After a dreary Saturday, half spent at work, the other half spent swimming, napping, and attending our dining out, I was looking forward to racing in Rolla on Sunday morning, especially since it was just down the road.
I had high expectations for this race. It was supposed to be the Missouri state championship road race, whatever that implied. I knew the course very well. The KOM was a hill I'd ridden up dozens of times. I had new tires, a freshly cleaned bike, and new wheels...
The rain and thunder over the past several days has been unrelenting, as it tends to be in tornado ally. Water from the saturated earth continued to pour into and flood the Big Piney River even 24 hours sine the last rain. That KOM segment starts with a dip which happens to be impassible during high water. Apparently it was still high enough to force the race director make the call and turn a looped course into an out n' back. The U-turn was at the bottom of a significant hill, about the height of the KOM, so I treated it as such when I got there.
The first half of the race kept a rather lazy pace. Even when I pulled to pick it up a bit and decided to drop back, those behind me were reluctant to take the lead. I guess everyone was saving it for the hill. That turned out to be the case. When we hit the turn around point, I heard one guy say, "Ok, we can all regroup from here and go up together." Before he finished speaking, several of us had taken off, attacking the hill, separating the group. I was among those riders and crested the Highway M climb in first. The breakaway group quickly formed and put distance on the chase packs. Eight of us were in the running now, the pace line making quick adjustments to keep up the speed. We sailed along over the rolling hills we had just traversed.
Not 2 miles later, I started hearing a terrible noise coming from just behind me. I hoped beyond hope it was from another bike, but it was indeed mine. The brand new wheels I got less than a month ago had failed me. A spoke broke clean of the hub and was making a heart-sinking racket. I knew what that meant. My race was over. I stood on the road side and helplessly watched all my competitors whip by, not to be seen again before the finish line. The wheel van let me use someone else's spare so I could at least make the return trip. I tried in vain to catch back up turning the last 20 miles into a hopeless TT. If nothing else, I've learned some very important racing lessons today.
Dismayed at my poor luck, I confided in some of my fellow cat 4 riders at the starting area. They knew I would have probably taken the day had my spokes done their job, considering my hill climb. It's too bad I never got to train with these guys outside of races. For the few rides we had done together, we'd earned each others respect and friendship. They bid me farewell and better luck in Alaska and on all my many races to come. Maybe that was enough for today.
My American Classics should arrive within the next two weeks.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Tour de Grove
With only three crits under my belt so far, I had a little apprehension going into this weekend where that number would more than double. I had signed up for all four crits that I was quified for over the course of the weeekend.
I had been dealing with a couple maintenance issues with the ol Trek so I took her over to the SRAM maintenance tent about 40 minutes before the race start. They couldn't really figure out the issue; I thought it was a BB problem making the ridiculous amount of noise every time I put out a healthy amount of power. When the race was under way, though, things seemed to smooth out.
The Cat 5 race had about 25 people in it. It was nice that they scheduled the race at the beginning of the day this time instead of waiting until the very end like at Joe Martin a few weeks ago. The disadvantage was that I didn't really get to see anyone else race on the course before we started. This ended up not being a problem.
The Tour de Grove course in west St Louis was a triangular course with two long straightaways. With about 7 laps to go, I decided I would pull for a little bit to try and pick up the pace. Seemed like whenever someone else took the lead they dropped off the pace as soon as they got up front. A few seconds later I looked back and noticed I had put 10 meters on the group. I kept spinning in as full and powerful circles as I could and a lap later I had decicively dropped the hole group. The bell lap ended up being a formality.
The cat 4/5 race ended up being a different story. With 55 riders, this was the largest crit I had done so far. A lot more riders were eager to take the lead and hammer out the straights. Seemed like every time we turned one of the three corners, someone else was drilling the pace. My positioning coming into the last corner at the bell lap wasn't great and I couldn't quite make up as much ground as I wanted to but ended up in 9th.
With a little time between the end of this race and the start of the pro race that evening, I swung by Big Shark, the event's main bike shop sponsor, and looked into getting a new crankset. As it turned out, they had one just my size and sold it to me at cost since it was slightly used. The mechanics quickly put it on and I was ready to race with a new standard crank that was much lighter than my old compact. It was a much needed upgrade.
The next day, the winds had died down a little and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. The Dutchtown Classic was a much more technical course with 6 turns and an uphill finish. You could pretty much take the corners at full speed, which ended up being a ton of fun to navigate. The race coordinators were running a little late for our start time so they ended up shortening our ride. I think we only got in like 6 laps total. With only 17 of us, it didn't take all that long to thin out the lead group to 5, then 4, then 3 on the final lap. I waited till about the right moment and charged the hill taking the W in a sprint finish.
Again, the cat 4/5 today was much more competitive. As successful as my weekend of racing had been, I was going to play this one safe and do my darndest to strategize instead of buring myself up like I have a bad tendency to do. I swapped places with the other racers but tried to stay 10-25 riders back. I tried to go for the prime lap but some chump in a Village VW jersey bested me at the line.
On the last lap, the lead group still hadn't broken up much. I reckoned my positioning now was pretty good with only about 8 ahead of me. On the back straight, a swarm of like 15 dudes rolled up on my right and ended up forcing me to slow in the last two corners. I made up a lot of placement on the last sprint up the hill but not quite enough.
All things considered, this was probably my best racing experience yet, and two wins out of 4 races ain't bad at all.
I had been dealing with a couple maintenance issues with the ol Trek so I took her over to the SRAM maintenance tent about 40 minutes before the race start. They couldn't really figure out the issue; I thought it was a BB problem making the ridiculous amount of noise every time I put out a healthy amount of power. When the race was under way, though, things seemed to smooth out.
The Cat 5 race had about 25 people in it. It was nice that they scheduled the race at the beginning of the day this time instead of waiting until the very end like at Joe Martin a few weeks ago. The disadvantage was that I didn't really get to see anyone else race on the course before we started. This ended up not being a problem.
The Tour de Grove course in west St Louis was a triangular course with two long straightaways. With about 7 laps to go, I decided I would pull for a little bit to try and pick up the pace. Seemed like whenever someone else took the lead they dropped off the pace as soon as they got up front. A few seconds later I looked back and noticed I had put 10 meters on the group. I kept spinning in as full and powerful circles as I could and a lap later I had decicively dropped the hole group. The bell lap ended up being a formality.
The cat 4/5 race ended up being a different story. With 55 riders, this was the largest crit I had done so far. A lot more riders were eager to take the lead and hammer out the straights. Seemed like every time we turned one of the three corners, someone else was drilling the pace. My positioning coming into the last corner at the bell lap wasn't great and I couldn't quite make up as much ground as I wanted to but ended up in 9th.
With a little time between the end of this race and the start of the pro race that evening, I swung by Big Shark, the event's main bike shop sponsor, and looked into getting a new crankset. As it turned out, they had one just my size and sold it to me at cost since it was slightly used. The mechanics quickly put it on and I was ready to race with a new standard crank that was much lighter than my old compact. It was a much needed upgrade.
The next day, the winds had died down a little and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. The Dutchtown Classic was a much more technical course with 6 turns and an uphill finish. You could pretty much take the corners at full speed, which ended up being a ton of fun to navigate. The race coordinators were running a little late for our start time so they ended up shortening our ride. I think we only got in like 6 laps total. With only 17 of us, it didn't take all that long to thin out the lead group to 5, then 4, then 3 on the final lap. I waited till about the right moment and charged the hill taking the W in a sprint finish.
Again, the cat 4/5 today was much more competitive. As successful as my weekend of racing had been, I was going to play this one safe and do my darndest to strategize instead of buring myself up like I have a bad tendency to do. I swapped places with the other racers but tried to stay 10-25 riders back. I tried to go for the prime lap but some chump in a Village VW jersey bested me at the line.
On the last lap, the lead group still hadn't broken up much. I reckoned my positioning now was pretty good with only about 8 ahead of me. On the back straight, a swarm of like 15 dudes rolled up on my right and ended up forcing me to slow in the last two corners. I made up a lot of placement on the last sprint up the hill but not quite enough.
All things considered, this was probably my best racing experience yet, and two wins out of 4 races ain't bad at all.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
The Weekends are Just Packed
The flood planes of the Missouri river stretched out for miles paralleling America's first wine district in the wet, green rolling landscape. In many respects, this area looked a lot like German countryside, vineyards accenting the hillsides, old, small church steeples breaking up the little town centers that weren't more than 10k apart from each other. If it weren't for the unnecessarily loud F-150's flying down highway 94, the two regions are almost indistinguishable. Even the roads and town names, like Schleusberg and Femme Osage, were very Euro-style.
Over the last few days, I was really wondering if this event was going to be a good idea. I've been consistently racing for several weekends now, pouring large amounts of my precious free time into my sport. Last week, the Joe Martin Stage Race went quite well where I ended up placing 2nd overall and getting all kinds of good racing experience, but the Vino Fondo in Augusta, MO didn't really count toward a whole lot as far as racing was concerned. I'd also been feeling sick, possibly do to the huge influx of pollen in the air lately, and hadn't completely gotten over it by the time my alarm indicated it was time to get my Saturday started.
This ride really didn't turn out the way I was expecting. I felt kinda numb for the first 30 miles; my legs were giving me little feedback but I was averaging some reasonable speeds. I was really hoping to get in with a good sized pelaton and cruise and chat the miles away, but this never happened. The few riders that did register for the full length Fondo quickly got spread out. I rode along with one other fellow from New Zealand who was using this as training for his upcoming Ironman. We pulled each other along for a good number of miles but before long I realized he had no interest in stopping for things like food and pee breaks so I was back by myself again by the time I crossed back over the river.
I hit a number of walls, mental and physical, and often had to forget about the number of miles I had already ridden and just turn my brain off. About 5.5 hours in, my body had pretty well settled into its fat burning stage and that really got me through the last 30 miles and several thousand feet of climbing.
So now, for not the first time in the last 7 days, I'm taking a recovery day because I'm sick again. (I wonder why). Next weekend holds great promise of several days of high speed, deep fielded crit racing with St. Louis's Tour de Grove and Dutchtown Classic. Now if I could ever actually get in some training rides outside of the weekend, that would be fantastic.
Over the last few days, I was really wondering if this event was going to be a good idea. I've been consistently racing for several weekends now, pouring large amounts of my precious free time into my sport. Last week, the Joe Martin Stage Race went quite well where I ended up placing 2nd overall and getting all kinds of good racing experience, but the Vino Fondo in Augusta, MO didn't really count toward a whole lot as far as racing was concerned. I'd also been feeling sick, possibly do to the huge influx of pollen in the air lately, and hadn't completely gotten over it by the time my alarm indicated it was time to get my Saturday started.
This ride really didn't turn out the way I was expecting. I felt kinda numb for the first 30 miles; my legs were giving me little feedback but I was averaging some reasonable speeds. I was really hoping to get in with a good sized pelaton and cruise and chat the miles away, but this never happened. The few riders that did register for the full length Fondo quickly got spread out. I rode along with one other fellow from New Zealand who was using this as training for his upcoming Ironman. We pulled each other along for a good number of miles but before long I realized he had no interest in stopping for things like food and pee breaks so I was back by myself again by the time I crossed back over the river.
I hit a number of walls, mental and physical, and often had to forget about the number of miles I had already ridden and just turn my brain off. About 5.5 hours in, my body had pretty well settled into its fat burning stage and that really got me through the last 30 miles and several thousand feet of climbing.
So now, for not the first time in the last 7 days, I'm taking a recovery day because I'm sick again. (I wonder why). Next weekend holds great promise of several days of high speed, deep fielded crit racing with St. Louis's Tour de Grove and Dutchtown Classic. Now if I could ever actually get in some training rides outside of the weekend, that would be fantastic.
Monday, April 22, 2013
420
The half-mast flag outside the youth center lay still on its chrome pole, the lazy breezes having little affect on the stars and stripes today. The sun was hard at work warming the morning from 35 to 65, the racers hard at work prepping their two-wheeled companions.
Harrison, AR is a picturesque little Ozark town, a small river through the middle of the city, 250 foot hills on all sides. Another spectacular two day weekend was just getting started. With my air topped off and one last FRS energy shot down the hatch, my race was underway.
The Tour de Hills road race was aptly named. The 58 mile course had two 800 ft climbs and rolling hills throughout. It didn't take too long for the elevation to break up the peloton. The snaking roads of the second ten miles was hilly enough to drop half the pack. I took several turns pulling up, over, down and around the wildflower-covered hillsides and occasional splashings of a mountain river.
A group of about 10 of us led when we hit the town of Jasper, the start of the first major climb up Mt Sherman. Not knowing any of these other cyclists before today, I was hoping the stairways to heaven would work to my advantage. I set the pace for a good portion of this climb, though a couple others tried to do me one better, surging once and a while before I pulled them in again.
After a water bottle hand off at the top we made our way to the first big descent, seven of us remaining in the lead group. Multiple road signs warned of "Sharp, steep turns," the black on yellow lettering warning of 15mph turning speeds. The first couple corners were tight but didn't cause too much trouble. The trend didn't hold. A guy infront of me slowed to navigate the next bend and I didn't realize it until a moment too late. The loose gravel patch on the road didn't help either. Without thinking, I locked up my rear wheel and went full on Tokyo drift around the courner, only a short guard rail between me and the mountian side of death. The speed sensor on one of my rear spokes even registered that the wheel had stopped turning. I'm convinced an Invisible Force kept me from spilling all over the green slopes. The guy behind me saw everything and mentioned how good a save it was.
The rest of the descent was slow and steady and I ended up 200m behind our dwindling group. The scenic strip of road through Ponca would have otherwise been a nice area to spin around at a relaxing pace, checking out the recreational rafting, canoing, and fishing venues filled with outdoor enthusiats, but I had to catch up. The next ascent was just ahead.
Again, I found myself taking point and setting the pace up Pruitt. About a third of the way up the climb, a guy rolled up next to me asking if I could hold the lead with him for the remainder of the race. I looked back and realized I just dropped 5 more people.
Once we reached the crest, the guys behind us were out of sight and wouldn't be seen again until after we finished.
We worked well together and made good time for the last 40k. Most of the day's 5600 ft of climbing was behind us. At one point my front derailleur started acting up and was throwing my chain onto my crank so I had to be very careful with my gear shifts. This ended up being my last ride with that old chain.
With about 2 miles left, the dude took off and I didn't have the power at the time to catch up. I wouldn't let him have it easy but he took first while I slid on in with a rewarding second.
Harrison, AR is a picturesque little Ozark town, a small river through the middle of the city, 250 foot hills on all sides. Another spectacular two day weekend was just getting started. With my air topped off and one last FRS energy shot down the hatch, my race was underway.
The Tour de Hills road race was aptly named. The 58 mile course had two 800 ft climbs and rolling hills throughout. It didn't take too long for the elevation to break up the peloton. The snaking roads of the second ten miles was hilly enough to drop half the pack. I took several turns pulling up, over, down and around the wildflower-covered hillsides and occasional splashings of a mountain river.
A group of about 10 of us led when we hit the town of Jasper, the start of the first major climb up Mt Sherman. Not knowing any of these other cyclists before today, I was hoping the stairways to heaven would work to my advantage. I set the pace for a good portion of this climb, though a couple others tried to do me one better, surging once and a while before I pulled them in again.
After a water bottle hand off at the top we made our way to the first big descent, seven of us remaining in the lead group. Multiple road signs warned of "Sharp, steep turns," the black on yellow lettering warning of 15mph turning speeds. The first couple corners were tight but didn't cause too much trouble. The trend didn't hold. A guy infront of me slowed to navigate the next bend and I didn't realize it until a moment too late. The loose gravel patch on the road didn't help either. Without thinking, I locked up my rear wheel and went full on Tokyo drift around the courner, only a short guard rail between me and the mountian side of death. The speed sensor on one of my rear spokes even registered that the wheel had stopped turning. I'm convinced an Invisible Force kept me from spilling all over the green slopes. The guy behind me saw everything and mentioned how good a save it was.
The rest of the descent was slow and steady and I ended up 200m behind our dwindling group. The scenic strip of road through Ponca would have otherwise been a nice area to spin around at a relaxing pace, checking out the recreational rafting, canoing, and fishing venues filled with outdoor enthusiats, but I had to catch up. The next ascent was just ahead.
Again, I found myself taking point and setting the pace up Pruitt. About a third of the way up the climb, a guy rolled up next to me asking if I could hold the lead with him for the remainder of the race. I looked back and realized I just dropped 5 more people.
Once we reached the crest, the guys behind us were out of sight and wouldn't be seen again until after we finished.
We worked well together and made good time for the last 40k. Most of the day's 5600 ft of climbing was behind us. At one point my front derailleur started acting up and was throwing my chain onto my crank so I had to be very careful with my gear shifts. This ended up being my last ride with that old chain.
With about 2 miles left, the dude took off and I didn't have the power at the time to catch up. I wouldn't let him have it easy but he took first while I slid on in with a rewarding second.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Springfield
A beautiful orange Missouri sunrise greeted me when I emerged from my apartment on Fort Leonard Wood on a crisp, cold weekend dawn. The usual cadence calling of drill sergeants was silent in the first hours of President's day weekend. Every parking spot was filled, each owner still comatose from a night on the town, a hard weeks' work, or, more likely, a combination of the two. I was content enough to enjoy it by myself, much like the rest of my day.
The 90 minutes driving down a slush-covered I-44 went by quickly enough, snow dusted pastures and low lying wispy winter clouds keeping my mind occupied while 7 turned to 8:30. A thorough search on the internet helped guide me to my first stop on today's tour of this unexplored city. The downtown scene of Springfield would probably leave much to be desired if one were hoping for an expansive, entertainment filled, sensory overloaded city block. For me, it pretty much had all I could ask for at the time. After all, what's not to like about an area where three coffee shops, multiple breakfast cafes, a bistro/market, and bike shop are all open and just waiting for the next progressively-minded cyclist to avail himself to.
Coffee shop number 1 was a very minimalist type place with authentic macchiatos and cappuccinos and some appealing petite muffins behind a contemporary style counter where a barista thoughtfully crafted my morning's first beverage. Once I plugged into the wifi and got my Bible and news reading done it was time to move on. The bike shop was about to open.It was easy to tell this area was very pro-bike. All the racks were filled with brave commuters who took on the 20 degree challenge this morning. This made for an quick conversation topic to chat about with the cute cashier at coffee shop number 2, the Mudhouse. This joint didn't seem to roll with the minimalist approach; it was hard to find out how to even order a drip brew. This will definitely warrant a second trip at a later date. I sprung for a cinnamon mocha muffin with the house blend and found one of the few open tables nestled near the back. It was a little more crowded here and I got the idea this was the go to place on Saturdays. So impressed was I by the outstanding joe in my mug I didn't leave before getting a pound of beans for the road.
Once my caffeine fix was faxed (I think that makes sense) and after a stroll through the market with the spectacular beer selection it was time to see just how large the Bass Pro Shop national headquarters was. As soon as I stepped in the door, I wish I had some spectacles on that I could quickly and dramatically take off and say to myself, "Deer God..." (see what I did there?). Words and pictures won't quite do its vastness any justice. You think you've been to a Bass Pro? You haven't been to a Bass Pro until you come here. It just didn't end. They have live gators, gars, turtles and trout; everything you could ever need for fishing and hunting and far more besides. I was really just there to see what it was all about but ended up getting a new deer leather wallet before bidding farewell and heading to my next stop.No city exploration is complete without a good ol ride and naturally I brought my trusty ol' Trek along with me. I started from a bike shop on the south part of town where a very friendly mechanic gave me some tips about good roads to take. Though I had mapped out a route on my Garmin, I completely deviated from it and carved my own path on the map as I went, occasionally checking my Droid to make sure I hadn't crossed any state lines or anything. At one point along the way, near Ozark, MO, I realized I was now further away from home than I ever have been whilst on a bike. Any number of worst case scenarios could have arisen from this realization but I was too busy hammering up the next hill.
Three hours later, after not one dog had attempted to chase me down, I rolled back into that shop to thaw, change, and later grabbed a pulled pork sandwich at a local restaurant en route to 44 before heading back east. The ruby colored sky filled my rear view mirror while my mind went through analogies that only made sense to me about how this superb Saturday highlights just how good a life I have, and where I would find my next cup of dark roasted goodness.
"I have come that they may have life and have it in abundance."
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Southern Swan Song
The day started with a triple shot Americano from the world's best known caffeine seller off Airport Road after a 0515 wake up. Some days, I think just the prospect of that rich espresso combined with a lovely baked scone are my greatest motivations for sacrificing sleep to spend extra time in my bike's saddle on these cold days. For not the first time, my good buddy Mark Fischer and I had planned another Enterprise-like adventure to boldly go where no cyclist had gone before, to seek out new roads and new uncivilized climbs.
The trip to Fort Payne, Alabama from Huntsville went by quickly enough and after a few pre-flight checks, we were on our way. Once atop the Lookout Mountain Plateau, we both commented on how beautiful this tucked away treasure of the south was. We cruised along the scenic highway enjoying every pedal stroke and soaking in as much sun as we could. As bright and shiny as it was, this turned out to be one of the coldest days of the month. Both of us were well-layered and gloved for the entirety of the ride. It wouldn't reach 40 degrees.
Passing through Mentone, I reminisced upon one of my very first childhood memories of sleeping in a little cabin in the woods somewhere along that very road, decades ago.
Mark warned me that there would be a decent on a dirt road. We'd done our best to scout out the route ahead of time but there are just some things you can't account for, no matter where that Google car has been. We took a left off the scenic highway and plunged down a gravely dirt road that would descend a solid 700 feet before finally letting up. Several times, we had to unclip and walk our bikes down for fear of completely wrecking ourselves. There are many times during a ride like this where there must be motorists who are completely surprised or otherwise aghast at the sight of a pair of cyclists riding along their isolated county road. About a third of the way down the climb, though, the joke was on us. A man, apparently out for a Tuesday morning hike, was trudging up the same sketchy dirt road we were descending. Also, this man was wearing a ski mask with a lumberjack style flannel shirt. Mark was ahead of me at this point and crossed his path first. I was almost surprised this man wasn't dragging a bloody ax in his wake, ready at any moment to riddle his next victim with flesh wounds. No one could find us. It was the perfect crime. As it turned out though, this was just some weird old man who had obviously no clue about the implications of wearing such a ski mask and gave us a quick wave and smile from behind the small cutouts from the wool covering the rest of his face.
Once Jack Nicholson was behind us and my forearm muscles had reached failure several times from squeezing the brakes so much, we reached the bottom of the day's first descent. We would soon climb right back up the mountain on a different, but equally as dirty, road. Praising the top quality of our Continental tires, we made it to the top of the next climb with no flats or significant loss of PSI.
Having made terrible time on the last two hills, we started pace-lining hoping to make some of it up. Deep into the Georgia portion of the plateau, we passed Cloudland Canyon State Park and tore down the second descent at over 40mph.
After knocking out another big climb and a few more miles we made it to Covenant College. Due to a little mix up in our Garmin's directions, we presently found ourselves rolling right down the center of the campus. We got a number of perplexed looks from local students walking from class to class as we tried to get off the college's main concourse and back on 189. I tired flirting with a cute girl there but I couldn't really stop my bike at the time so it was a little short lived. Maybe next time...
At mile 60 or so, we clogged into the famous Lookout Mountain Starbucks. I was a little giddy at my fortune, that I would find myself at the same coffee shop that I started my first stage race ultra back in summer 2009, as well as a shop I've visited on more than one occasion deeper into my childhood. Something about arriving at this place in the world on my bike had some sort of existential value to it. The "tall" Sumatra roast and muffin I enjoyed there were about the closest thing to heaven I'll reach in the South.
Warmed by dark-roasted caffeine and fresh, streusel-topped blueberry muffins, we began our wicked fast descent down Ochs Highway before turning on St. Elmo and heading back south. At this point, the sun was wrecking our vision. The climb up Nick-a-Jack was particularly rough. Between the heavy, bottle-necked traffic, blinding sunlight, and long, long ascent after over 70 miles on our legs, the crest of that hill was a welcome sight.
We stopped for a quick respite at a church before turning south again along 157. My thick Louis Garneau gloves I'd been wearing all day made it nearly impossible to fuel on the move, so our stops had to be frequent. Our hands would freeze otherwise.
Roughly ten miles later, The next intersection gave us a game-time decision to make. Continuing straight on 157 would be the most direct route back to Mentone. Left would take us back down the mountain to the east where we would meander though some rural back roads before climbing the mountain a final time. After my precise, Bear Grylls-style sunlight estimate, I figured we'd be good, assuming we only had 20 miles of flat road left. This turned out to be a terribly false assumption.
After another incredibly fun, flying descent down Lookout Mountain Scenic Highway, we navigated through the next few intersections and made our way down some of the strangest named roads I'd ever seen. We followed Hog Jowl Road for several miles while dozens of cattle and other such farm mammals slowly turned their heads, tracking us go by while simultaneously munchin' on grass blades, jaws turning in their ever circular pattern. After passing Rape Gap Road (seriously, that was the name), we came upon the final ascent of the day.
The sun's rays were only somewhat visible on the opposite ridges. It had long since disappeared over the western mountain crest. I finally took my specs off; they were doing more harm than good for my visibility by now. Both of us concluded that under different, warmer circumstances, this last climb up Doughtry Gap would make for some great competition and fun among our other cycling friends. The four switchbacks, smooth pavement, and complete lack of traffic made for a satisfying final climb.
Back on the plateau's top, the sun was well on its way to lighting New Zealand's morning. We still had a solid eight miles before reaching Mentone. After that, one final descent separated us from our cars. The wonderful caffeine high provided by our halfway pit stop had worn off. The big, bright light from the heavens was failing. Once we hit one of our last intersections, Mark and I had no choice but to go full beam with our small LED's. He decided it would be best if I led with the front white light while he took up the rear with both of our red lights.
The bright star was now well out of sight. I was starting to get tangible flashbacks from those wholly surreal moments from Pinhoti where my body was still somehow moving forward after the sun was no more. My incredibly bloodshot eyes did their best to spot the endless imperfections on the dark road. By God's grace and His angel's guidance, we made it back to the top of the last climb.
My concept of time passage was completely void at this point. Going down that last hill we traversed so, so many hours earlier this day seemed to last a small eternity. My legs hardly moved the whole way down; they didn't need to. My body started to shake violently to stay warm. For whatever reason, I never did shell out the 35 bones for a pair of leg warmers, a piece of kit I so desperately needed now. My bare legs were coated with tiny bumps that didn't seem to be helping.
Finally, we reached the main road that would take us back to our starting point. Putting out as much power as I could, we zipped down that road in what felt like 15 degree weather. At times like these, I often play evocative music in my head, knowing that the end of a genuinely epic journey was nearly coming; and, I admit, a time or two I really did try to shed a tear, but my body simply wasn't capable.
One-hundred and twenty-five miles later, we pulled into the parking lot from wince our ride began over nine hours prior.
Engines running, heater on full blast, it must have been well over 15 minutes before either of us were willing to set foot back outside to rack our bikes back up.
Half an hour later, a side of homemade biscuits and apple butter and the world's greatest plate of chicken 'n dumplings was presented before me at a well heated Cracker Barrel.
The trip to Fort Payne, Alabama from Huntsville went by quickly enough and after a few pre-flight checks, we were on our way. Once atop the Lookout Mountain Plateau, we both commented on how beautiful this tucked away treasure of the south was. We cruised along the scenic highway enjoying every pedal stroke and soaking in as much sun as we could. As bright and shiny as it was, this turned out to be one of the coldest days of the month. Both of us were well-layered and gloved for the entirety of the ride. It wouldn't reach 40 degrees.
Passing through Mentone, I reminisced upon one of my very first childhood memories of sleeping in a little cabin in the woods somewhere along that very road, decades ago.
Mark warned me that there would be a decent on a dirt road. We'd done our best to scout out the route ahead of time but there are just some things you can't account for, no matter where that Google car has been. We took a left off the scenic highway and plunged down a gravely dirt road that would descend a solid 700 feet before finally letting up. Several times, we had to unclip and walk our bikes down for fear of completely wrecking ourselves. There are many times during a ride like this where there must be motorists who are completely surprised or otherwise aghast at the sight of a pair of cyclists riding along their isolated county road. About a third of the way down the climb, though, the joke was on us. A man, apparently out for a Tuesday morning hike, was trudging up the same sketchy dirt road we were descending. Also, this man was wearing a ski mask with a lumberjack style flannel shirt. Mark was ahead of me at this point and crossed his path first. I was almost surprised this man wasn't dragging a bloody ax in his wake, ready at any moment to riddle his next victim with flesh wounds. No one could find us. It was the perfect crime. As it turned out though, this was just some weird old man who had obviously no clue about the implications of wearing such a ski mask and gave us a quick wave and smile from behind the small cutouts from the wool covering the rest of his face.
Once Jack Nicholson was behind us and my forearm muscles had reached failure several times from squeezing the brakes so much, we reached the bottom of the day's first descent. We would soon climb right back up the mountain on a different, but equally as dirty, road. Praising the top quality of our Continental tires, we made it to the top of the next climb with no flats or significant loss of PSI.
Having made terrible time on the last two hills, we started pace-lining hoping to make some of it up. Deep into the Georgia portion of the plateau, we passed Cloudland Canyon State Park and tore down the second descent at over 40mph.
After knocking out another big climb and a few more miles we made it to Covenant College. Due to a little mix up in our Garmin's directions, we presently found ourselves rolling right down the center of the campus. We got a number of perplexed looks from local students walking from class to class as we tried to get off the college's main concourse and back on 189. I tired flirting with a cute girl there but I couldn't really stop my bike at the time so it was a little short lived. Maybe next time...
At mile 60 or so, we clogged into the famous Lookout Mountain Starbucks. I was a little giddy at my fortune, that I would find myself at the same coffee shop that I started my first stage race ultra back in summer 2009, as well as a shop I've visited on more than one occasion deeper into my childhood. Something about arriving at this place in the world on my bike had some sort of existential value to it. The "tall" Sumatra roast and muffin I enjoyed there were about the closest thing to heaven I'll reach in the South.
Warmed by dark-roasted caffeine and fresh, streusel-topped blueberry muffins, we began our wicked fast descent down Ochs Highway before turning on St. Elmo and heading back south. At this point, the sun was wrecking our vision. The climb up Nick-a-Jack was particularly rough. Between the heavy, bottle-necked traffic, blinding sunlight, and long, long ascent after over 70 miles on our legs, the crest of that hill was a welcome sight.
We stopped for a quick respite at a church before turning south again along 157. My thick Louis Garneau gloves I'd been wearing all day made it nearly impossible to fuel on the move, so our stops had to be frequent. Our hands would freeze otherwise.
Roughly ten miles later, The next intersection gave us a game-time decision to make. Continuing straight on 157 would be the most direct route back to Mentone. Left would take us back down the mountain to the east where we would meander though some rural back roads before climbing the mountain a final time. After my precise, Bear Grylls-style sunlight estimate, I figured we'd be good, assuming we only had 20 miles of flat road left. This turned out to be a terribly false assumption.
After another incredibly fun, flying descent down Lookout Mountain Scenic Highway, we navigated through the next few intersections and made our way down some of the strangest named roads I'd ever seen. We followed Hog Jowl Road for several miles while dozens of cattle and other such farm mammals slowly turned their heads, tracking us go by while simultaneously munchin' on grass blades, jaws turning in their ever circular pattern. After passing Rape Gap Road (seriously, that was the name), we came upon the final ascent of the day.
The sun's rays were only somewhat visible on the opposite ridges. It had long since disappeared over the western mountain crest. I finally took my specs off; they were doing more harm than good for my visibility by now. Both of us concluded that under different, warmer circumstances, this last climb up Doughtry Gap would make for some great competition and fun among our other cycling friends. The four switchbacks, smooth pavement, and complete lack of traffic made for a satisfying final climb.
Back on the plateau's top, the sun was well on its way to lighting New Zealand's morning. We still had a solid eight miles before reaching Mentone. After that, one final descent separated us from our cars. The wonderful caffeine high provided by our halfway pit stop had worn off. The big, bright light from the heavens was failing. Once we hit one of our last intersections, Mark and I had no choice but to go full beam with our small LED's. He decided it would be best if I led with the front white light while he took up the rear with both of our red lights.
The bright star was now well out of sight. I was starting to get tangible flashbacks from those wholly surreal moments from Pinhoti where my body was still somehow moving forward after the sun was no more. My incredibly bloodshot eyes did their best to spot the endless imperfections on the dark road. By God's grace and His angel's guidance, we made it back to the top of the last climb.
My concept of time passage was completely void at this point. Going down that last hill we traversed so, so many hours earlier this day seemed to last a small eternity. My legs hardly moved the whole way down; they didn't need to. My body started to shake violently to stay warm. For whatever reason, I never did shell out the 35 bones for a pair of leg warmers, a piece of kit I so desperately needed now. My bare legs were coated with tiny bumps that didn't seem to be helping.
Finally, we reached the main road that would take us back to our starting point. Putting out as much power as I could, we zipped down that road in what felt like 15 degree weather. At times like these, I often play evocative music in my head, knowing that the end of a genuinely epic journey was nearly coming; and, I admit, a time or two I really did try to shed a tear, but my body simply wasn't capable.
One-hundred and twenty-five miles later, we pulled into the parking lot from wince our ride began over nine hours prior.
Engines running, heater on full blast, it must have been well over 15 minutes before either of us were willing to set foot back outside to rack our bikes back up.
Half an hour later, a side of homemade biscuits and apple butter and the world's greatest plate of chicken 'n dumplings was presented before me at a well heated Cracker Barrel.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Year of our Lord
The grey, winter rain fell along the length of 280 on what was probably my last trip to Auburn for a good while. It seemed like months ago that I was last in my apartment; between hanging out with my brother at the lake, spending a few weeks at my parent's place in Huntsville, and upholding time-honored Costner Christmas traditions, December was the exclamation point of a labored 2012.
On the way down here I reflected on all the ducks that must be put in rows between now and when I report to Ft Leonard Wood at the beginning of next month. The closer I got to Auburn, the longer the mental list grew, though I am really looking forward to three or four weeks of no school, job, or financial worries. Like the last couple of weeks I'll be spending a lot of time in the saddle and in the gym, getting the training year started off right. Hopefully I'll be motivated to get in some good reading as well.
Speaking of training, I'm once again taking a different approach to the journey toward an intangible finish line. While I was in Huntsville, I decided to finally visit the sports Doc to figure out once and for all why my achilles tendon has been bothering me over the last 2 years. As it turns out, I have a Haglund's Deformity, essentially a bone spur on the back of my calcaneous that has been irritating the tendon all this time. It's good and bad news for my running career. Regarless, I'm going to be taking a good while off from running to allow it to heal.
Thus, this year, I hope, will be one filled with bike races across the country. I really want to learn more about cycling and as my fitness continues to get better on the bike. I think I may even have a chance to be competitive at these things. I've also joined the Military Cycling Team, based out of Ft Carson, CO. They have a number of members at a bunch of different bases so I may have a team to ride with during my time in Missouri. And from what I've heard about that base, I won't have much else to do in the area. Thank goodness for my love of exploration. (What up, Ozarks?)
A month from now I will no longer live in Auburn for the first time in almost 5 years. One may assume that it will be a bittersweet departure, but one would be wrong. As good as Auburn's been to me, I am so ready to leave and start my life and develop myself as an officer, scholar, and man of God.
More updates to come. In the meantime, some 2012 stats!
Total time spent running and riding: 21 days, 22 hours
Total distance ridden: 7,020 miles
Total elevation gain on the bike: 450,000ft, or about 165 Burj Khalifa's
Number of flat tires:4
Gallons of coffee consumed: a whole bunch
Biggest single climb of the year: Mt Mitchel, 4,383ft
On the way down here I reflected on all the ducks that must be put in rows between now and when I report to Ft Leonard Wood at the beginning of next month. The closer I got to Auburn, the longer the mental list grew, though I am really looking forward to three or four weeks of no school, job, or financial worries. Like the last couple of weeks I'll be spending a lot of time in the saddle and in the gym, getting the training year started off right. Hopefully I'll be motivated to get in some good reading as well.
Speaking of training, I'm once again taking a different approach to the journey toward an intangible finish line. While I was in Huntsville, I decided to finally visit the sports Doc to figure out once and for all why my achilles tendon has been bothering me over the last 2 years. As it turns out, I have a Haglund's Deformity, essentially a bone spur on the back of my calcaneous that has been irritating the tendon all this time. It's good and bad news for my running career. Regarless, I'm going to be taking a good while off from running to allow it to heal.
 |
| The deformity is that extra bit of bone on the dorsal part of my heel. |
Thus, this year, I hope, will be one filled with bike races across the country. I really want to learn more about cycling and as my fitness continues to get better on the bike. I think I may even have a chance to be competitive at these things. I've also joined the Military Cycling Team, based out of Ft Carson, CO. They have a number of members at a bunch of different bases so I may have a team to ride with during my time in Missouri. And from what I've heard about that base, I won't have much else to do in the area. Thank goodness for my love of exploration. (What up, Ozarks?)
A month from now I will no longer live in Auburn for the first time in almost 5 years. One may assume that it will be a bittersweet departure, but one would be wrong. As good as Auburn's been to me, I am so ready to leave and start my life and develop myself as an officer, scholar, and man of God.
More updates to come. In the meantime, some 2012 stats!
Total time spent running and riding: 21 days, 22 hours
Total distance ridden: 7,020 miles
Total elevation gain on the bike: 450,000ft, or about 165 Burj Khalifa's
Number of flat tires:4
Gallons of coffee consumed: a whole bunch
Biggest single climb of the year: Mt Mitchel, 4,383ft
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