A Note from Fatty About How You Can Be The First Person in The World to Own the Ibis Mojo SL-R: Some bikes are just a little too beautiful for me to even try to describe. I just see them and am gripped, instantly, by bike lust.
The new Ibis Mojo SL-R is such a bike. Behold:
It’s the latest step in the evolution of the Ibis Mojo: a stiff, light trail bike. Pretty much good for everything you’d want a mountain bike for. Would you like to have this bike? Of course you would.
Would you like to be the first person to have this bike? Darn straight you would. And you might be, if you help my BFoFF (Best Friend of Fatty Forever) Chuck Ibis as he raises money for the Sierra Buttes Trail Stewardship.
Basically, you just donate multiples of $5 to the stewardship today (because today’s the last day of the contest), and then Chuck will draw a random winner from the $5 tickets purchased.
You’ll be doing something good for something you care about — building an awesome trail network — and you may just wind up with bragging rights for one of the sweetest-looking MTBs I’ve ever seen. So go donate now.
My Proudest Moment, by Sam LeFebre
I’d love to write that my proudest moment on two wheels was channeling El Pistolero as I won my first race, cleaning the famous Horsethief Bench drop-in near home in Western Colorado, or realizing my quads were half as perfect as Fatty’s. [Note from Fatty: I did not insert that line about my quads. Honest.]
Unfortunately, just thinking about that drop-in can scare me off a trainer. In my year and a half of racing, I’ve never even finished with a pack. And due to a recent knee-cracking accident on the road, my quads are about as thick as my neck.
If you’re falling behind, here’s a summary. My moment is super non-macho. It’s a rite of passage tale.
And because I’m feeling edgy, we’re gonna Tarantino this one.
The story ends with me in the dirt, gasping for air, still attached to my bike. Everyone saw me. There was no way to pretend like nothing happened. A few guys offered help up, and one sympathetically said, “Same thing happened to me. Good job bud.”
And that was my proudest moment. So let’s back it up about two hours. Cue that funny, DJ scratching vinyl, old school VHS rewind sound.
I race/raced for the University of Arizona the last couple years. (Go Cats!) This particular story comes from my very first race, The Squash Blossom Classic in New Mexico, in the Fall of 2009. I was racing Collegiate C’s with another first-timer and good friend.
We were prepared to go hard for 19 miles of perfect New Mexico singletrack with a couple hundred other people. By “prepared,” I mean we remembered to bring water and a bike. We had no clue what we were getting into.
I bonked about 12 miles in. That was about the time the 10-year old in tennis shoes passed me. He even gave me the “Lance Look-back.” We’ll meet again…
I tried to eat and drink during the race, but it’s harder than it sounds. Maybe if I had some meat-ergy snacks, things would’ve been different.
Anyway, the last 7 miles were rough. There were a couple minor wrecks that left me with nothing but gritty bottles and frustration. I was so dehydrated I stopped sweating. Bad news.
My race really started with about a mile and a half to go. The trail was pretty much downhill to the finish, and I was dawdling, trying to minimize the pain. As I cruised around a berm, I heard a spectator encourage a rider about 50 yards behind me. “C’mon, go go go! You can catch him!”
As I’d find out later, the rider behind me was a lady in the 40+ category. And she was obviously faster, since she had started 15 minutes behind me.
I like to think I’m pretty bright, so by this point I had realized I wouldn’t be toting home any hardware. I was racing for pride at this point. The race had become a duel. Just her and me.
That last 2k I busted my rear end. I quickly realized what I thought was 100 percent was more like a B+. I’ve never been in more pain or had more fun on my bike. I could hear her behind me the whole way. Spectators were yelling for both of us, wanting to see a sprint finish. As I came over the top of a quick rise with only 50 meters to the line, I glanced back and saw her about 25 meters behind me. I did my best Cav for another second or two, then coasted across the line. Victory!
You woulda swore I had just crested Alpe D’Huez in front of Eddie, Greg, Lance, Andy and Alberto. Even though I had finished 10th out of 11 in my category, I had the taste of victory in my mouth. Or was that blood?
I rolled about ten yards past the finish line, clipped out my right foot and promptly fell to the left. Right in front of everyone. If my proudest moment was the perfect storm, then this was one hell of a calm. I laid there, catching my breath, reveling in rest.
There was no way to pretend like nothing happened. A few guys offered help up, and one sympathetically said, “Same thing happened to me. Good job bud.”
I cleaned up, chugged twelve gallons of Gatorade, and took a painful trip to the Porto-john. Before the race, I was nervous. I didn’t feel like a member of the club. These people were racers. They knew something I didn’t.
But after that random guy helped me up and congratulated me, I was instantly comfortable. These were my kind of people. I belonged. And I finally knew what makes us cyclists.
We’ll shave our legs, upgrade to carbon, shiver through arctic morning rides and frighten people with tan lines, just to destroy ourselves and end up with our face in the dirt. Because once our legs stop shaking long enough to get up, we have an indescribable feeling of accomplishment and millions of friends to share it with.
My Bio: I’m a senior at the University of Arizona, studying Economics. I’ve been a serious cyclist for a couple years, but am currently sidelined with a broken kneecap. I originally hail from Grand Junction, Colorado, where the dirt is tacky and the track single. I’ll graduate in May, but have absolutely no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going. So if any of you readers are hiring, I’d love to hear from ya… Thanks for reading.