use duct tape to repair all kinds of things, but I don't carry it with me while riding. Let's face it, you could carry your whole tool kit on a ride and the one tool you needed would be the one left back in the garage. I tried to reattach the saddle in a makeshift way. I remounted the bike with the saddle flopping on the rails and attempted to ride, but it gave me a couple of nice pinches as it bounced around, snapping my skin between leather and metal. If I arose, the saddle bounded right off the bike. This wasn't good.

I dismounted once more and found a way to get the rails to slip into a couple of slots on the base of the saddle. It held, but the nose was still free to wander and the pinching continued if I didn't take care. I took care as best I could.

Broken Nosed Rat

Five pinches later I made it back to the car and eventually back home. I pulled the bike out of the car. The saddle, yanked free from the rails, was trying to hide, rattily hunkered down behind a wheel well, its long broken nose just peeking out. But still firmly attached to the bike were those rails. At that moment I saw the graceful form of a beautiful stag.

It touched something deep down. Real deep. When I'm out riding and all is going well (unlike days like this when the crash reveals my fleshly limitations), I'm that flying stag. The trail and I are one.

I Been There, Leaping Free

Then I started thinking, maybe I need a saddle that matches my spirit. I thought of myself as that wild rider on a palomino flying with the wind on the wide open prairie--only on a mountain bike palominoie kind of thing. (With dual-sus it is possible.)

So now that I'm in the market for a new saddle, eschewing any thought of my usual duct tape repair job, I've cast about for something with a little more style.

Maybe you can help me. I've narrowed down my choices, but I'm having a hard time deciding. The first choice is a clean-lined saddle not unlike those you might find out west on that wide open prairie. It's brown and sleek with nice pinch-free thigh protection, and I can just toss it over the top of those rails, strap it down and ride, ride, ride.

(Photo courtesy Montanabw)

But then another saddle caught my eye. I looked at it and thought, now this has a European flair. This is something Tomeke, Jens V, Fabian C, or Julian A might toss their legs over for their own epic rides. It even looks a tad Spanish, so maybe it would make me feel like Alberto Contador, that pelotonian matador.

(Photo courtesy David Straub)

This is a tough one. My Epic is a stark contrast in black and white. Maybe it's time to give that steel mount a bit of color, a touch of style. What do you think?

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

©Clay House Publications, LLC

Barry-Roubaix 2010 - A Tale of Two Laps(es)

Getting Down and Dirty
Near the end of the first lap I was pulling a single speeder in my draft over the last few miles of the paved road section. At one point he let out a loud moan.

"I can relate," I replied. If my legs had been a TV ad graphic with words written on them explaining their condition, they would have said "throb, ache, ugh!" all over the place.

"I'm doing two laps," I said, trying to sound upbeat. There was a long pause, then I heard a chuckle. "That brings to mind a great saying I've heard," he said.

"Go ahead," I said, "I can take it."

"There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity."

Yes, I thought. There certainly is. I raised my hand high. "And I know exactly where I fall along that line." We got a great laugh out of that. His laugh was hearty and full of joy. He was finishing up soon. My laugh had more of a grievous tinge of woe.

I thought of all those racers finishing up while they were still compos mentis. Beer awaited them. Good beer. Beer from Founders. Founders is one of the country's great brewers these days. I love Founders beer.

I don't want to say I was in no mood to do a second lap. I don't want to say it, but I will. My mind was more compost mentis at this point. I felt that in that first lap I'd done my service in the detritus of the early race season. My legs were full of distance prep and very little intensity. Good, you might say. One more lap is made for you. But I'd included this new concept of intensity for the first time this year on that first lap. My legs looked up at me and wondered what the hell I was thinking. I looked back and sheepishly apologized.

A short while later I was behind a couple of other guys who were pacing along at a nice clip. What I didn't realize was that they, too, were finishing up their race in a few minutes. Somewhere along the road there was a sign for the second lap turn for the "Elite" racers. I didn't see it. We got back to the State Park entrance and I knew, like a foolish character in a country song, that I'd done wrong.

I thought for a fleeting moment of hanging it up. But no, I signed up for the full tour. (I may be stupid, but I ain't no quitter. I'm sure that's a line in another country song somewhere. Not sure at this point whether or not that's a wise view of the world.) So I swung the bike back, all alone now, took out my home crafted energy bar that looks extremely unappetizing but is full of things that are good for you (yum!). I chewed at it dejectedly as I rode back against the long stream of those finishing up. Yes, I wanted to say to them, I was boneheaded enough to, 1) sign up for the Elite race and then, 2) miss the turn. My podium chances were now very slim. Very slim indeed.

I'll let you hold on to that lamentable thought for a minute, while I tell you about the yard sale.

Yard Sale
In the midst of the second lap, my confidence at navigation was at an all time low. I hadn't seen another rider, much less a course arrow, for miles. The sky was blue and the air was crisp and that podium was growing more and more elusive by the minute.

High on a hill, among all those endless rolling hills, was a small old man sitting alongside the road in a plastic lawn chair. His face was chestnut brown and wrinkled from many years in the sun. There was a light layer of dust on his jacket shoulders. These are dirt roads after all and dust is what happens on dry days. Nearby was a sign that spelled out, in a childlike scrawl, Yard Sale. He beckoned me over with a tip of the head. I pulled in.

"Racing?" he asked, in a thick, old world accent. "Not sure I'd call it that," I replied. "Let me show you something," he said. He arose, stiff from sitting, though once up he had a lilting spring in his step. He was a healthy looking spry old man, thin, but in a fit way. He walked a bit stooped over, like he was leaning toward a pair of handlebars. He led me back behind the metal floor lamps without shades, the rusting reel mowers, and a few wooden chairs missing their spindles. Gleaming there in the early afternoon sun, leaning against a table full of old iron skillets, a tangle of bent silverware, and a dented chrome toaster, was a vintage condition Cinelli road race bike, powder blue. He said something about Fausto Coppi, but I was so entranced by the mint condition of this old glistening mount, that I barely heard what he was saying. I knelt down and became engrossed in the details, particularly the head badge, a work of art in itself with a coat of arms and the magic city of Milano scrawled across the front.

I looked up into his face and he smiled. He patted me gently on the back. I envisioned him in his youth, spinning over the roads of rural Italy on this bike, his muscles taut, his back arched and his face turned toward the sun, smile spread cheek to cheek. As if reading my mind, he nodded. It was like he saw into my soul and I knew that we were brothers, different generations perhaps, but one in our passion for disappearing down quiet back roads on two wheels, the wind in our face.

"How much?" I asked, but he shook his head. "Not for sale?" I said with a hint of sorrow in my voice, realizing my error.

"Oh yes," he said, "very much for sale. But only to the right buyer."

"Oh," I said, caressing the top tube. I wondered what he meant by that, so I asked.

"What are you carrying with you?" he asked.

I laughed. "Not anywhere near enough to buy this," I said.

"What are you carrying with you?" he repeated, this time in a deeper tone, the thick Italian accent pasted throughout, his brow arched and grim.

I started to pull things out of my pockets. A spare tube (I had another in my bike bag under the saddle). He took it. The beautiful green Barry-Roubaix water bottle just handed out to me at the beginning of the race, which I'd foolishly filled with water and stuffed in my back pocket even though I had two full bottles in the cages on the bike. He took it, nodding happily. It was a nice looking bottle. I reached in further and pulled out a couple of Hammer Gels. "Oh, yes," he said, snatching them out of my hand. "They're the unflavored ones," I said apologetically. "Bellissimo," he said. My phone. He shook his head.

The only thing left was the wrapper for my home made energy bar, mostly eaten. He pointed to a garbage bag lying nearby. I tossed it in. He lifted up the water bottle. "You drink out of it yet?" "No," I said. "Cent' anni," he said and he took a large swig.

He then walked me back to my bike and pulled a half full bottle of Gatorade out of its cage and handed it to me. "Venduto," he said, reaching the bottle in his hand toward the bottle in mine. We tapped them together with a thwock sound. "Sold," he continued, since the look on my face must have shown my confusion. "Where are you parked?" he asked. From that point on I was in some kind of trance. I must have told him that my car was sitting in amongst hundreds of others back at the State Park, and he must have asked specifics, but I don't remember.

He held my bike for me as I mounted. "It will be waiting for you," he said. "You sure you're okay without this extra water?" I nodded and he pushed me off down the road. I felt light and free and soon I saw racers ahead of me so I knew I was still on course. I caught a few and passed them. My legs were sore, but not so sore that I couldn't pedal up those long arduous hills without a joyful spirit.

Sure, I'd tossed away all chances of a podium, but in the coming months I'd be riding a powder blue Cinelli out Huron River Drive, feeling the sun on my face. I crossed the finish line some time later, though time was now irrelevant to me. I rode straight to my car, and sure enough, there it lay. I must have told him where I'd hidden the car key because the bike was stretched out in the back of my locked Subaru with a sultry look, like Titian's reclining Venus of Urbino. The car key was just where I'd left it.

I wandered up toward the registration building to refill my now empty water bottle, bumping into Jason L and Ben C on the way. They'd both done well and were happy with their race. I didn't want to bring them down at the time with my own story, so I kept quiet about the bike and the old man.

I left shortly thereafter and headed back over the course in my car, trying to find the old man and his yard sale, but he must have packed it all up and I couldn't remember exactly where he was along the way. The course was, after all, full of one long hill after another, mostly dirt, but with a few paved sections. There were more hills than I'd ever imagined and they were longer than I thought they'd be. There was even a two-track sandy road shortly after the start that dumped one rider over another into the deep loam. In the early chaos racers dismounted at times and ran, more riders went down, but emerging from this on to the gravel road, the race was already sorting out and the crashes were few. Packs formed, disbanded, and reformed. The hills came and went, cramped legs came and went, opportunities appeared and disappeared.

And all in all, it was a great race. The B-R crew were extremely well organized. The weather was ideal (unless you're one of those demented people who enjoy slop and degradation). I can honestly say that this is the one and only time I will ever ride this race in its 60-some mile entirety again. But I will race it again. It is a fantastic course.

Where was that podium? I forgot to look for it. It's just as well. I would have probably gotten lost in the search. I think I'll start a facebook page for the navigationally challenged. And maybe another page for people who like to make up outlandish stories about their adventures.

By they way, I've since learned that the powder blue Cinelli holds quite a pedigree and is extremely valuable. It is now housed in an undisclosed location. Amazing world, isn't it?

Later,
........................................................................................oRo

©Clay House Publications, LLC