I never quite got out all I had to get out regarding the Breck Epic, but now that topic is becoming less than timely and time is running out before, what is apparently, my next BIG EVENT. And for those of you who don't click the links because you're afraid I'm going to send you off to some under-age-gay-midget-porn site (again), what I linked to back there was The Pisgah Mountain Stage Race. I will be covering it for the Cyclingdirts, doing the annoying man with the camera thing. I am really hoping more Pro Men sign up, because this Demi-Pro is looking pretty shabby in the company of these bad, bad dudes:

Pro Men

Peter Butt
Evan Plews
Colby Pearce
Chris Strout
Drew Edsall
Robert Marion
Jeremiah Bishop

Hey, at least at this point I'm guaranteed a top ten finish! Top 8 even. Ozzie Peter Butt, who kicked lots of his namesake (sorry, how could I not do something with that?) out in Breck is in the Boston-ish area this week and allegedly we are going riding. Perhaps I can slip him a Ruffie and then dump ball bearings down his throat until his preternaturally skinny 6' 12" frame weighs as much as my 5' 10" frame. That way I might be able to hold his wheel on the climbs. God damn! He makes it look so easy. The only two times I saw him during Breck were both during the final, Gold Dust stage of Breck. I was amped up in the morning, so I stayed close to the front, making sure to ride with the guys who would destroy me and burn me out as quickly as possible. I rode with Peter for a while on the road while nursing my delusions of grandeur. Then, after I flatted, and I was ATTACKING the Boreas Pass climb with everything I had (everything I had was only good enough to get me half way up, where I imploded) this rider was bearing down on me like we were in the airport and he was running while on the moving sidewalk and I was walking backward while not on the moving sidewalk. I was relieved to see that it was only Peter Butt, returning to the course after getting lost. He was spinning away and chatting so I tried to hop on his wheel, he seemed to be just cruising along effortlessly, those twiggy legs moving at Cuisinart-esque RPMs. I found out pretty quickly that his pace was much higher than it appeared, and then I felt all ooky and wanted to take nap.

I haven't yet had the incredibly awkward, potentially contract-destroying conversation with my title sponsor about my intention to return to single-speeding full time in 2011. If the Mayans are right, and I have on year left to ride a bike, I want to do it all on a single speed. That and I'm slower and broker (10 speed chains are a killer) on gears. So I don't think I can sign up for the single speed class at this point and maybe, I say maybe avoid total devastation and embarrassment.

I had other stuff I wanted to talk about, but I think I'd rather talk about how I don't know a few of the guys on that terrifying Pro Men start list for the Pisgah Stage Race, and how, based on their names alone, they sound way, way tougher than I do.

First off, let's look at my name:

Thom Parsons

Not a tough name. If you picture that guy Bruce Buffer announcing a UFC fight, it is nearly impossible to imagine him announcing, "FIGHTING...out of the red corner...he's a mixed nut enthusiast, with a professional record of no wins, eighty-three losses, and five no-shows...standing five feet ten inches tall, weighing in at an un-toned one hundred sixty-seven pounds...FIGHTING out of Somerville Massachusetts...Thom 'Why Do I Have An H In My Name' Parsons!"

It just doesn't work.

But Chris Strout, that's a tough name. He wouldn't have to change his name to be a UFC fighter. Strout, it sounds like "shout" or "stout," it even has the word "rout" in it. Tough.

And Drew Edsall. The dude has the same first name as Drew Barrymore, and Drew Barrymore can do this:



You follow my logic?

Then there's Robert Marrion. His last name is the same as John Wayne's birth first name (but with an extra R, but who's counting?). Like a boy named Sue, John Wayne grew up quick and he grew up mean (and then he changed his name to a Man's name when he couldn't take it anymore) and Robert Marrion may have followed a similar path. Shit, he may have changed his name from Robert Mantooth or Robert Magnusson to Robert Marrion, just so kids would mess with him. He might be that freaking bad ass. I am not about to go pick a fight with him to find out.

You follow that logic?

There will be some more sprechen about the Brecken tomorrow, and other stuff.

-t

I have no real time to write today, so please allow me to re-direct your rapt attention to other Breck Epic related media.

For instance:

The above depicted Peter Keiller's account of defying the advice of a cycling industry icon.

Or the below depicted Doug Jenne's very thorough, extensive, and coherent reports from Breckenridge.


Or how about Montana Miller's thrilling tale of finding a beach towel one-thousand miles away from and 13,000 feet above the ocean.


And if that hasn't left paraplegic with delight and drooling in your desk chair, then check out Sarah Uhl's unique observations over on Singletrack.


Of course if you aren't as Breck-Epic-Centric as the rest of us, you can go listen to Dicky as he sort of talks about the Breck Epic while he talks about some other stuff, like becoming a Geared-O Weird-O.


If you like-ah the video, Cyclingdirt's got all sorts of fast Cannondale-dude Alex Grant's helmet cam vidz up all over the place.

Well, I'm outta time and there's still a lot more Breck Epic stuff out there. A good place to find it all is right on the Breck Epic Facebook page.

I'm still waiting for Mountain Bike to publish yesterday's post, yes, the peeing in my pants one. They titled my last post "White Knuckling Wheeler Pass." Perhaps they'll title that one "Yellow-Chamois-ing The Gold Dust Loop." I'm not going to hold my breath though. And I'm probably not going to hold my breath waiting for a call from Mountain Bike editor David L'Heureux telling me if I have a job doing a Dave Barry (if he rode a bike and was weirder) type column for Mountain Bike.

P.S. - Sweet! I just got a call from Washington state. A dude named Andrew has my errant camera and a bunch of other crap that I thought I lost permanently at the High Cascades 100. I am, as Adam "Da Spyder" Snyder says: STYCHED!

This is the last of my Breck Epic Posts. Man, have I enjoyed not staying up writing the past few days, but now I suppose I have to come up with something to fill out the rest of the week. And what is it...Wednesday? Damn.

I thought they weren't going to publish my last post over there on Mountain Bike, but they did. I am almost positive they won't publish this one — it's basically all about peeing in your pants. Who knows, maybe they'll love it and put it in their print magazine. Everybody loves stories about other people peeing in their pants. Not as much as they love stories about other people pooping in their pants, poop beats pee, every time.


My Stinky Left Foot

Those who think the words "epic" and "brutal" are played out or cliched are probably just bitter because they haven't done anything epic or brutal lately. I think they should come out to Colorado to do the Breck Epic, I defy those haters to hike/ride over French gulch or Wheeler Pass and not use the words epic or brutal. I defy them.

Today was the "easy" stage. We rode out of the Ice Rink parking lot that has served as ground zero for the 2010 Breck Epic all week. As we rolled up the road during our not-so-neutral-as-per-usual start, I realized that I should have peed beforehand, but I was feeling good. I wondered if I was going to have an "I am totally going to pee myself" day. The kind of day where I'd be so concerned with losing time that I'd have no qualms about urinating in my bib shorts. There are many behind the scenes occurrences that are not discussed in professional cycling; peeing in your pants is one of them. Ya, during the Tour De France the riders take very civilized "natural breaks," where they pull over on the side of the road to take a leak, but there is nothing civilized about mountain biking. Nobody bats an eye when a rider attacks a competitor during a technical. No press conference apologies are necessary, no anti-I'm-a-big-fat-jerk ads have to be run. That, and we pee our pants. Well, let me speak for myself...I pee my pants. The thing is, when you're wearing lycra it's not so much like you're peeing your pants. The lycra doesn't hold all that much liquid, that's its nature. It's much more like you are peeing your shoe, more on that bit of wonderfulness in a second.

Back in the day when I was a Sport going on Expert racer, I had a discussion with my wicked fast friend Colin. He told me that the difference between a Sport racer and an Expert racer, aside from riding your bike for more than three hours a week and not eating nachos three meals a day (What, you've never had "breakfast nachos?" You haven't lived.) was this: Expert riders are willing to pee their pants to win...or at least place in the top eleven. Not too long after that discussion I was faced with that very situation: pee my pants or lose forty-five seconds to a minute not peeing my pants. It was a, pun unavoidable, watershed moment. At first it was incredible, such a huge relief, "Oh wow, this is great, the best feeling ever!" Having to pee really bad is the definition of negative reinforcement. It's not like peeing feels really good, it's that not-peeing feels so bad. You're just removing the horrible discomfort of not-peeing.

Anyway...

Then the pee began running down my leg, which wasn't so bad either. Then it started to pool...in my left shoe, and the shoe got heavy, "Ugh, this is not so great, this feels quite ooky." The pee-filled shoe feeling is not awesome, but it beats the feeling of a borderline exploding bladder any day. And that is all I'm going to say about pee and shoes for now. Oh wait, one more thing: don't forget to wash your shoe, and for the love of God, don't leave the thing in the car overnight in the middle of summer. Your wife will murder you...and me, for telling you that peeing in your shoes is a very-pro thing to do.

So yes, I peed my pants today and it was amazing. I even got to ride through a couple streams to rinse off some of the result, but then, immediately after letting 'er rip, I flatted. Again. I am a flat-machine. I can flat any tire at any pressure on any terrain. I could flat downhill tires riding over bubble wrap. Anyone need a tire-tester? I'm available. I was standing there on the side of trail wearing my bib-shorts-turned-ineffective-adult diapers feeling kind of like an idiot. If I had only waited a few more minutes I would have been able to pee on the side of trail like a normal person while fixing my fifth Breck Epic flat. That way I could have spent more time drinking beer at the finish line, instead of running off to get out of my stinky-pee pants before I got made fun of for being a chamois-wetter.

One of the rules of The Breck Epic was "Don't be poopy," but there was no rule about "not being pee-pee." That was a joke for all the six-year-olds in the audience, thank you. Thank you very much.

I hope you have found this race report about the final stage of the Breck Epic educational and informative. With any luck, I'll be back next year to ride these sweet trails and pee in my shoe some more. See you then.

This is another post that didn't make it up on the Mountain Bike site. Some of it is territory I have tread upon in the past, but it was apropos of what was going on. I am so glad I stayed up writing these every night during the race when I could have been sleeping for a couple hours before the 8:10 AM starts. But hey, I got in for free, so whatevah dyude.


Thursday, August 26, Course #5: The Wheeler Loop


There wasn't enough coffee in the world to wake me up this morning, and there wasn't enough sealant in my tire to stop the air from gushing out when I slammed a rock fifteen minutes into today's stage. Doesn't sound like an auspicious start does it? But it was really a great day despite the cement in my brain and the further abuse I suffered from the pointy rocks. Today we ascended Wheeler Pass, which towers over the ski resort of Breckenridge, solidly above tree line. As I coasted down Main St. in the cold at 6:30 AM, the moon hung, nearly full, what seemed like inches above the peak we would be climbing in just a short time. That sight reminded me that soon the sun would occupy that very same position in the sky and that I had forgotten to apply my 50 SPF sunblock, a mistake that could have proved deadly for someone as incredibly white as me.

Back to the flat thing for a second...

People always say "Oh, you got a flat, how unlucky." No. Flats don't happen because of bad luck; they happen because of bad riding, or bad tire choice. It reminds me of a quote from That 70's Show:

Eric: Bad things keep happening to me, like I have bad luck or something.

Red Forman: Son, you don't have bad luck. The reason bad things happen to you is because you're a dumbass.

Keeping your bike together until you reach the finish line is part of this game. I flatted three times this week due to inadequate tires, and once because I blindly rode into a rock — dumbass. That said, neutral support like they happen to have at this race is pretty sweet, those guys have helped me out repeatedly throughout the week, check out The Organic Mechanic on Facebook, they rule.

So after the flatting and the freaking out and the cursing and the infantile histrionics (oh, I didn't mention all that? OK, we won't talk about that bit then) we headed up Wheeler Pass, I do not possess the words to describe how beautiful this thing is, it kind of sums up what makes this race so awesome. I race bikes because I love the combination of fun and suffering. Hike-a-biking over high mountain passes like Wheeler and descending down the other side epitomizes that philosophy for me. The ascent was so hard (the suffering) and the descent was so insane (the fun, combined with a dash of terror). And this isn't the kind of descent where you can recover, it's every bit as exhausting as the climb. It's a hang on for dear life, white-knuckle, brake-pumping nightmare.

Which leads me to my next point...

I've talked about acclimating to altitude and western-style speed, but there's also the acclimation to heights. The Shenandoah Mt. 100 race in Virginia has a descent that is just as crazy as the one off Wheeler, the only difference is the SMT100 version doesn't have the abyss factor. If you over-cook a turn on Wheeler, you are going base jumping with your bike, and a bike doesn't work anywhere near as well as parachute when it comes to arresting your deadly plummet to the hard, hard ground below. A couple times on Wheeler I came around a corner sliding, and there it was, calling to me — the abyss. It gave me vertigo and caused my sphincter to clench up so tight I pulled a butt muscle.

Wheeler is 13,000 feet high. And speaking of high, depriving your brain of oxygen makes you act really, really funny. I came over the crest of Wheeler hike-a-biking with a guy named Adam from Michigan, there was a photographer up there, "We're having a speed walking competition, if you don't have one foot on the ground at any given time, you're DQ'ed." Man, I thought that was A-material up there in the clouds. When we got back on our bikes and began trying to navigate the traverse, I felt like I'd had a few too many Ranger IPA's, I was a total mess. If I ever need to prepare for riding singletrack at high-altitude again, I think I'll take a couple Percocet and go try to ride my local trails back in Massachusetts.

Tomorrow the fun to suffering ratio is supposedly skewed in the direction of fun. Each stage of The Breck Epic has been better than the last, so I can't hardly wait.

This is my stage 3 report from The Breck Epic. For whatever reason it didn't get posted on Mountain Bike. They did, however, post the one where I talk about EPO being a great idea. In this one I do imply that I want to shoot promoter Mike McCormack in the penis. Did I cross the line? You be the judge.

Tuesday, August 24, Course #3: The Guyot Loop

I just want to set the record straight. Despite all my whining and crying in my previous posts about the insane amount of climbing in this race and my total lack of compatibility with high-altitude...anything; this is an incredible race. But it is not a race to be trifled with. If you ever decide to do this thing, which I think you should, you need to come prepared. Which means you need to be ready for rain, cold, heat, (did I mention insane climbing?), and pointy rocks. I took lightly the warnings of locals and those in the know about the pointy rocks, "Ya whatever dude...we got rocks back east." Yes, but back east those rocks are hit at 8 MPH, not 25 MPH. There aren't as many rocks out here in Breckenridge, but when you're traveling at such a rate of speed that your eyeballs are being rattled out of your skull, you can't really see that one rock that is going to slice through your sidewall like a hot light saber through butter in the Death Star cafeteria. So run bigger, burlier tires than you might think or you'll end up like all the folks I saw on the side of the trail today, all flatted-out and demoralized.

There are huge fluctuations in temperature throughout the stages. Most morning's it is cold, like 40° cold, but then it jumps up to 70° or hotter. Today we ascended French Gulch, which brought us up to 12,000+ feet. It was either raining or we were in a cloud, either way, we were getting wet, and I was getting kookoo for Cocoa Puffs. I was part of the most gigantic hike-a-bike...I won't say "conga line" that I have ever seen. The view was spectacular but it was immensely painful. It was like looking upon a beautiful creature like a peacock, and exclaiming, "My God, that is the most gorgeous thing I have..." and — Thock! — it jabs its beak through your eyeball, blinding you and causing you horrible discomfort. And that was the most normal thought I had atop of French Gulch. When I first looked up to see the extent (or what I thought was the extent) of French Gulch and saw the riders hiking a quarter mile in front of me, I screamed "Jesus Christ! They might as well be walking on the moon." And then I started singing "Walking on The Moon" by The Police and telling my buddy Doug that Sting has plans to record a Reggaeton version of that song. He was appalled until I reminded him that I am either lying or wrong 100% of the time.

When I turned the next corner and saw what was the true extent (or what I hoped was the true extent) of French Gulch, I completely lost it, I threw both middle fingers up to the highest mountain valley I have ever seen, then turned around and started tramping back down the trail yelling "That's it, I am going to go buy a gun and shoot Mike McCormack (Breck Epic promoter) in the [expletive]...what's the waiting period on hand gun purchases in Colorado?" Just as we reached the peak, a creature emerged out of the mist. We started voicing our guesses as to what it was: "A Yeti!" "An Ewok!" "A Wookie!" "It's a unicorn selling lemonade!" But it was just a photographer. I waved my hand and told him "Don't be ridiculous, cameras don't function at this altitude." Then we descended away from the highest point on the course, the visibility was poor and I felt like I had just left the dentist's office after a root canal, jagged rocks emerged out of the mist like small, not-hairy gorillas (that were jagged).

And to reiterate the burly tire thing for a second...
I saw three dudes pulled over, fixing flats in the same spot on that descent. All three flats were probably caused by the same mean little rock. A bit more rotational weight on the climbs would be worth every second not spent fixing a flat on that wet, freezing, windswept peak, however picturesque and full of mythological or made-up creatures it might be.

At the end of the day, as I was descending down to the finish, I saw promoter, Mike McCormack (who I am not really going to shoot in the [expletive]), I blurted, probably unintelligibly, "That descent off that crazy peak was the best thing I have ever ridden!" I was talking about the rocky, technical, rip-roaring deal off of Georgia Gulch, but that statement could possibly have described no less than three different sections of the course. He was probably like "Wow...that guy is a moron, I can't believe he isn't riding an adult tricycle."

Allegedly we won't be attaining the same heights we did today on tomorrow's ride. Which is too bad, I was hoping to ask the Oompa Loompas where they get their hair-dye.

This was my Breck Epic Pre-Race post, for whatever reason it didn't go up, so here it is...BAM!

You ever seen that Arnold Schwarzenegger movie, Total Recall? You know the part where Arnold gets violently ejected from the underground mines or whatever and finds himself rolling down a hillside, gasping for breath in the oxygen-free atmosphere of Mars — his tongue is hanging out, lolling all around, and his eyes are all bugged way out of his head like they’re going to explode, but then luckily, the oxygen making machine turns on and converts the atmosphere just in time to save him? That’s how I feel right now, only there ain’t no oxygen making machine here in Breckenridge to save me. There are several beer making machines, and there is an Oxygen bar, but I don’t think either of those things will be of much help. I’m a lowly sea level dweller, and I’m here in Breckenridge for the Breck Epic, a six day mountain bike stage race covering 240 miles of rugged terrain with 37,000 feet of elevation gain. Like my buddy Jeff from Denver said to me, “It’s not actually that hard, it would be an easy race...at seal level.” Yes, and fighting Tyson in the eighties wouldn’t have been hard either, it would’ve been an easy fight...if you had a gun.

I’ve been here in Breckenridge for three days and each time I found myself forgetting my name after bending over to buckle my shoe, mouth-breathing audibly while brushing my teeth, or doubled-over at the top of the stairs, feeling like I was trying to suck an orange through a cocktail straw, I told myself that I was experiencing the worst of it, that it would only get better. But I was wrong. Tonight on the way back to the hotel I was wheezing like James Gandolfini jumping rope on top of Mt. Everest. And, for good measure, I made sure to acquire a mean sun burn today. I didn’t think I needed to apply sunblock...to eat lunch at an outdoor patio. At this rate, by the end of this event, I am going to look like a cross between a piece of luggage, an alligator, and Keith Richards. I’m screwed, I guess that’s what I’m trying to say, in so many lame analogies.

One defense mechanism I employ when entering a situation as hopeless as this, is ignorance. I know almost nothing about what I’ve gotten myself into here. Here’s how I see it: if someone told you that you were going to be killed by an axe murderer on a particular evening and there was nothing you could possibly do about it, would you really want to know the specific details — How tall is this axe-wielding-maniac? Does he have bad breath? How many times, exactly, will he hack and chop me? I don’t know, maybe you’d like to know those things, maybe you also like to pay homeless men to eat handfuls of mayonnaise with their mouths open while you sit and watch...hey, whatever floats your crazy train. Me, I’d prefer to lie in bed until I was — whack! — totally-freaking-decapitated. It would be less horrible that way, I think. I know this race is going to painful. I am sure the climbing is going to suck a maximum. I am positive that I will be more tired, hurt, bombed out, and depleted than I have ever been in my life...why stress myself out with the details?

My second Breck Epic post is up over on Mountain Bike. I'm going to take a nap now.

In case you didn't show up to class last week, here's where we're at. I'm out at Breck Epic six day stage race in Colorado. I am probably going to die out here, so savor my final words. All my blogging power is going to be directed toward my race-blogs for Mountain Bike this week. The first one is up, check it out right HERE.

Friday 8.20, Breckenridge

I got winded brushing my teeth today. And running up the stairs...forget about it, I end up doubled-over at the top, feeling like I'm trying to suck a fish eye tapioca ball out of my mango bubble tea with a regular size straw; not one of those bubble tea specific, gigantic diameter straws. I'm hoping this is the worst day, although it's hard to tell, I wasn't exactly pushing out it there on the little, neighborhood flume ride I did. I did manage to flat though, which has led me to begin re-thinking my wussy-ass tire selection. The rocks here may be few, but they are pointy bastards.


This was the kind of ride I had...I stopped to smell (and photograph) the flowers.



Monique Merrill's house is a crazy place: a place where people on their day off go for a two-and-a-half hour bike ride...then a forty-five minute run...then another hour-and-a-half ride later on. I'm going to feel like a massive wuss-bag if I don't make that 5:45 ride. If I'm going to do that, I should probably go deal with my tire-issues, stat!


Breckenridge is pretty sweet. Any place where you can ride out your door and hit trails of this quality is aces in my book. Ya I got The Fells in my backyard, but it's just not the same. I'd rather ride in places where you have a better chance of being mauled by a bear than man-raped by a man-raper.

After last night's frigid monsoon, I have opted to go in on a condo with Dicky, Doug, and Dieter from Misfit Psycles. My goal is to keep referring to Peter Keiller as "Dieter from Misfit Psycles" until he goes to Google himself one day and Google asks him:

did you mean: Dieter from Misfit Psycles

Yesterday I arrived in Denver. The direct flight that left at a reasonable hour seemed incredibly tolerable relative to my layover laden flight(s) to Oregon a week or so back. I can't even complain about the airline trying to ream me for the bike case. Jetblue actually kinda rocks. $50 for a bike case AND a borderline over-size piece of checked luggage. It also doesn't hurt that I got to spend the flight watching Colbert and something on Discovery called "Two Weeks in Hell," a show documenting the awesome horribleness of Green Beret training. I thought it was fitting, a portent of what's to come during the next week or so for me. I'll think about those poor bastards trying to lug a one-wheeled cart through deep sand with stress fractures in their shins while I'm climbing laboriously, high above Breckenridge, in the cold rain, hatin' life. Only instead of being forced not to sleep afterward, I'll be drinking beer, eating pasta, and getting made fun of by Dicky all night.


I lived in Colorado back in the early nineties, I worked for Green Peace canvassing door to door. Often I would end up working a "turf" in Denver, it generally didn't go well. I was once shoved off a stoop, onto my ass, in the snow by a shirtless fat man, as he screamed "Green Peace! That's a fucked up outfit!" I then made light of his corpulence, which lead to him running barefoot across his snow-covered lawn, jumping in a beat up mini van and chasing me around the neighborhood for the rest of the night. It was the pre-cell phone era, so I had to hide cowering behind some bushes until my scheduled pick up time. I didn't make my quota that night.

But Denver's not really that bad after all, it's quite lovely in fact. I had a great time hanging with Jeff Carter and his wife Liz, eating and drinking in their North West Denver neighborhood. This morning we went to a weird little burrito joint called "Giant Burrito." Like all weird burrito joints, they had exercise equipment for sale over in the corner of a back room, and aesthetically abhorrent pottery for sale in another corner. Normal.


Jeff and I drove up over Loveland pass and all that other beautiful crap on the way up to Breckenridge to meet up for a ride with Jeff's buddy Mike, Dejay and his buddies Claire and Peter from Australia, and Doug. I have no idea what or where we rode, all I know is that there was no air there and flat ground felt like a 23% grade. And the descents were like a dream of flying. The trail head was off Tiger Rd. and it had something like the word "dredge" in the name. Oh, and we rode on the Colorado Trail for a bit. I'm gifted navigation-wise. After the ride we stopped for a snack in downtown Breckenridge, an hour later I had no idea how to get back to where we'd parked.


Tim Faia hooked me up with his friend Monique Merrill for a place to stay up in Breckenridge. I was completely baffled by her generosity, how she opened her home to a virtual stranger without asking for compensation. I told her what she was doing was amazing, "That's the way the world works" she said. Man, I wish it did, it would be a lot better place if so.


After today's ride I feel like tornado passed through my lungs, but in a good way. Tomorrow the elevation will probably hit me even harder. Don't know what the ride plan is, or if there even is one. My posse from today all departed for Denver or Boulder and they won't be back until Saturday. I expect Montana "I win single speed races riding a HUGE gear at elevation even though I'm from Pennsylvania" Miller is probably showing up at some point to put a pre-race hurt on me.

I'm going to break a cardinal Big Bikes rule and possibly blog through the weekend, at least Saturday. Allegedly I won a Blogger Grant to get into this thing, so I might be blogging for another major cycling media outlet (aside from Big Bikes) the rest of the trip. We'll see, I haven't heard any word on that business. Goin' with the flow.

The word Thursday starts with a "th" and the word thank starts with a "th." Isn't that incredibly clever? I think all my wit oozed out my ear one morning after a bout of acute insomnia.

I'm going to talk about some new additions to my bike, but first I've got to give thanks and praises.

First off there's the Ohio band, Black Owls. You may have noticed that I've been doing some video-work for Cyclingdirt. You also may have noticed the sweet tunes used in my videos. I've basically been using two band's songs for the soundtracks, Black Owls is one of them. In the absence of Guided By Voices, they are keeping the rock-dream alive out in Ohio. I used a Black Owls tune in this video for the Wilderness 101. I met Dave Butler, drummer and vocalist for Black Owls in Aviemore, Scotland in '07, during Single Speed Worlds. Dave is a wicked cool guy and a great graphic designer.


Dave's art work is every bit as striking as Black Owls sound work.



And on that...I'm not going to say "note," I also have to give props to Hallelujah The Hills, the other band I've been using in my videos. Videos like this one. They are a band that is indigenous to the Boston area, the trumpet player, Brian Rutledge, actually competed in The Ice Weasels Cometh 'cross race (that I had something to do with). He is very tall and friendly and talented. They kind of have a Neutral Milk Hotel, Flaming Lips, Built To Spill thing going on, which, in my mind, is a very good thing.

It was all I could do not to segue all over the place back there...
I'm in the airport, so I couldn't verify the quality of the Guided By Voices clip I used back there. It's kind of like the time I linked to a Big Black video while I was blogging from an airport with a slow connection. I wound up linking to the saddest over-done, home-made, video for the song "Kerosene." If Steve Albini ever ran into the guy that filmed that overly-literal, horrible piece of crap, he would probably garrote him to death with a busted guitar string.


And semi-on the subject of Neutral Milk Hotel...
when I was out with some folks the other week, someone threw some...I'm not going to use the acronym "NMH" on the jukebox. We started talking about how there might be a kind of NMH renaissance going on. Sure enough, a few weeks later when I was leaving for Martha's Vineyard, I stopped for a sandwich at Dave's Fresh Pasta...they were playing NMH. Then I got down to Wood's Hole, I grabbed a coffee at some place near the ferry dock, and you guessed it...they were playing NMH. It's not like these guys are the new, hot thing, their last album was released over twelve years ago, and these days they only seem to make news for un-musical activities like trying to save carousels from extinction.


Butanyway...

IBC was awesome enough to hook me up with a front wheel to match the one my buddies at Trek had hooked me up with. Again, the issue was that my rotors are six bolt and the new wheels were center-lock. Cue JRA Cycles logo:


I called up Adam down at the JRA and asked if he had another Mavic center-lock to six bolt adapter lying around, he did. Sweet. The Shimano one I had at the house wasn't going to work due Shimano's overzealous overbuilding. Thanks guys, I owe you Mountain Dews.


I don't think I even mentioned that I forgot my freaking helmet when I went Oregon. I did. Lucky for me, Dejay Birtch has a spare head stashed under the bed in his van, and for that spare head, he keeps a helmet. He leant me that helmet, complete with a V-Hold R mount already installed. Thanks Dejay, you are as magnanimous as your sideburns are unruly.

And A big thanks to International Bicycle Centers for the continued sweet hook ups.



The new Race X Lite carbon bar is a lot lighter than my old aluminum jam and it is 20mm wider, which is just right.

Another sweet new addition is the Evoke RXL Saddle. I did a typically brilliant thing and threw it on right before the High Cascades 100, but it actually worked out. Impressive.


The weight of the bike with the new stuff is really 21.8 lbs, the above photo lies. That was before I installed the new RXL front wheel and the Bontrager 29-3 2.0 Team Issue tire. I would have taken a picture but my camera, along with my 29er Crew knee warmers, arm warmers, wind vest, a bunch of GUs, a tub of chamois cream, and some tubes were all stolen...or something in Oregon. Maybe I should tell that story some time.
I would love to tell more stories, but Jeff Carter or his two-week-old baby are going to wake me up early so we can head up to Summit County to possibly meet up with Doug for a ride. So I will drift off to sleep now, thinking about how Denver is way, way nicer than I previously thought.

I head out to airport at 7Am tomorrow. Am I prepared? No. Have I thought this thing through? No again. All I know is that Tim Faia and Jeff Carter are saving my ass. I won't be sleeping on the cold ground, getting devoured by Wookies or Big Foots or whatever other carnivorous creatures run amok in that crazy, mountainous place.

I also know that Dicky, Doug, Dejay, and Dieter will all be there to share in the pain and the fun with me. Dieter? That would be Peter from Misfit Psycles. Dicky, Dejay, Doug, and...Peter just doesn't sound anywhere near as good.

I'll try to check in from road, I gotta get a high tech phone one of these days.

This is my kind of "everything but the race" report about the Oregon trip. If you want the pure, un-filtered racing-type-report, that, of course, is over on the 29er Crew blog.

Boston to Bend and Back

I'm not a planner, my wife's the planner, things go differently when she is it at the helm. I leave everything to the last minute and use my time poorly. For instance, right now I am writing about how badly I planned my Oregon trip, while I should be packing for my Colorado trip. In my pre-trip stressed out state, I usually manage to make my wife mad at me. She tells me she's not going to take me to the airport and that I'll have to get a cab or take the train or go fuck myself. Then she caves and takes me anyway, even though I'm a dick.

Inevitably I miscalculate my wake up time, we hit traffic, and then there's a massive line at check in. But I've somehow never missed a flight. My bike has though. It's a fine line, you get there late enough and they might not charge you for your bike case. You get there too late and your bike might have to catch another flight. If I have time, I usually go through various contortions to get my bike on for free or at least for less money. "I'm an Olympic athlete...an Ironman...an Astronaut?" Sometimes it works out. And I never say that it's a bike, its "bike parts" or "exercise equipment" or "trade show supplies." Traveling with a soft case, however dangerous it might be for your bike, is awesome. They see it as a giant bag and they can easily un-zip it and see what's inside (the hard case has all those buckles). When they see the jumbled up mess in there, they think "wow, there's no way that's a bike...I think I'll have pizza for lunch." Usually they'll hit you for no more than $30-$60. Beats the hell out of $100-$150.


I try to fly as cheaply as possible, this means that I end up with multiple lay-overs. It took me over twelve hours to get to Oregon and about fourteen to get back. Not ideal. Part of flying cheaply involves jamming as much crap as I can into my bicycle hard case, while being careful not to go over the weight limit, which is a paltry 60 Lbs. at Delta and United (thank you for your 100 Lb. limit Jetblue!). And speaking of Jetblue, all these lay-overs mean that I get to witness the histrionics of boarding passengers that many more times during a trip. Ya, I have a full-size carry on, and ya it's gigantic, but I'll be damned if I'm going to pay to check it. If the overhead bins are full by the time I get on the plane (I try to sit on the plane, sucking that stale, germ-ridden air for as short at time as possible) and my bag has to get checked for free, so be it. I have to go to the luggage carousel for my bike case anyway, and I sure as hell don't mind not lugging another bag around the airport.

Of course, a lot of other people don't feel that way, and when they can't jam their stupid-huge bags into the overhead bins, they freak the fuck out and hit flight attendants in the head. I just want to voice my support for Mr. Slater, he is my hero. People suck, people on planes suck more. I have no idea how flight attendants put up with the crap they have to deal with, they are superhuman; Steven just demonstrated that he is a mere mortal when it comes to dealing with massive amounts of people's bullshit.


As I shuffled onto the prop-driven puddle jumper that would take me from Portland to Bend, I saw that 90% of the seats were already full, and as I got back more into my seating assignment neighborhood, I saw that only one seat was open. Well, it was about two-thirds open, the other third was being eclipsed by a 300-plus-pound, 6' 4" man. He was so big that his ballooning belly almost hit the seat in front of him. "You have got to be fucking kidding me" I said (in my brain). I squeezed my bony ass in next to him, we were firmly pressed together, he smelled like cologne trying to conceal horrible body odor, I was slightly nauseous. He started talking almost immediately, first about the 4,000 acre forest fire outside Bend, then about his fascinating work on an oil pipeline in Alaska, complete with vivid, mind-numbing detail. He really got going when he hit the subject of fishing, "Do you fish Thom?" "No, not since I was a kid." He recoiled, as if he had just asked me "Do you not-kill-babies Thom?" and I had replied "No, I kill babies all the time, killing babies is awesome!" He recovered, "Well...that's OK, maybe someday you'll find yourself by some water and next thing you know, you'll be fishing." "Yup, and maybe some day you'll find yourself by a bike, and next thing you know, you'll be racing a 100 mile mountain bike race" I said (in my brain).

The smoke form the massive forest fire made for a sweet sunset

I got to Bend and made my way to the race, all that was pretty uneventful, getting home wound up being a little more exciting. I had no plan for a ride to the airport Sunday, I also thought my flight was at 10:30 PM. My printed itinerary was a mess, information had jumped out of columns and ended up all over the page. So my flight was really at 7:15 PM. Still, I had all day to get to the airport, shouldn't be a problem. Right? If there was such a thing as an annoying little acronym that would convey the fact that I am laughing audibly, I would use it right now. With an exclamation point.

What I chose to do instead of getting 100% ready to go and maybe working on editing my cyclingdirt videos was to go floating the Deschutes river with Dejay Birtch, Andrew Genco, and friends while drinking Tecates. I wouldn't trade that experience for all the calm, sitting in the airport with my shit together time in the world. The tube rental place was out of tubes, but Dejay, being the staunch advocate of fun at all costs that he is, worked things out for me. I found myself in the middle of a fairly cold river, scrambling to stay afloat on a double-over therm-a-rest. According to Andrew I "looked like a monkey fucking a football." And I did. A little while later, border-line hypothermic and not-so-borderline out of time, I jumped out of the river and ran in my flip flops (or flip flips) back to the put-in spot. I hammered back to where I'd stashed my stuff, packed the bike, just as Andrew rolled up in the van. It was half an hour to the airport and we had...half an hour to get there. But we beat the Google directions time, by four minutes! I had four minutes to make my flight, with a bike case, could I do it? I stumble-ran to the ticket counter, "you're gonna think this is funny, but I'm here for the 7:15 flight to PDX." "7:15? You must mean the 6:55." AAH! But wait..."You are a very lucky guy, that plane is half an hour late, it hasn't landed yet."

It just goes to show: God watches out for children, fools, drunks, and morons who decide to float on rivers drinking Tecates instead of getting to the airport in a timely fashion. Actually, the fourth category may, technically, fall under the second and third categories. But I'm not so technical.



Chris Sheppard's bike. The tube-rock/dust-guard is apparently an old World Cup trick for keeping crap from hitting you in the face.

Sorry to leave you hangin' there last week. I was feeling a bit burnt so sleep and work had to become a priority. OK, at least sleep had to become a priority. The proper High Cascades race report is up over on the 29er Crew blog, so please go check that out.

It's a day and a half to go until I leave for Breck. I think I have a place to stay when I get there, and I think my bike wasn't broken in transit coming back from Oregon. I have to take it out of the case, throw some new bits (courtesy of International Bike) on, clean it up, and put it right back in the case. Maybe we can talk more about and some other real cool shit later.