09.10.2013 | 6:44 am
A Note From Fatty: This is part 2 in “Actions and Consequences,” my story about the final big ride The Hammer and I took in preparation for racing the Salt to Saint. You’ll find Part I here.
We were going…finally. Since we didn’t get out the door (the second time) ’til nearly 8:00am, it was plenty warm; I didn’t bring armwarmers, though The Hammer did. Neither of us brought jackets. Why should we? The weather forecast had us down for 0% chance of rain ’til 1pm, and after that we just had 30% chance of thundershowers for the rest of the day.
Our plan, as we had agreed the night before, was to ride ten miles out beyond Cedar Fort — one of our most frequently-ridden TT routes — then come back to Redwood Road and take it to Goshen. From there, we’d take Goshen Canyon to Nephi, then keep going until we figured turning around and heading back toward home would give us 200 miles.
But during the first few miles of the ride, I had an idea for a simpler, more elegant, revised route. “Let’s skip the Cedar Fort nonsense,” I said. “Let’s instead just hang a left on Redwood Road and then follow the Salt to Saint race route until we’ve gone a hundred miles. That’ll put us somewhere between Fountain Green and Manti. Then let’s just turn around and retrace our route back to home. That way, we’ll see more of the course we’ll be riding in a couple weeks and have a better idea of what doing this race will be like.”
The Hammer looked at me, startled. Why was she so startled? Because I usually don’t have ideas like that — ideas that simplify, are elegant, and demonstrate an understanding of distances between towns and where roads lead.
It was almost as if I had been looking at maps or something.
She agreed, and by so doing, made the third alteration of where we were headed, and what time we’d be at any given point.
We wouldn’t consider any of this at all, however, until much later in the day.
First Stop
The Hammer and I rode along, taking turns pulling, marveling at how little effort it took us to go pretty darned fast when we work together, down low on our Shivs. On a flat road with no wind, we can sustain 21 – 25mph with very little work at all.
Of course, the road isn’t always flat, and the wind is sometimes in your face. And — for about a ten mile section of pavement — there is the absolutely worst chip seal I have ever ridden on. Within five miles, your feet, hands and…other soft tissue…go completely numb. “I’m not going to be happy about being back on this part of the road when we hit mile 160,” The Hammer said, and I agreed.
But even with all this, we kept up the kind of pace we wanted to maintain in this thirty-hour race — a pace where our legs never feel like they’re anywhere near the red zone, but by no means lollygagging.
By the time we got to our first planned pit stop — the gas station and convenience store in Goshen, we had been out just under 2.5 hours, and had gone 50 miles. We were cruising, on average, around 20mph. Not bad at all.
I refilled our bottles; The Hammer bought us cheese danishes and a Mountain Dew to share.
As we got ready to leave, I excused myself to use the restroom in the gas station. As I stood facing the toilet, I could not help (without closing my eyes anyway) but look at this incredible work of art, mounted at eye level on the wall behind the toilet:
Any road rider who has ever ridden around Utah Lake will confirm: this adorable painting has been on the wall since…well…ever.
“We should take up a collection to get new bathroom art at that place,” I commented to The Hammer.
“What art?” The Hammer asked.
And that, my friends, is the difference between boys and girls.
A Beautiful Day
As we left the convenience store, the lady working there asked where we were from and where we were going (considering that this is the only place to refuel for many miles around, she probably gets to ask this question to a lot of cyclists).
“We’re from Alpine, and we’re headed out toward Manti, and then back home,” The Hammer replied.
“Well, you sure picked a perfect day for such a long ride,” the lady behind the counter said.
And she was right. The weather was warm — but not hot — and there was no wind to speak of. A perfect day.
And it would remain perfect for another couple hours, at which point it would become something else altogether. Something amazing and powerful and as scary as hell.
Which is where we’ll pick up tomorrow.
Comments (37)
09.8.2013 | 11:38 am
A Note from Fatty: I’m in a real time crunch for the next two weeks, day job-wise. I’m starting early and working late. But I don’t want the blog to go dark for that long so I’m going to try something a little different: short posts that take me no longer than 30 minutes to write. Today, I’m kicking off a multi-part story with short installments; I’m interested in knowing what you think: when work demands get huge for me, would you rather have longer installments less often, or do you like this frequent-but-short post format?
My alarm went off at 5:30am: the “Ascending” ring tone, as always.
I’ll never be able to hear that sound again without getting the unpleasant Pavlovian “time to wake up” jolt. But this time it was worse. I hadn’t been able to go to sleep until around 3:00am: job stress keeping me awake.
“Please,” I said to The Hammer. “I can’t get up yet. I need another hour of sleep.”
In the three-ish years we’ve been married, this was the first time I’d ever asked for more sleep — and hence a delay in our ride start time — so she knew it wasn’t a casual request.
“OK,” The Hammer said. I set the alarm for 6:30 and went back to sleep instantly.
That was the first thing that happened last Saturday that affected the craziness of last Saturday’s ride. And I’m still not sure if that’s what saved us…or if it’s what put us in jeopardy in the first place.
The Next Delay
6:30 came around in approximately one hour. (I just thought I’d point that out for those of you who are unclear on the way time works.) But it seemed like less. Still, I didn’t really feel like I could beg another hour of sleep time, and I wanted to get going.
After all, we had 200 miles to ride.
Why so far? Well, we’re getting ready for the Salt to Saint race, which is now fewer than two weeks away. This is, for most people, a relay-style race (similar to the Rockwell Relay, but with a different route and slightly different rules). 420-ish miles, on the back roads from small town to small town, from Salt Lake City to Saint George.
And here’s the thing: We’ll both be riding it solo. Oh, and have I mentioned that The Hammer, should she succeed, will be the first woman to do this race solo?
So that’s kind of cool.
And this was our final big ride, more to give us the confidence that we could just ride our Specialized Shivs all day than for any other reason.
We got up and I got our bikes ready while The Hammer made us breakfast: scrambled egg burritos, our traditional pre-big-ride food. We stuffed our jerseys with Honey Stinger Chews (the new Cherry Cola flavor is my new favorite) and two-bite pies The Hammer’s made from recipes in Feed Zone Portables: A Cookbook of On-the-Go Food for Athletes
. (We’re figuring that we need to stick with as much real food as possible if we’re going to be riding and eating for thirty hours, straight.)
Oh, and I brought a debit card so I could buy Coke whenever we passed a gas station. “There shall be no gas station we pass from which I do not buy a Coke!” I decreed, with great valor and emotion, at the beginning of the ride.
We got going.
And then, less than half a mile from home, I remembered something.
“Hey,” I said to The Hammer. “The last time we went out on the Shivs, your saddle was kind of loose — it started tilting back. Did I fix that?”
It was a bogus question. I knew I hadn’t fixed it.
“No, I don’t think you fixed it,” The Hammer answered.
“Let’s turn around and get that saddle tightened down, and then I’m going to bring a hex wrench to tweak it during the day in case we don’t get it just right,” I said.
So we turned around and headed home, tightened down the saddle, and were off again, adding another fifteen minutes — and an extra mile — to the beginning of our ride.
Much later in the day, we’d spend hours talking about what would have happened if I hadn’t slept in. If we hadn’t turned around and made a minor fix to her bike.
And that’s where we’ll pick up tomorrow.
Comments (54)
09.4.2013 | 7:42 am
There are a lot of awesome things about being part of an race or ride (an argument can be made either way over which Rebecca’s Private Idaho is) before it gets huge.
One of those things is the decidedly mellow vibe at the starting line in the center of town in Sun Valley, Idaho. There was no jockeying for a primo position in front. There were no call-ups. Just everyone gathering in, with Rebecca saying a few words.
And then we were off.
Something’s wrong in this picture. Can you tell what it is? At this resolution, I’ll be you can’t.
Unlike most events — including ones (the Rockwell Relay) where I was the main offender — the neutral start for the first was actually neutral.
Which meant that we got a chance to chat with other riders for the first six or seven miles, after which we’d hit the first KOM segment and the folks who wanted to show off their climbing chops would attack.
That first six-ish miles was maybe my favorite part of the ride.
I got a chance to talk for a couple minutes with Byron from BikeHugger. I talked with Vanessa Hauswald, who many of you will recognize from Singletrack High.
Then The Hammer and I came across Janeen, who most of you know as The Noodle. Janeen was wearing a FatCyclist kit, which matched the bright pink cyclocross bike she was riding.
And we caught up with Odessa Gunn, whom we would have happily ridden with for the whole rest of the day, because I don’t believe there is a single other person in the world who has more of the gift of gab. She told us the story of how she and another pro cyclist got into a hair-pulling on-bike fight in Idaho back in the day. She told us about her negotiation tactics when she recently found an old Scout she wanted to buy (she immediately began kissing it). She told us — as she easily rode alongside us — how she hadn’t been training.
She commented, as we rode past Levi — who was peeing while riding at the edge of the road — “Well, that’s not rude.”
Wherein I Commence to Suffer
Then we hit the timing mat signifying the start of the first of two K/QOM segments in the ride, and conversation ceased.
At least as far as I was concerned.
See, like a lot of Fondos, the RPI has some (two in this case) timed climbing segments. The man and woman with the fastest combined time on those segments would win a custom RPI cowboy hat.
And while I did not expect to win (I knew who I was up against), I was hoping to put in a good showing.
Unfortunately, when I went across the timing mat, I was pretty thoroughly boxed in. So I patiently waited for an opening to the left so I could start passing people. Meanwhile, the lead group disappeared up the road, with a second group pursuing them.
I finally got to a place where I could start passing people. And I did. A part of me wondered, “Is this bad tactics? Am I just being a volunteer domestique, giving a bunch of smarter people a free ride so they can swing around and fly past me two-thirds of the way up the climb?”
“I’m no good at tactics anyway,” I answered myself. “If they can hang, they’re welcome to climb aboard the Fatty train.”
But nobody was hanging. And while I wasn’t catching the fastest group, I was definitely closing in on the second group, which was already fracturing.
I stood up, shifted two gears harder, accelerated, and opened my mouth as far as it goes. The more oxygen the better, you know.
And that’s when Levi rode by me, whistling a merry tune. La-de-da.
OK, I’m kidding about the whistling bit.
He looked over at me and cocked his head upward. Not a challenge. An invitation. I was welcome to grab his wheel as he went to bridge to the lead group.
This photo was taken long after I was out of sight. However, you may be interested to note that the exact same thing is wrong in this photo as in the previous one.
“Go get ‘em, Levi,” I said. I know what I can do, and what I cannot. For example, I can drop most people on a climb.
I cannot, on the other hand, hang with a breakaway group led by Levi Leipheimer and Burke Swindlehurst.
My objective was to sweep up the individual riders from the now-shattered second group. To be the first regular guy to the top of the KOM segment.
I did it. 4.1 miles. 1364 feet. In 26:03.
And I didn’t even barf at the top.
The Hammer and I Ride
There was an aid station at the top of the KOM segment, and I pulled over and filled my bottles, then smeared a glob of Nutella on a banana while I waited for The Hammer to arrive. Our plan was for us to ride together except for during the KOM segments, during which we’d each attack as hard as we could, then regroup.
While I waited, Rebecca pulled up, climbed off her bike, ran over and gave me a big hug. “It’s working!” she cried.
It took me a minute to figure out what she meant. Then I got it.
She meant her ride — the whole event — was working. And she was right. Looking around, I could see it. Lots of smiles, lots of riders high-fiving Rebecca as they summited, with Rebecca cheering them on.
I don’t think I saw Rebecca without a big ol’ smile the whole day.
Rebecca had put a ton of effort — a ton of herself – into this event, and she was clearly ecstatic to see that people were enjoying themselves. To see that her dream was coming true.
Her enthusiasm caught on. You couldn’t help but smile and enjoy this day with such a happy, excited host.
The Hammer rode up — one of the first women to do so with a time of 31:08 (you won’t find her time on Strava; The Hammer’s taking a Stravacation) — and we headed out.
Into a washboard wonderland.
For the next several miles, we descended, sometimes going a little left, sometimes a little right, looking for a line that wasn’t quite as washboarded as the rest.
Every minute or two, we’d ride by someone on the side of the road, repairing their — usually cross –tubes. Or walking: the folly of going tubular CX on this course now plenty evident.
Smugly, I looked at the big fat 2.2 tires The Hammer were using, with our suspension forks absorbing the washboards — at least sorta kinda anyway.
“On paper this might be a dream course for CX bikes,” I thought, “But I’m really glad to be on a mountain bike.”
“Oh,” I appended to myself, “I’m extra-double-plus super glad I’m not on the Buffalo right now.”
We cruised along, sometimes taking turns pulling each other (we were riding against a moderate headwind), but more often just riding side-by-side, talking. We weren’t looking for a fast overall time. We were just looking for a nice, long supported ride in a new an interesting place.
Which is where we’ll pick up in tomorrow’s post.
Comments (41)
09.3.2013 | 8:16 am
You know how you go on vacation somewhere and you just fall in love with the place? And before long — maybe it’s while you’re still there, maybe it’s sometime soon after you get back — you find yourself thinking, “I wish I could call that place home.”
That’s pretty much the short version of why pro mountain biker Rebecca Rusch lives in Ketchum, Idaho. And she loves it so much she wanted to show it off to other people who love riding. Which is why she created Rebecca’s Private Idaho, a 95-ish (or 55-ish, if that’s more your distance of choice) mile dirt fondo, the first edition of which was last weekend.
And as Rebecca’s number-one fan and blog stalker, I was able to score an invite for The Hammer and me.
Friday Evening
Even before we started our five-hour drive from our home in Utah to Ketchum, Idaho, The Hammer and I needed to resolve a dilemma: what bikes should we bring?
This was not an easy decision to make.
See, we knew that most people would be riding cyclocross bikes — but The Hammer doesn’t even have a cross bike, and I have never gotten comfortable on mine; for whatever reason, I seem to be the last cycling enthusiast in the world who hasn’t fallen in love with CX.
So: no cross bikes. But the problem wasn’t resolved, because I had made the foolhardy boast that I could do Rebecca’s Private Idaho (RPI from here on out) on a World Bicycle Relief Buffalo bike:
As you can see here, this one has been upgraded with a Selle Italia SLR saddle (the saddle I use on all my bikes), Time ATAC pedals, and a Garmin 510 bike computer (More on this later).
Otherwise, it’s stock. Which means it weighs fifty-five pounds. Which is not a problem when you’re riding on the plains of Africa, but which may not be ideal for a dirt (almost) century. With about 5000 feet of climbing.
I’d have a Buffalo bike waiting for me in Ketchum, but — just to be safe — I decided to bring along my geared Specialized Stumpjumper hardtail.
As for The Hammer, she brought her geared Gary Fisher Superfly hardtail, as well as her Specialized Stumpjumper singlespeed, which she’d ride if I went with the Buffalo. You know, just to keep things interesting.
The five-hour drive was relaxing; since this wasn’t a race, we didn’t have to be nervous. I drove; The Hammer read The Cuckoo’s Calling
(a recently-published detective novel by JK Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter books) aloud to me.
And then, about half an hour before we arrived in Ketchum, we started coughing.
The smoke was thick. Ash was falling from the sky.
I knew that there had been a fire here recently; it had been touch and go as to whether Rebecca was going to be able to hold the event at all. Had the fire started up again?
No. This was, in fact, smoke that had blown in from the Yosemite fire. Still, The Hammer and I agreed: if it was this bad on the day of the ride, we’d skip it.
Oh, Sure, I’ll Be Happy To Ride In A Parade
As it turns out, we didn’t need to worry; the smoke had blown through by the next morning. Saturday dawned with blue skies.
And The Hammer and I were due to join Rebecca, Katie and Jen from World Bicycle Relief, a couple of Rebecca’s friends, and Levi Leipheimer in a parade.
We would be right behind the high school marching band, and right before a guy riding a camel.
So we donned cowboy hats, except The Hammer, who wasn’t a big fan of the idea of being in a parade in the first place, and drew the line at wearing a cowboy hat.
Obviously, I have no such problem. Nor, evidently, does Levi:
And Rebecca looks right at home in a cowboy hat:
Levi stopped at a firetruck to borrow a wrench and adjust his saddle height down 1.5mm. Rebecca was astonished he knew how to work on his own bike.
So, for the next two hours, we rode around, very slowly, being careful not to ride through horse poop or to startle the camel. We gave out lots of World Bicycle Relief stickers, and dared each other to try doing wheelies. None of us took up the dare, because it’s not that easy to pop a wheelie on a 55lb bike.
Numerous people yelled, “Get a horse!” at us. Since — apart from the marching band, the camel, and us — every entry in the parade was horse- or mule-powered.
Difficult Decision
With the parade behind us, I really had only one more responsibility for the day: decide what bike I was going to ride the next day.
I decided the best way to make the decision would be to set up the bike the way I would ride it, and then do the first part of the ride…which was also the biggest climb of the day.
So The Hammer and I went to The Elephant’s Perch — a local bike shop — and borrowed some tools (and got some help) to get my pedals and saddle on the Buffalo.
And then Katie, The Hammer and I headed out on the paved Sun Valley road, which — we were told — would eventually turn into a dirt road…and the biggest climb of the day.
We never even got to the dirt.
“I don’t have a spare tube that will fit this bike,” I thought to myself. “Nor do I have the wrenches I need to change a tube, much less fix anything else.”
“And most importantly,” I said to myself and anyone who was nearby and happened to be paying attention to a guy who was talking to himself, “Riding in this position for 100 miles would turn this ride into a death march.”
I was finding, in fact, that even fifteen miles of riding in the bolt-upright position of the Buffalo bike was remarkably uncomfortable for someone (me) whose butt (mine) was much more accustomed to the leaning-forward position I usually have on road and mountain bikes.
And in short, I wussed out.
And the next day, I would not regret aforementioned wussing, even for a second.
Which is where I’ll pick this story up tomorrow.
Comments (29)
08.16.2013 | 8:11 am
A Note from Fatty: I will be traveling for work all next week, and won’t have time to write this blog. I’ll be back August 26. ‘Til then, just remember: You’re my very favorite reader of all time.
The Future
I remember Charlie Brown
Talking about post-Christmas letdown
Or maybe it wasn’t Charlie Brown
It could have been someone else
Whatever
It’s beside the point
Anyway
I never really
Understood
What that was all about
Even as a child
When Christmas was over
I was glad
Because Christmas trees make me
Acutely aware
Of my utter lack of artistic ability
Witnessed by
The way my sisters
Would take down the ornaments
I had put up
And put them in new
More artful
Locations
But now
I think I understand
What Charlie Brown
(or whomever)
Was getting at
Because the Leadville 100 is behind me
And the dieting
And the training
And the obsessing
That I poured into this objective
Suddenly seem pointless
I am at loose ends
But lo!
I am just kidding!
Because that race
Is in reality
A somewhat short race
Comparatively speaking
Compared, that is
to the two
– Yes, two –
Much bigger
And longer
And quite frankly
Scarier races
I am planning to do
In the near future
Salt to Saint!
A 420-mile relay
From Salt Lake City
To Saint George
Which I am not
– alas –
Doing as a relay
Instead I shall ride it
Solo
As if to prove a point
On September 20
But I have not revealed all
25 Hours in Frog Hollow!
An extraordinary race
On an extraordinary MTB loop
Near Saint George
Over the time change
Hence the name
Which is somewhat gimmicky
But who am I to judge gimmicks
Because the race is awesome
And I am registered
To race it solo
On a singlespeed
November 2
But I have still not revealed all
Not even close, really
Thank you.
Comments (51)
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