Want to Win a Bike Like Mine? Sometime today — sometime real soon — I’m taking delivery of my brand-new Ibis Tranny 29 frame, along with a Gates Carbon Belt drivetrain. A week from now, I’ll be getting wheels, a suspension fork, cranks, and more from SRAM. You have no idea how excited I am for this bike, but my post from earlier this week might give you a sense of my enthusiasm.
I’m going to say it loud and proud: I love Ibis. Love the way they innovate. Love how their bikes look. Love the way they ride. Love the way they keep price reasonable (I’m not naming names, but the Tranny 29 frame costs around half as much as competitors’).
And I love how generous they are when it comes to helping good people get the money they need to do good things.
You might remember how Ibis donated a Ripley 29 for the latest Grand Slam for Zambia fundraiser — the one BostonCarlos won, and is now loving.
Well, Ibis is now donating another bike — any Ibis (in any size, and in any color) you’d like, whether it be a Ripley, a Tranny, a Mojo, or a Hakkalugi — to a lucky donor in a contest to help the Vermont Mountain Bike Association raise money to build more and better trails.
And this isn’t just a frame. Nosirree. This is a full-on bike, with my friends at SRAM donating a full-on X1 drivetrain, a PIKE suspension fork, and wheels to go with.
I tell you, this is going to be a seriously nice bike.
The “how” of this is easy. Click here, then donate in multiples of $5. The more you donate, the more chances you have to win.
On July 20 — a scant couple weeks from now — VMBA will draw a winner from the donors, and some lucky person (you, I hope) will be confronted with the deliciously difficult decision of which Ibis they want.
And you should feel free to consult with me to hear my case for the Tranny. Or with Carlos to hear his case for the Ripley. Or with Allison to hear her case for the Hakkalugi. Or with the thousands upon thousands of people who have fallen in love with the Mojo during the past near-decade.
So. Click here, make a donation. You might win a dream bike, and you’ll for sure help a great organization build a great trail system. (And for more details, read here.)
2014 Rockwell Relay Race Report, Part 8: Werewolf
(This is part 8 of my Rockwell Relay writeup. If you’re catching up, you’ll find the previous installment here, or you can go all the way back to the beginning of the story.)
The Hammer is, by all accounts, a sweetheart. More to the point, she’s my sweetheart, and — even 4+ years into our marriage, people often comment that we look like we’re on our honeymoon.
She’s beautiful, she’s nice, and she has a killer smile. Everyone agrees on all of these facts.
When, however, she begins a race, she changes into a beast. A focused, ferocious, fighting freak of nature. An animal that wants nothing more than to attack.
This is one of the things I love most about her.
The full moon had risen and The Hammer started off in the semi-dark, on a leg that was—for all intents and purposes—one giant climb, then one big descent.
Kenny came in, and The Hammer took off. And I mean that very nearly literally. Kenny piled into the van, we loaded up his bike, and took off after The Hammer.
It was time for the show to begin.
Full Moon Fever
The great thing about racing at night is you can see your carrots, from far away, courtesy of their red blinking lights.
The Hammer loves a good carrot.
She’d see someone climbing off in the distance and — within a few minutes — she’d be riding by them.
“Have a great race,” she’d say to the man (or, occasionally, woman) as she passed. Which served the dual purpose of being friendly and letting the person know he’d just been chicked.
We’d drive up to the next person she was chasing down, and time how long it took for The Hammer to pass that point, then shout out the time check to The Hammer.
After a while, we stopped doing this. It was happening to often. Instead, I just remarked as one racer went by, “That guy’s already been beaten; he just doesn’t know it yet.”
As The Hammer got close to the mile marker 100 — the highway marker that means you’re about to turn downhill in a big and permanent way — we got out her jacket and gloves. The downhill is always so cold on this section.
I stood outside, The Hammer pulled over, and — like the highly-trained pit crew we are — we got her reflector vest off, got a jacket on, got the reflector vest back on, got heavier gloves on her, and gave her a push on her way.
Then we passed, riding a couple hundred feet in front of her, with the understanding that if we saw something she should slow down for, we’d tap the brakes rapidly. For this descent, if anything was going to hit a deer, we did not want it to be the cyclist.
Then, with five miles left in the descent, we took off, leaving her to get to the transition. We wouldn’t have much time to get me ready once we got there, so I got fully dressed and ready to go — sliding around on the floor of the van as I struggled into my tights — while Heather drove down to the transition.
We got there with a few minutes to spare before The Hammer arrived. Kenny got my bike out and ready to go while I took one last leak. All of this was pre-arranged and communicated. Our team is that close.
Tights, long-sleeve jersey, reflector vest, helmet light, bar-mounted light.
I was ready to roll.
I had a lot of climbing in front of me for the next leg, and I was excited. Excited to get a little vindication. Excited to let a little of my inner wolf out.
But then the volunteer at the exchange point started talking to me. Telling me things I did not want to hear. At all.
Which is where we’ll pick up in the next installment.
A Note from Fatty: My review of Phil Gaimon’s Pro Cycling on $10 a Day: From Fat Kid to Euro Pro is below. Be sure to read it, because it’s so insightful and enlightening that you will be unable to refrain from openly weeping.
And be sure to sign up for, mark your calendar for, and otherwise make sure you attend the live Q&A with Phil Gaimon on Tuesday, 12:00noon EDT / 11:00AM CDT / 10:00AM MDT / 9:00AM PDT. You can watch it below, but I really recommend you go to the Spreecast site to watch it, so you comment, ask questions, talk amongst yourselves, and whatnot. This is going to be a pretty fantastic opportunity to talk with one of the most down-to-earth pros you’ll ever meet; don’t miss it.
Review: Pro Cycling on $10 a Day, by Phil Gaimon
In general, I skip prefaces and introductions and forewords and dedications at the beginnings of books. And in general, I would recommend you do the same.
But for Phil Gaimon’s Pro Cycling on $10 a Day: From Fat Kid to Euro Pro, reading the preface is absolutely essential. It’s where Gaimon describes how some kids ask him for advice on how to rise through the ranks to become a pro cyclist.
Gaimon thinks about it, considering ways he could craft his response:
I’d sit them down for a lecture. I would start by explaining how hard it’s going to be, how many hears of solitude and poverty they’ll have to push through, and how many opportunities and relationships they’ll have to sacrifice. Only after the young riders grasped the downside would I feel comfortable explaining the beauty of the sport, what I’ve taken away from it, and why I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
And that is exactly what this book does. Using frequent aphoristic headings — as if they were guidance for the aspiring pro (“Get everything in writing,” “You can say no,” “Being right doesn’t always mean you win,” “Bacon is your friend”) — Gaimon tells his story, starting all the way back when he was a teenager, riding his way through college, and subsisting on way sub-minimum wage as a pro-in-sarcasm-quotes cyclist.
It’s a good story, and Gaimon tells it with a strong, personal (and personable) voice. He’s usually funny, frequently vulgar, sometimes naive, occasionally angry and accusatory, and once in a while he’s even serious and touching.
In other words, Gaimon comes across as a mostly-normal young man, who just happens to be an experienced writer (he’s written for both Bicycling and Velo magazines) with considerable ability, a lot of personal drive and ambition, and no small amount of personal discipline.
OK, so maybe he isn’t that normal.
My short-version assessment is that Pro Cycling on $10 A Day gives you an incredibly realistic and entertaining feel for what goes on in the minor leagues of pro cycling. It’s also the best—by far—of the current crop of cycling autobiographies.
It’s fun, it’s insightful, it’s surprising, and it’s well-worth reading.
So with that said, now let’s dig into what I like—and don’t like—about this book.
The single thing I liked the best about Gaimon’s writing is that he tells a great racing story—he talks about what he’s thinking and what he’s doing before the race, the moves and strategies during the race, and even what he wishes he would have done differently after the race. Early in the book, he gives an example of how he was bullied into doing more than his share of pulling:
I took a hard pull and flicked my elbow, asking Jonny for help.
“Fuck you! You pull us back there!” he replied. I kept pulling and didn’t say a word, but Jonny kept a consent barrage of insults coming, lashing me like a whip.”
And then,, after the stage:
I sat reluctantly beside Jonny Sundt, afraid to make eye contact after our interaction early in the race, but he was fine….It was a tactic, and it earned him a free ride across to the break.
A few things happen here. First, Gaimon pulls us not just into the action of the race, but into the personalities, strategies, and conversations of the race.
The second thing is Gaimon lets us take the verbal beating right alongside him. We don’t know why Sundt is attacking him until after the race is over…just as Gaimon didn’t.
Finally, we find ourselves wondering, after the fact, how we would have reacted to this kind of “barrage of insults.” Personally, I think I would have caved, and maybe not come back for more. And I started understanding—much more than I had before—that the toughness required of pro athletes is more than physical, more than mental. There’s an emotional toughness that’s required, and it’s a pretty critical component.
Gaimon doesn’t do the kind of navel gazing I just did, though. He just tells the race stories — both what’s happening around him and what’s going on in his head — with enough detail that, after a while, you get a much more clear picture of the inside of an elite-level race than you’ll ever get by watching on TV.
Fat Kid, But Not For Long
Pro Cycling on $10 A Day doesn’t have this kind of detail everywhere.
It seems strange to me that it has the subtitle, “From Fat Kid to Euro Pro,” and that the back cover text leads off with the “fat kid” angle, too (“Plump, lumpy, slumped on the couch and going nowhere fast at age 16…”). That kind of emphasis promises a central theme or plot point in the book.
As a guy who constantly fights to keep the weight off, I was interested.
The thing is, though, the book itself only barely mentions this “fat kid” phase. Indeed, a scant two pages is devoted to this transition, and is behind us before the middle of page 5.
In a book full of detail, it’s a pretty weak delivery of what the cover promises.
Mentors and Villains
Pro Racing on $10 A Day isn’t a thick book — just under 300 pages, plus the front matter and the glossary. However, thanks to the itinerant lifestyle and numerous races of a young, hyper-under-employed pro (Gaimon’s not kidding about the “$10 A Day” thing), Gaimon moves in and out of peoples’ lives with incredible frequency, to the point that my head was spinning with all the names, trying to remember from one page to the next who they were and whether I needed to remember them.
Which, come to think of it, is probably what Gaimon was doing, as well.
As the book progresses, however, there are certain people who emerge as standout characters—people who have strongly affected Gaimon’s life.
Jeremy Powers, more than anyone else, seems to be a mentor, as well as the person perhaps most responsible for helping Gaimon turn a corner in taking his career seriously, on investing in himself. Looking at the sparse food and almost non-heated status in Gaimon’s house, Powers tells Gaimon:
“How can you be fast when you have to wear a jacket in your own house?” he asked. “You can sit here and half-ass this thing, and you’l always make $20,000 a year, or you could do it right, invest in yourself, and make 10 times that. You know you have the talent, so stop being scared!
Over and over (63 mentions by name, according to my handy Kindle version of this book), Powers emerges as almost a North Star for Gaimon.
Gaimon’s admiration for / friendship with / loyalty to Powers comes through as a very touching thing. It also made me want to read Jeremy Powers’ autobiography; he comes across as a very centered, focused, and insightful person.
But where Gaimon has boundless admiration for Powers, he has nothing but scorn for Chad Thompson, who at the time was the “the boss” of the Kenda pro team, which Frankie Andreu directed and Gaimon rode for. Gaimon relentlessly ridicules Thompson and his apparently unbroken string of bad decisions, to the point where it starts feeling a little bit lopsided. I found myself wondering, “I wonder what the other side to this story is?”
And Shades of Grey
Gaimon starts his career — and the book — out brash, with a lot of youthful bluster. I don’t know how he manages it, but in a lot of cases he writes with more nuance and understanding as the book progresses; this mirrors his own growing experience. Early on, for example, he apologizes to the reader for not taking advantage of an opportunity to punch Lance Armstrong in the testicle.
Later, he relates how he trashes Tom Danielson for not knowing that he had made an agreement with Levi Leipheimer that he was going to go across to a breakaway. Still brash, but no longer straight-up juvenile.
Then, toward the end of the book, he’s training with the same Tom Danielson, and admiring his work ethic and dedication to training.
Eventually, he concludes, as he tries to resolve his disdain of doping with his friendship of those who have doped:
…You have to look at a person’s full body of work before you judge him. Frankie Andreu doped and I couldn’t have asked for a better friend or mentor. Jonathan Vaughters doped, and then brought cycling back from the edge of a cliff. Tom hadn’t made up for his doping yet, but I’d seen him pull over to help a stranger change a flat tire, and I could tell that he was just another normal guy who did something wrong.
It’s a well-put statement of someone who has strong convictions, which are beginning to be tempered by a complicated world.
Gaimon’s book ends essentially as he’s being brought into the big league. He’s still brash, he’s still himself. But he’s growing, and he’s interesting.
Phil Gaimon is a good writer, and it feels like he’s on the path to getting better. His story is compelling, honest, and funny.
I strongly recommend Pro Cycling on $10 a Day: From Fat Kid to Euro Pro.
A Note from Fatty: I know it’s unusual for me to post twice in a day, but I needed to today. I just posted my review of Phil Gaimon’s Pro Cycling on $10 a Day: From Fat Kid to Euro Pro today. OK? Meanwhile, I just have to talk about this bike. Have to.
About two years ago I was talking with the founder of Ibis, Chuck Ibis (known in real life as Scot Nicol). I was telling him that I missed having an Ibis for mountain biking, but that I’m a hardtail guy. A 29er guy. And, increasingly frequently, a singlespeed guy.
“We’re working on something for you,” he said, conspiratorially. “A bike you’re going to love. You’ll be able to set it up as a geared 29er hardtail. Or as a singlespeed, just as easily. Or even with a Gates carbon belt drivetrain. It’s going to be so light, it’s going to be so versatile. It’s going to be your new favorite mountain bike. It could be your only mountain bike.”
“I want one,” I said. “How soon?”
“Stay in touch,” Chuck said. “We want to get it perfect.”
And I have. Relentlessly. For two years I have texted Chuck at least once or twice a month. “Got a picture for me? Got a date? When can I have this bike?”
“We’re still working on it,” Chuck said, over and over. And over.
And then, a couple weeks ago, he sent a couple pictures. “Show these to nobody.”
Here’s what he sent me:
“MUST. HAVE. NOW,” I texted him.
“It’s on its way to the US right now,” he told me. “Then some quality control checks. Then you can have one.”
“It’s called the Tranny 29?”
I confessed to being slightly disappointed by this. I had lobbied to have the bike named “Clyde,” my middle name (and also one of the Pac Man ghosts).
But this is a minor thing. A thing I can live with. And also, I can have decals made for mine.
Meet My (Your) New Bike
Over the weekend, Chuck told me they were going to be announcing the Tranny 29 today. Like, now. And that this is what it looks like set up as a single:
Chuck also pointed out that Jefe Branham had actually — the day before the planned Tranny 29 release — just won the Tour Divide on a Tranny 29. And that they had made a video just before Jefe had started the race. Here:
The Part That Excites Me
The Tranny 29 is a good-looking bike. And it’s an Ibis, so you know for sure it’s going to ride beautifully.
Those are things to be excited about, sure.
But it’s the rear triangle that makes all the difference to me. Its clever design makes it so you can break down and transport the bike a lot more easily than most mountain bikes.
And (for me, more importantly) it also solves a problem most singlespeeders have — or have had — for pretty much ever: chain tension.
See, when you don’t have a rear derailleur to tension your bike chain, you’ve got to do it some other way. For other bikes, this happens either at the bottom bracket, or at the dropout.
If you go with the dropout method, it means moving the rear wheel back to give it tension, which means adjusting the brakes and centering the wheel…and, at some point, probably having your wheel slip in the dropout.
Or if your bike has an eccentric bottom bracket, it means rotating the bottom bracket shell to give the chain tension. And I have never ever seen a bike using this method that doesn’t start creaking horribly at some point.
So I’m excited about the Ibis solution. You see that bolt down there by the crank?
That’s called the “slot machine.” You loosen that bolt and one more at the top of the seat stay, lengthen the chainstay to tension the chain, and tighten it down. Easy.
Meanwhile, the wheel, its centered-ness and its position relative to the brake calipers remain rock-solid and unchanged, thanks to the 142mm Maxle rear axle.
My Plans Have Changed
Would it surprise you to know that I have a Tranny 29 on order? No? Oh, you know me so well.
And would it surprise you to know that I have a SRAM XX1 drivetrain on order, too? Which means I’ll be able to change this bike from a geared to a singlespeed ridiculously easily? Like, almost on a whim?
Well, would it surprise you to know that I also have a Gates Carbon Belt Drive setup on order, too, since—by virtue of the ability to remove the rear triangle—this bike is beltable?
OK, I bet that was a little bit of a surprise.
And how about this: I’m changing my Leadville Trail 100 registration. Where I was going to go geared this year, I think it’s time—based of course on whether I love this bike as much as Chuck thinks I will—for me to singlespeed this course on the bike I’ve been wishing for for about two years.
Excited? Yeah, I guess you could say I’m excited.
PS: Count on a real-time as-it’s-built post in the near future.
Here’s something I’m surprised to be finding out about myself: I like reviewing stuff, as long as it’s really interesting. Like, if I really love something and find myself thinking about why I’m drawn to it. Or if I really hate something and wonder how it ever came to see the light of day. Or if I’m just confused by something and wonder what I’m missing — or if perhaps the creator of that something just didn’t think things through.
For things like bikes and helmets and power meters, I may not be (ha!) qualified to do good reviews. Hey, I don’t even really work on my own bikes.
But for things like books, well, I do write. And I read a lot. And I like stories about people who ride bikes.
So you might be seeing more reviews here. And I’m going to be honest. Which may come across as a little tough sometimes. But I’m also going to be fair, and try to maintain my core philosophy (be kind).
Read — And Then Meet — Phil Gaimon (Garmin-Sharp)
This Monday, I’m going to be reviewing Phil Gaimon’s Pro Cycling on $10 a Day: From Fat Kid to Euro Pro.
And then, Tuesday — 12:00noon EDT / 11:00AM CDT / 10:00AM MDT / 9:00AM PDT — we’re going to have a live video chat with Phil on Spreecast. I have a bunch of questions for him, but would like you to use the comments question today to start asking your own.
Plus, be sure to attend the Spreecast; I’ll be sure to let as many of you as possible ask Phil your questions yourself.
I want to point out that — as I did with my review of Hincapie / Hummer’s book — I extended the opportunity to Gaimon to have a chance to respond to my review and answer questions, but have not shown him the review itself.
Unlike with the Hincapie / Hummer books, Gaimon accepted, in spite of the fact that he doesn’t know what will be in the review, nor its tone. So kudos to him for that.
Check back Monday for the review and info on watching / participating in the Spreecast.
Have a good weekend and ride lots.
A Note from Fatty: This is part 7 of my 2014 Rockwell Relay report. If you need to catch up, you can go to the previous installment, or all the way to the beginning.
When you’re racing the Rockwell Relay, time becomes very, very strange. Weird even.
At one moment it’s early morning and you’re nervously awaiting the start of the race. Then the first teammate is racing and you’re cheering him on. Then — very quickly — your second teammate is out and you’re cheering her on. Then it’s your turn and you’re going with all your might. Then your fourth teammate is off and racing and you’re cheering her on.
And then it’s time to start that rotation again.
By the time this happens, you have two completely contradictory impressions. First, that you’ve been doing this race for all your life — that it’s just one endless cycle.
Secondly — and for me, this is the stronger impression — it’s that you’ve only been out racing for a very short time. That it’s still morning. Hey, you’ve each only gone on one middling-length ride after all, and you each got your respective rides out of the way pretty darn quickly.
So how was it possible that the sun was going down as Kenny was riding his second time?
And why — why? — did the wind have to kick back up, pushing hard against Kenny for the whole ride?
These are mysteries we will likely never answer.
What we do know is that while Kenny rode, a beautiful full moon came up, so that it was never really completely dark.
So, as Kenny rode his leg and we found it impossible to get photos of him, we turned on each other:
And then I got a shot of The Hammer and Heather, doing…some kind of dance or something. But the photo turned out different than I expected.
Wow, I think that was the chupacabra behind them. It’ too bad that’s such a dark, grainy, blurry shot.
Once you’re riding in the dark, time gets even more strange and distorted during the Rockwell Relay. I think this is because there just aren’t the visual cues you’re used to during the day time to help you get a sense of time passing.
It’s just dark. And you feel a little bit weird, a little bit uneasy, getting ready for your ride.
Photos get really difficult to take:
The only way I know that’s Kenny is because I recognize the Orbea.
We’d stare off into the dark, waiting to see a headlamp. Then we’d cheer for Kenny — at least we assumed it was Kenny — as we saw the light go by. And then we’d repeat.
When we got to within ten miles of the exchange, we left him, feeling just a little bit reluctant. It’s not easy to leave a teammate riding in the eerie darkness like that.
The Hammer’s Turn
Since I had already done the work of getting The Hammer’s bike ready, it was easy to get her ready:
Wow, those reflective belts really…reflect.
Then we stood around, waiting. Hoping that every light was Kenny’s. And soon enough, one was.
Kenny pulled in, having — as Kenny does — completely demolished himself on the ride. Kenny always gives it everything he’s got. That’s why he’s Kenny.
In endurance running relay races (like Ragnar), someone you pass is known as “roadkill.”
The Hammer was heading out with a monster climb in front of her.
Soon, that climb would be brimming with roadkill.
Which is where we’ll pick up next in the next installment of this story.
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