A little less Huck for the Buck

In the world of mtb racing, there are few phrases as sacred as "beer lap." In fact, for some of us, our only true biking talent is easily described by those two wonderful words. With these thoughts of frosty beverages in our mind, Chris and I suited up for the 2007 Huck-a-Buck, a short three-lap race around the confines of Lake Crabtree County park. Singlespeed style, of course.

Chris was poised to take the GhettoBike award even before we rolled up: as he's recently flown the coop and been riding with gears (shock! dismay!), his quick conversion back to a onesie involved three chainrings up front and a derailleur in the back. While high on the street-cred meter, he was certainly below some of the custom rigs we saw, as my SS-dedicated Rig was much more the norm. The prize unawarded, we lined up for the start.

Much to our chagrin, the word around the pits was that there were to be no beer laps!!! We were beyond disappointed. I mean really, why race? With no in-race PBR on the menu, we had to change our hydration and nutrition strategies, and even toyed with riding expert just for the hell of it. Eventually we just lined up with a SS crowd that was probably 15 deep. True to tradition, the Happy Fun Racers lined up across the front (there were probably six or eight of them), and while that definitely put us non-HFRers at a disadvantage, it was no real big deal. Hey, it's their race, after all!

Out of the gate Chris and I had to do a lot of HFR-passing to get to the front. As Crabtree is pretty tight that wasn't easy, but we worked our way up into third and fourth places by midway through the first lap. From there we pretty much just rode. The trails were dry and loose, and Chris and I both dabbed, but other than that it was just a fast spin through the park. I would have certainly liked a little higher gear (I was running 32x18 on the 29er) as I felt like I was spinning more than necessary, but really the biggest regulator was having to thread our way through all of the riders from the other classes. At the end of lap two we got stacked up behind four or five slower riders with no place to pass and just kinda plodded along until we could find a way around them. This happened throughout the third lap, as other riders -- and not the terrain, or people in our own category -- became our main obstacle.

As we neared the end we caught up to the lone HFRer still ahead of us, but with little of the course left and no place to pass on the switchback climb, there was little we could do about it. First place was a little further away and probably out of our reach, but we rolled across the line with a respectable third and fourth.

Unfortunately, as I spun across the finish line I looked down to notice a rather large crack at my seattube-toptube juncture. It wasn't all the way through the joint, but it was pretty significant, and I don't think it would have made it another lap. Alas, I think that the Rig might be going to meet the big Gary Fisher in the sky. Luckily, it's under warranty, but unfortunately the logistics of warranty repair mean that there won't be any Off-Road Assault on Mount Mitchell for me. (I suppose that's OK, as I wasn't really in shape for it. We'll call it an equipment excuse.) I should have a new, upgraded frame in a couple of weeks. (Details to follow.)

I will say one thing for HFR: those kids do have good prizes, and Chris and I walked away with better loot than we might have hoped for. It didn't totally take the sting out of our sobriety, but it was something, and probably less damaging to the liver in the long run. Maybe next year...

Summer Solstice Doldrums

DP (do we really have to use these anonymous names? sheesh) asked in the comments how my stage race went three weeks ago. In the interest of revivificating the blog, here's a quick report. OK, maybe a quickish report.

So for those to whom I haven't been writing, a quick recap of my race season prior to the Summer Solstice stage race. The spring road race series turned out better than I ever could have hoped, with me winning the last two races and coming in 2nd in the overall standings. So I had reason to be optimistic. On the downside, I'd taken some time off for recovery after the spring series, and the time off had gone on a little too long, so I really only had about two weeks solid training before the races began. So be it.

Rather than give all the blow-by-blows, I'll just say that in the end, the stage race ended up being a bit of a drag, with really boring racing. The problem was that the courses were mostly flat and non-selective. There wasn't even a good wind to bust things up. Plus, the time bonuses for stage wins were miniscule, like 3 seconds. So anybody could tell that the best strategy for the GC was to sit in on all the road races, as they were likely to end in pack finishes with no significant time splits, then throw down in the TT. Heck, you could dominate the road races, win all three, and you'd only have a 9 second advantage. That's nothing compared to the TT, where first and last were separated by over 3 minutes. And if the non-selective courses weren't enough, several teams were banking on their designated TTer, assigning all their other guys to chase down any whiff of a break in the road races. Time after time, these teams would chase down a break, and then not counter-attack once it was caught. Boooring.

With no TT gear, a break was my only shot at the overall placings, so I was forced to play the long odds. I spent a fair amount of time off the front, including 8 miles solo in the second road race. Most of it was just me being pissed and losing my fight with impatience. For a while, I was seriously considering singing Josie's toilet training songs, in the hopes of annoying the pack into action (I can do it myself, I'm a big kid now! I can do it myself, 'cause I've got POTTY POWER!). Well, I just couldn't be that mean, so off the front I went.

In the pack finishes, I did alright but would have liked a little better. Friday night, I moved up too early and had to fight to stay near the front in what ended up being a very active finishing run. By the sprint, I didn't have much left and just held on for 7th. Saturday morning, I felt like I had a reasonable sprint in me but got swamped and boxed in in the last mile. Tried hard to get out to my right and got shoved back into place, tried to the left and made it out as I heard someone's QR pinging the spokes of my rear wheel. By then, it was only 75 meters to the line and I only had time to move up to 9th.

As expected, I didn't exactly set the world on fire in the TT, coming through midpack over a minute and a half behind the winner. So I skipped the Sunday race, being so far down in the GC that it wasn't worth abusing Heather's patience any more.

So with two top 10s in 70 person fields, I shouldn't be complaining. I would have liked a break to go, though, and baring that, a top 5 in a pack finish. At least I finished in the money on both road races, covering my fees and a whole $12 extra.

One final notes: I had what will hopefully be my stupidest moment for the year in the Saturday road race. I had gotten some guys to work with me at the front and string things out as we headed into the one selective part of the course, a twisty little chicane down into a stream valley and out. I was pounding away at the front when I looked up and saw a T intersection only about 50 meters ahead of me. Now, I could have looked for the pace car, or for the cop telling us which way to go, or for the arrow markers pointing out the course, but in my reduced oxygen state, I decided to yell a question to the other riders about which way to go. Well, I thought they said left, so I went left ... then looked over my shoulder and saw the beautiful and tragic scene of a long strung out line of riders making a right turn. Crap. Fortunately I got back on, but it took me another whole lap to work my way back to the front of the pack.

One final final note: the cat 3 overall was won by a guy (Dan Campbell) who only did his first road race in February. How's that for advancing quickly?

Five days, four rides, no hating of freedom

Ladies and gents:

Just because our ever-present lameness has kept anyone from updating the blog lately does not mean that we haven't been riding. In fact, Duke Cycling was out in force over the past few days, generally rolling obscene amounts of miles while consistently not hating freedom.

Saturday found CO2Cycle, me, Jonah, el Coachadora Kevin Todd, and three (anonymous for the purposes of the web) associated operatives headed down to Saxapahaw for a long, slow ride. (If you're having trouble figuring out how to say that, think "Sexin' my Paw-Paw." Just don't actually think about sexing up your (or anyone else's) PeePaw.) For better or worse, some of the associated operatives just can't go slow (fast bastids), so it ended up being a long, relatively fast ride down to the river. Highlights along the way included goats, goats-in-cages-in-truck-beds-talking-smack, hotdog stops, and pulling the old route switcheroo on the way home, thus dividing the pack. Total miles: about 75.

Sunday is widely known as a day for dirt, so CO2Cycle, myself, associated operative B.Bergeler (ok, anonymity is overrated), and two other contacts hit New Light. Other than a general dead-leggedness -- presumably from a little too much Sexin'mypawpaw -- it was a relatively uneventful ride: one lap, a little bushwhacking, and then some extra. We'll call it an optimistic 12 miles.

DukeCyclists rest on Monday...

...In order to be ready for FakeRacing Tuesday! CO2 issued a call to arms about FakeRacing, hinting that anyone who wasn't there probably had a little hate in their soul for that thing we (and FoxNews) call FREEDOM! DukeCycling does not hate freedom. (B.Bergeler does.) The crowd was a little light (presumably from all of the freedom-hating going around -- we may need to alert Sean Hannity), and the lollygaggers at the shop decided that we should, well, lollygag. Alas, it was not to be.

Instead, from the first time up Sinai we pretty much hit it hard. Big Steve (of Cannondale 'cross-bike glory, though he's now on his road ride) decided to work the pack early, and people were getting spit off the back all the way down Cornwallis and Kerley. By the time we made it to Sinai-take-two people were looking rough (and Big Steve was gone -- whatthe?), and while Rusty made a half-hearted attempt to attack CO2 on the climb, there was no hate of freedom in CO2s soul, and Rusty fell back in line.

Things smoothed out a little the rest of the way up Sinai and across University, with the remnants (I believe there were five freedom-lovers by that point) forming a fast, but fairly cooperative paceline. We did pick up a few late adds at the top of Sinai, but after some jumpiness on their part they began to work seamlessly with the group. As always, things started to slow up just a hair on Old NC 10, as people started to check each other out and prepare for the sprint. There was a little break about a half mile from the finish, which CO2 and another guy jumped on, and they were able to get a few yards down the road. The remnants of the pack were pretty scattered at that point, and when Rusty wasn't able grab the break it looked like the finish was going to be pretty interesting, with CO2 in a good position for the win.

Then I decided to do a little freedom hating of my own: as I caught Rusty on my slog (it couldn't be called a bridge) up to the break, I told him to grab on and I'd pull him up. You may be asking yourself why I would be helping someone who is by far the strongest sprinter in the group get into a position where he could easily take a break that was wearing itself out? Because evidently in my oxygen deficient state, I hate freedom. It's hard for me to admit this, and it may not be conscious, but why else would I aid Rusty, aka Bin Laden's sprint devil?

In any event, with me spent, the break eyeing each other and equally spent, Rusty was easily able to take the last fifty yards or so for the win. Dammit. Total FakeRace miles: 30ish.

Not to be daunted in our quest for freedom, DukeCyclists planned a Revolution-and-Independence ride for Wednesday the Fourth, with plans of long, easy miles, hotdogs, PBR, and the like. Once again, associated operatives were enlisted, and they ultimately proved our undoing: while B.Bergeler joined Jonah, CO2, and me in a laid back approach to our holiday, Steve and Geoff from DCC (yeah, it's the Bicycle Chain now, but it will always be DCC to me) had other ideas. (DCC newby Ryan was also involved, though less with the leg-breaking-ness.) Instead of our casual ride down to hotdog heaven (aka Saxmapahaw, aka Sexin'mypawpaw), we tooled around Orange, Chatham, and western Durham counties for a few hours, alternately chasing county line signs, talking smack, and lusting over Geoff's new wheels.

We had a brief moment of paceline bliss, but generally it was a mid-range mash, interrupted by random sprints for arbitrary markers of supremacy. (My personal favorite is deciding a sprint line and then not telling anyone about it until I'm passing them and they have no hopes of grabbing on: good for my freedom-loving ego.) With no hotdogs, no goats, and even few cows, only Ryan's bonk served as distraction. Even then he didn't reach the always fun silly-hallucination stage, just the tired and painful stage, which isn't fun for anyone. Still, it must be said that we did a lot of not-freedom-hating on the ride, celebrating all kinds of July 4th-worthy things on our roll, including revolution, the violent overthrow of government, political dissent, and the like: in short, the stuff that made our nation great. (Most of this celebration might have been internal, it must be admitted.) Bill O'Reilly would be proud. Total miles: 70.

And then we napped. And ate. And drank. And watched fireworks. And complained about our legs. And our sunburn. (OK, maybe those last two were just me.)

All told, we got in something like 187 freedom-loving miles under our belts in just five days -- not too shabby, I don't think. And if we tack on commuter miles during that time, I'm sure that most of us would be over 200, which signifies nothing, but is a nice round number to tell your friends. A few more days like this and we might actually find ourselves in shape!

Until next time, --DukePirate

Ohio Spring Breaks

(Not sure if anyone is still interested in my Ohio ventures ... or if anyone is still even reading this, but heck, why let that stop me?)

These last few weekends have been the start of the spring road race series here in southwest Ohio. This is a pretty cool series, and best of all, the last two races were at a state park only 5 minutes from my front door. How could I miss?

Well, it took a little gumption to head out for the first weekend, as the temperature when I left home was only 28 degrees. But Ohio racers are tough, and the men's cat 3/4 race drew about 30 starters for the 45 miles of rolling terrain. I was fully decked out in winter gear, including my ultra-dorky winter/commuting helmet, complete with ear covers. Lucky for me, there was a race photographer to memorialize my moment in the Fred:

(Photos of this race from smugmug)

That photo doesn't nearly do justice to the helmet's dweebity. At the second event, guys were coming up to me saying, "hey, weren't you the dude with the earflaps?" So I'm doing my part to get Duke Cycling noticed in the Midwest. But I picked this picture because of a strange fact about it. It was taken in the first lap, but it happens to include 5 of the final top 6 placings. I think the other guys knew each other and were watching each other, and I just fell in by chance.

Shortly into the second lap, the two guys in yellow took off on a hard attack. I was perfectly positioned to go with them but I hesitated, figuring it would take a lot of effort to catch their wheel and that the big teams in the pack would probably shut it down anyway. Wrong. That was THE move of the race, and I blew it. Stupid. It turned out that of the two big teams, one was almost entirely cat 4s who were just content to try and finish with the bunch. The other, well, all the riders I asked said, yeah, they do a lot of wheelsucking. So much for my clever tactical reasoning.

I tried working on the front for a while to see if I could spark up a chase, but except for a few guys there just wasn't enough commitment from the pack. Once it was clear that the break wasn't going to be brought back, I switched to trying to get into a chase group. I joined a few, but they all fizzled, mostly because of people not pulling through. Riders would bust their ass to get into the break, then refuse to follow wheels up to the front, thus dooming the effort. I wanted to turn to them and say, you don't get how this works, do you? Instead, I just turned my head over my shoulder and yelled, "pull through fucker!" That was ... probably not productive. Yep, doing my part to get Duke Cycling noticed.

Finally, with only about 10 miles to go, I was in a break that fell apart and I said, screw it, I'm going to keep going. After a couple miles solo I had a small lead on the pack when I looked back and saw a chase group of four had broken off and was coming my way. We united and, much to my pleasure, these guys were actually willing to work. Well, all but two, but they fell off shortly afterwards.

The three of us that remained started rotating smoothly. Rodney (the Saturn rider in the middle of the photo above) was a beast, taking long hard pulls every time he came to the front. Chris (black vest on the right) was having some trouble early on but held with us and never missed a rotation. He made a deal with us: we let him just pull through and off and he wouldn't contest the sprint. Fine with me. As we hit the big climb on the last lap, we saw the break for the first time in 30 miles, now only about 30 seconds ahead of us. I hadn't expected this and had figured we were all racing for the lower placings. But now with the break in sight we had a bigger carrot: could we catch it? Hopefully, we three might be fresher than them, having been off the front for less time. Well, we pulled, we rotated, we pulled some more ... but as we came to the final stretch, they still had about 10 seconds on us. Close, but no dice.

The finish line was on the top of a short but very steep climb. Not so good for us plus-size riders. Actually, the finish could have been at the bottom of a pit, it wouldn't have mattered. It was clear how things would turn out. 300 meters to go and Chris dropped back, saying, all up to you guys. With no sprint left in me, all I could do was spin with maybe 10% more than I had been giving. Rodney hung back for a little while before blasting by me in the last 150 meters and building a huuuge gap by the line. This is him looking back to say, holy cow, where'd I go?:



So I was 2nd from the chase, 5th overall. Not bad, if I do say so myself. I still wish I had gone with the main break, but having missed it, I think I did alright.

I'll write up the second race another time if there's interest. Here're a couple photos, from another photographer, Jeffrey Jakucyk. You'll notice from our clothing that temps had risen more than 40 degrees from the previous weekend.

I would have done better on the climbs if I hadn't been digesting a small piglet in my thigh:



On the other hand, I did OK in the pack sprint:

CX Trashionals (FakeWorld Championships)

Cycling exists in a weird, anachronistic middleground between a much easier way (driving a nice safe car, riding a fast motorcycle) and a much harder way (walking, crawling, doing the caterpillar). But is this stupid, largely arbitrary compromise that makes it so great. This contract essentially says: well, okay, we’ll let you have a bike, but we’re going to make everything else as difficult as possible. These are the things of cycling legend and lore. Terrible weather on the hardest climbs during the toughest-fought grand tours. The bone-breaking cobblestone stretches of Paris-Roubaix. And, of course, cyclocross. The sub-discipline that does everything it can to make the bicycle more of a hindrance than a help. Mud, sand, snow, barriers, steep dirt embankments, and those damn cow bells.

And yet, we still long to make things more difficult. This was the genesis of the first Cyclocross FakeNationals in 2005. In lieu of going to real nationals and getting our asses kicked by professional riders who happen to be in college (and potentially getting our asses kicked by our advisors for skipping work to go to a bike race), we stayed in Durham to get our asses kicked by each other. Plus a couple of cases of PBR. (No, that’s actually not true. Madsen showed up with something called American Beer, cheaper than PBR and never seen before or since that fateful day.) Jonah held-off all competitors to take home the trophy.

And so, a year later, we missed nationals yet again. However, determined to finish the season off with a bang, we decided we all qualified for Cyclocross Fake World Championships, which happened to coincide with real world championships. Stepping up from nationals to worlds required a more intense challenge. The course was about the same. Dryer, actually, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. We tried to avoid traffic and lacrosse practice and the parkingticketmobile patrolling the lots. But since we are all magnificent cyclists, we knew that simple bicycle race would end in deadlock. So we introduced a scoring system, too complicated to explain here (or precisely remember) but that involved points awarded for laps completed, doughnuts eaten, PBRs consumed, plus anything else our lovely and talented scorekeeper, Robin, fancied. (This all may sound somewhat dangerous, but I can assure you, safety was a priority. We were hoping for less of a Tom Simpson on amphetamines dying from a heart attack on Mt. Ventoux [read: tragedy] and more of Jan Ulrich on ecstasy crashing his Porsche in Berlin [read: comedy].) After a ceremonial procession through K-ville (it was noon so no one was awake to even notice us) the race began in earnest. Right at the gun, we hit the drinks and doughnuts. Tom moved with reckless abandon. Brandi and Annie, Johah, Scott, and I tried to follow. After we all were feeling pretty gross, we jumped on our bikes and hit the course. One lap, then back to the pits for more snacks. Two personal observations: (1) I love doughnuts, but they weren’t worth enough points to eat as many as I did, and (2) I only felt really bad for about the first minute on the bike, then my stomach mellowed out. Jonah and I discussed whether or not this was more painful than a real cyclocross race. With about 15 minutes left to race, Robin pulled out the opportunity for some bonus points: expired egg nog. Two more points: (1) I bought the egg nog right when I got back from break because I thought they’d stop selling egg nog pretty soon and because I thought we’d have the race before it expired, and (2) I didn’t think egg nog really expired. You know, like Marshmallow Peeps or Twinkies. Anyways, Robin went to pour it into cups and it glugged out in lumps. Not quite cottage cheese consistency, but obviously expired. I hesitated and Jonah took a fast swig, then a fast step back while his stomach decided whether it should regurgitate or gurgitate. Scott assessed the situation, realized that expired egg nog could make us very sick, then started drinking. Each were given full points for drinking half a glass, at which point Tom rolled up and downed an entire glass. Meanwhile, Annie and Brandi had taken up Robin’s scavenger hunt offer and had persuaded some K-ville campers to give them their sleeping bag, which Annie crammed into her jersey and rode most of a lap with. The sleeping bag netted them both some valuable points and the race was tightening up. Tom, however, cemented his victory by winning the Valentine writing competition by wooing Robin with some nerdy biology jargon.

Tom was so excited by his Fake World Championship Trophy, he ran around a bunch and challenged everyone to a somersault contest. I had to go home and sleep the rest of the afternoon. Congratulations again to Tom and thanks to all of the participants. Hope to see you all at the upcoming Entire Solar System Cyclocross Fake Championships and Cookout.

BD Night Ride; or, Bringing a Knife to a Gunfight

So in my never-ending attempt to get my fat-ass into shape, last night I headed out to the group night ride at Beaverdam in hopes of getting in a decent ride and running into a few people.

Running into people: check. When I slid through the gates before six (they lock you in at that time, for what reason I’m not certain), the parking lot at the trailhead was packed, and most vehicles had multiple occupants (hooray for carpoolers!). As I began to suit up I also notice that the lot was littered with full-bounce gearies, each gleefully illuminated by blindingly bright HID lights: at least one, and sometimes two per bike. As I unloaded my measly one-geared hardtail I began to wonder if I was out-geared (punny, I know).

In fact, a full survey indicated that there was one other hardtail, and he was running gears. There was also one other singlespeed, but he had full-suspension. There were no other halogen lights. “Hum,” methinks.

I guess it’s tradition for this ride to go out as a group, so we rolled out of the parking lot in a thirty-something strong peloton. While things did break up quite a bit, and we passed some singletons that had been on the trail before us, for the majority of the ride I was in the middle of a ten- or fifteen-person pack. That alone was odd – something about rolling through the woods in the dark as part of a bike-train – but the equipment discrepancies led to further oddities.

On the downhills I was definitely a bit slower: with my measly 15 watts of halogen light I had to pick my way through downhill obstacles, and with no rear suspension my margin of error was significantly lower than those around me. I’d quickly make up any lost ground on the flats and inclines, but on any significant hills the dualies would gear way down, and I’d be left at a 30 rpm slog. (This is not particularly good for the knees, in case you were wondering.) Further, when people slowed down for obstacles (for instance, the rock garden on the south loop), I was left nearly track-standing as I waited for my turn to roll.

Overall it was a good ride and I was happy to get out and enjoy what was really a beautiful night. I was a little frustrated by the equipment overkill that seemed to be going on, leading me to feel rather inadequate. I don’t want to spend more on bikes and accessories (I think well over $500 on lighting alone – as much as I spent on my bike, btw – is a little hard to justify, not to mention the multiple-thousand dollar bikes with 5+ inches of travel), but I can’t help but feel that the sport seems to be going in that direction. On one hand this is good: innovation is great, and the increased technology allows more people to participate comfortably than certainly could in the days of fully-rigid steel tanks. On the other, though, I’m worried that the buy-in cost of mountain biking is getting too high, making the sport prohibitive to many and potential ruining the beauty of its relative simplicity.

Still, being out on a night ride with lots of people was fun: despite my logistical annoyances, everyone was very friendly and helpful in ways that other disciplines of the sport aren’t always. Sure, there was some obligatory parking lot posturing, but by and large this is a very friendly group: chatting, offering people encouragement, and generally being good folks while enjoying a good night on the trail. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all, my friends.

(Hum, I didn’t realize that this was going to turn into a bike-cheerleading post. Sobeit.)

Mtb Race Report: SSing to Glory! (or something therelike)

Eschewing the Burlington ‘Cross race for the more manageable pursuit of mountain bike racing, associated operative Brian Bergeler and I headed down to Greenville for their “Toys 4 Tots” race on Sunday. With the promise of free post-race barbecue and rideable trails when everything in the Triangle was soaked, the free-with-the-donation-of-one-child’s-toy race seemed just the thing for early winter blahs.

After happily delivering my “Mr. Pirate Potato Head” (thanks Brian!) to the sharply dressed military men and taking my place alongside the two other single-speeders at the starting line, we were off. No big to-do, just a “go” from some guy. Right on.

We were then treated to three six-mile laps around prime eastern NC singletrack. In some ways this was just the thing for my big wheels and one gear: there was little elevation change, and the big wheels smoothed out the rooty, bumpy, sandy surface. However, that didn’t keep me from begging (mentally, at least, and a couple times aloud to non-existent bystanders) for a little bounce in the back and at least a couple more gears. Every time the trail cut out of the woods into the recently logged -- and thus newly cut -- trail I wanted something that would allow me to sit and spin rather than stand and mash. I think those things are called “gears” and “suspension.” Crazy talk, I know.

That said, I found myself making decent time after the first lap. The course had lots of short, steep inclines that forced me to stand and pound my way up, and loud though my legs may have been screaming at the top of each rise, I was forced to charge to the top faster than those who could downshift. Further, while there were some tight places where my 29er seemed to be reminding me some equation from physics about inertia and rotating mass (I don’t remember the equation, but I remember that it ended in “= ouch”), in general I enjoyed the way I was able to lean into the sticky-sand corners and carve my way through the trees. Brian agreed that it was a nice course: maybe not as nice as anything in the western part of the state (ya know, “mountain biking”), but a good mix of speed and technical challenges.

I finished the three laps in 1 hr. 50 min and 51 sec: nothing to brag over, particularly, but I did negative split on my last lap, and that made me happy. It was good enough for third place in the SS category. Those of you paying attention might notice that this was also last place in the SS category. Whatchagonnado?

Actually, that’s a good question, as my time was only good for third in SSs, but that also equaled third overall, and would have been good for first in the Sport class. I’m not sure what this means: That SSs are naturally faster on this course? That gears and suspension just slow you down? That I should race in another class? Really, I’m not sure how to play this one. (Full results available here: http://www.digitalelysium.net/ecvelo/events/racing/2006BPToysForTotsMTBRaceResults.)

Brian, one of the few non-SSers on a hardtail, rocked out on the Stumpie for a seventh place finish – not bad for his first mtb race in five years. I’d hate to see what he’d do on a trail with some real climbs.

The post-race pig roast would have been divine, if not for the increasing cold and intermittent sprinkles, so Brian and I slammed down some pig and jetted it back to D-town for hot showers and Sunday Night Football. At least this week we didn’t feel too lazy about zoning out to Madden’s inanities.