What about....Lance? I don't know...what about him?

I am a cyclist.  And I am damn proud to BE a cyclist.  Riding a bicycle is almost as cathartic as running used to be for me...before the rush I got from rapidly placing one leg in front of the other was replaced by crippling pain and the hobbling accouterments which accompany a damaged lower back.  Cycling was an escape from running, and, to a large degree, pain (unless under the duress of a race situation, when that pain seemed to rear its head and whisper gently in my ear "Hey man...I'm still here.  Might you consider stopping, you jag?").  I have been riding mountain bikes for 24 years now...got my first Schwinn Impact in 1988...and I have been riding road bikes for about 12 years.  I've covered thousands upon thousands of miles, raced all over the Midwest, ridden in many different states, and done the very best I can to ride at least three or four days per week, maybe more.  So...what is the first question people ask me when they learn that I ride?  "Do you think Lance doped?"

The Interwebz are chock full of opine on this very subject, and I have been a virtual witness to some serious warfare between The Believers and The Haters on the subject of Mr. Armstrong.  Reading and listening to cyclists get all tuned up is rather humorous...the mental picture I always draw is of the typical road biker furiously banging away at the keyboard of a computer he most likely has a hard time lifting (road bikers have toothpicks for arms and pistons for legs)...yet the Internet muscles on some of these dudes are Schwartzeneggerian (yeah...I just made that word up, but you can use it if you want).  Its just damn funny.

So what DO I think?  Well, first of all, I must disqualify myself from even the slightest hint of actual qualification of knowledge on the subject of doping.  I've never seen it happen, I don't personally know anybody that I've ridden with that has doped, or has even considered doping...at least not to best of my knowledge.  HOWEVER....I'm a class three NOBODY in the sport of cycling...a used-to-be racer that never really was.  I'm just a guy who rides a bike and loves it.  That said, it is my not-so-professional opinion that....wait for it...Lance doped.  Shocking, I know.  Especially in light of the events of the past two weeks, which have seen Mr. Armstrong's public opinion polls dropping faster than Felix Baumgartner.

I've held that personal belief for a while now...again...not because I actually KNOW anything...but just as a conclusion I've drawn being a somewhat casual observer of professional cycling over the years.  YES, I have every one of Lance's wins on DVD.  YES, I have Floyd's win on DVD.  YES, I was a huge fan of Tyler Hamilton.  And YES, I did believe at one time that all of them were clean.  In fact, I was really shocked about Floyd...I truly believed that someone with his background would not fall prey so easily to the culture of doping...but in retrospect, it probably made him even more susceptible.  Having seen so many of Lance's competitors fall to the various scandals, it just became way too difficult to believe he could be clean and still just destroying guys on the needle.  And not only that...but the guys who were his domistiques were also laying waste to the top men in the peloton.  Unheard of.  And...unbelievable.

HOWEVER.  I still believe Lance Armstrong was one of the greatest cyclists ever.  He beat the best in the world...and all signs point to the fact that the best in the world were juiced to the gills as well.  You can't make a race horse out of a plow mule, as the saying goes.  He was great...and he was merciless in his pursuit of greatness.  It turned into a classic case of hubris...with the classic result.  Its a damn shame, and I'd hate to be in his shoes right now...and for the rest of his life.  The real problem as I see it...is that unlike me...he can't get on a bike and ride his problems away.

Something I never wanted to write....My Eulogy to Brian...

To my friend, my brother...I miss you every day.  We will be opening up the throttles for you today, dude.

The task of describing Brian Miller is not a difficult one.  Especially not with an audience like this one made of people who knew him.  Even if you met him just once, you knew him.  There was no “fake” Brian, what you saw and heard was who he was…no b.s., occasionally obscene, more than sparingly irreverent, and damn proud of himself.  To say that he was larger than life sounds so clichéd, but it just so happens in his case to be very true.  He was, both literally and figuratively…naked to the world.

 

In this room, there are hundreds of stories about Brian.  Stories about crazy things he did, stories about his dreams, stories that paint a picture…a legacy…of just who this man was that we all loved.  Many of these tales seem to include the following line:  “He was a guy who would help out ANYONE.”  There probably aren’t many people here that can say Brian didn’t help them out at some point in some way…he was simply one of the most giving people any of us will ever meet.  Brian’s life seemed to be scheduled upon the needs of others…often, he just left out the little niceties of life like food and sleep because somebody he knew needed something.  In today’s world, a person like that is a rare find indeed, and a treasure that we must keep alive not only in our hearts, but in our actions.

 

Brian’s untimely departure leaves a huge gap in many of our lives.  An enormous persona like his will not be easily replaced or glossed over, nor should it.  Reflecting on Brian will of course bring much sadness.  He was so full of life as to be bursting, rarely was he without a smile and a boisterous laugh.  He was a great friend.  His journey was way too short.  And we are all worse off without him.  And it leaves us all with a great feeling of emptiness.

 

But its not all bad.

 

Now is the time for us all to reflect on how Brian touched our lives.  In no time, those tears will turn to smiles.  We have lost a great friend, son, and brother.  But how lucky were we to have known him.  How fortunate to have this person in our lives and now forever in our memories?  Brian’s legacy will always live, so long as we keep him in our hearts and in our minds.  Most importantly, Brian can live on in our actions.  The next time we lend someone a helping hand, and it does not matter WHO, be they friend or complete stranger, we can all think of Brian, because that is just what he would have done.  Live your lives like this, and Brian will always be with you in spirit.

 

Now Brian is ahead of us all in that great race to the horizon.  You may picture him as you knew him best, with monster horsepower in hand, under foot, or between his legs.  He is racing.  And he is at peace.

Mohican 100 Race Report

For those members of CAMBR (Chicago Area Mountain Bikers), the following will be redundant, as I've already posted it on the message forum.  For the remainder of the audience...this is a report I composed detailing my adventures with the Mohican 100 mile mountain bike race that I did in early June of this year.  I hope you enjoy it...its a bit long...but so is a 100 mile mountain bike race...

So I've got this problem, see?  I like to come up with difficult and painful ways to challenge myself athletically every year or so.  Ultramarathons, triathlons, Xterras, 12 hour solo mtb races, 24 hour mtb races, multi-day road bike tours, etc...they've all come and gone and been placed on the "Been there, done that" list.  As a general rule, when I set my mind to doing something stupid like this, I usually succeed.  However, a couple years ago...I tried and failed, and was unable to add to my list.  My failure was in a 100 mile mountain bike race, in that case, the Levis-Trow 100, and it bothered me this whole time.  Sometime last fall, some ramdom symantic firing popped the words "Mohican 100" into my brain...and the subconcious part of my brain that always comes up with the difficult and painful things said "That sounds like a GREAT idea!"  Now, it took the better part of the winter for the crazy brain-part to convince the rational brain-part that this was, in fact, a desireable course of action.  So, at the end of January, I signed up.

Training would be time consuming....I knew this, largely due to the lack of time I had spent training for Levis and the resultant DNF.  I told my wife I loved her, and that despite the amount of time I would be spending with my bikes, our marriage was as sound as ever.  I am lucky to have such an understanding companion, and though she does still scowl at the sight of my mountain bikes, she just recently let me sleep in the same bed with her once again.

What did I do to train, you ask?  Well...I read the race description over and over again, and when I was sufficiently frightened, I got out and RODE.  "HILLY," the description said.  "VERY VERY HILLY."  Like SUPER hilly.  Totaling approximately 11,000 feet of climbing.  Yowza.  This is OHIO we are talking about...there are no mountains in Ohio....are there?  Well, according to Mr. Race Description, the 11,000 would be achieved 300-350 feet of vertical at a time over the 100 miles.  Conclusion?  The hills will NEVER stop. 

I rode all winter.  I rode all spring.  I rode my road bike, a cross bike, my singlespeed, my fatbike and my Voodoo 29er, which would be the weapon of choice on race day.  I rode gravel roads, dirt roads, paved roads, gravel trails, dirt trails, and, thanks to an unusually dry spring, LOTS of Palos singletrack.  I planned routes from my house and from my shop, linked multitrack with singletrack in creative manners, and basically set aside my after-work hours on Friday to extended fatbike tours, some lasting in the 5-6 hour range by mid-spring.  I figured that if I could pedal that beast around, the Voodoo would be like riding on air.  Finally, a little over a month before the race, I knocked out a 102 mile day at Palos with local hero Bionic Bob Anderson...that gave me some confidence.  The only thing I couldn't do...was train for those hills.  That took away a bit of my confidence, but I'm stupid and I LOVE to climb...so I maintained a positive mental attitude.  I was as ready as I was ever gonna be.

The week before the race, I learned that erstwhile speed merchant Mitch Moen would be joining me on my travels and throwing his crazy ass into the mix.  Additionaly, I guess some random rambling about the race in the staging area after a winter ride was all it took to convince frequent Palos riders Mike Sealey and Felbert Edrada that the Mohican would be a good idea...so there would be four of us local boys down for the big ride.

After a warm, dry spring, Mother Nature HAD to throw the nasty card at us, and as we drove east, it was in a cold rain...the temp was 47 degrees.  Not good.  However, the forecast for race day seemed to get better with every hour, and thankfully, there would be no rain and temps in the upper 60s, with only a 15-20 mph wind to contend with.  Just about perfect.
Loudonville, Ohio, the town which hosts the race, was about 6 hours from my doorstep.  Truth be told, it was about 5-1/2 hours of the FLATTEST terrain I've ever seen...and I've been to NEBRASKA.  About 1/2 hour out, we noticed the hills began to roll.  Shortly after that, the roll turned into a rolick.  I was having to slow down at the crest of the hills in the truck because I couldn't see where the road was on the other side.  I was braking on the downhills.  My diesel truck was downshifting like crazy to get uphill.  Clearly, Mr. Race Description had not lied.

We checked in at the Mohican Adventures campground and got our numbers and three 1-gallon Ziplock bags that we could put supplies in and have dropped at our choice of aid stations during the race.  I had been planning on meeting a couple people from my favorite biking blog, Drunkcyclist.com, and lo and behold...they were the very first people we met.  Judi, one of the contributors to the blog, would be doing the 100k, and was looking for some redeption in the same manner as me, as she had tried and failed at the Mohican last year.  It was cool to put some faces with names, and share the goodtime mountain bike vibe that is pervasive at every offroad event.

We then made our way to our hotel, about 20 minutes out of town. How we made it, I'm not quite sure, as the Mohican National Forest seems to be some kind of cellphone and GPS black hole.  At any rate, the place we stayed was REALLY nice...the Mohican Hotel and Conference Center...and we had dinner and a couple beers on the premesis before retiring for a restless night of "sleep."

Six months of training...all on the line in the morning.  Yeah, I was a little nervous.

It was 49 degrees in the morning when we rolled up to the start, but it became immediately obvious that we'd be warming up REAL fast.  The start went through downtown Loudonville, then STRAIGHT UP for about 1/2 mile.  Yikes.  Nothing like hitting the redline early on a 100 mile quest!  I rolled out easy, spun up the hill, then had to wait in a conga line for 2 or 3 minutes while people funneled into the singletrack, which was pretty slick from the rain the previous day.  The 100 mile and 100 k participants all started at the same time, so it was something of a cluster...but I wasn't exactly in a hurry, so I just pedaled along in line, and if the person in front of me was picking bad lines, I passed them.  The singletrack was pretty technical...lots of roots and rocks, off camber turns, sharp climbs, switchbacks...the whole gamut of midwest mtb fun...and the climbs were frequent and quite steep.  I wound up behind a guy from New Jersey who was very experienced at ultra distance racing, and he just said "Spin, and your legs will thank you at mile 80."  I took his advice.

Even taking it easy, I was working hard.  It was either that or fall over backwards and go sliding downhill.  The first aid station was at mile 20, and by the time I reached it, I was thinking "My god, I hope the rest of the race isn't like this...I'll never make it."  Great.  I grabbed a Clif Bar and 1/2 of a banana, shoved them in my mouth, and took off with the reassurance that at least the next aid station was only 14 miles away.

Wait...did I just say ONLY 14 miles?  Because after about the first 8, which were absolutely beautiful winding singletrack through a dark pine forest, things got WAY difficult.  I was having a good time, and it wasn't just because there were two fast women directly in front of me for this portion, when suddenly, I was on the brakes and going down a steep downhill, and I could see people dismounting before the uphill.  Why are they stopping?  Why aren't they even trying to ride?  Then I got there. And one look told me that NOBODY was riding this one.  We are talking straight-up pushing the bike up a steep grade for 3-4 solid minutes.  It was ridiculous.  I attempted levity by mentioning to the gentleman behind me that there had better be a couch and some beer at the top of this to make it worthwhile.  There wasn't.  Instead, there was a 4 mile or so section of horse trails, complete with two more devastating climbs and one wicked descent featuring wood water bars that were so eroded that the were sticking a foot out of the ground all the way across the tread.  After getting off my bike and stepping over the first couple, I decided I could actually make a run at the rest, and bunnyhopped my way downslope and out of the equestrian section.  Oh...I forgot to mention...that section was nasty muddy as well, with some 4 inch deep peanut butter sucking precious energy with every pedal stroke.  Aid station 2 did not come soon enough.

I had a drop bag waiting at aid 2.  It was pretty cool how they worked it...as you rolled up, a person about 200 yards away with a walkie talkie would tell the aid station your number, and a volunteer would have your bag waiting for you as you arrived.  I ate my Hostess apple pie and another 1/2 banana, finished off the Gatorade in my bottle, and topped off my Camelback.  Shortly before aid 2, the singletrack FINALLY relented, giving way to some rolling gravel roads.  I say "rolling," but most of the rolling came on the downhills...the uphills were more along the lines of CRAWLING.  I stayed conservative with my gearing once again, and actually did some passing despite not pushing very hard.  It would seem the race was starting to claim its victims.

A few miles before aid 3, I had a navigational error.  I turned right on a road called (I am not making this up) Big Hill Road, and immediately caught another rider on the eponymous hill.  He was struggling, and I put at least 200 yards on him by the time I hit the summit, only to find that I could not see the next rider in front of me...and I was at a four-way intersection.  I didn't feel like waiting for the guy I'd just passed, and the only race sign at the intersection had two arrows pointing down.  So...I went straight...and bombed down the Big Hill.  I came out at a building where they ran little excursions out into the woods...and saw that the trail signs I was looking at were not facing me!  I panicked...then heard my name.  Who the heck knew me here???  It was Mike Sealey's fiance and Felbert's wife...talk about coincidence!  They said, you are the only one that has come this direction.  CRAP.  I would have to go all the way back up BigHILL. 

Or would I?  I flagged the next rider coming through, and asked him how much trail I'd just cut off.  He was a local, familiar with the course, and he said about 1/2 mile.  So, I chose to continue along to the next aid station, whereupon I would impose a penalty upon myself and wait for the guys I know were in front of me to pass before continuing.  On the way, I came upon a rider and bike that were clearly in a bad way.  There was a tough double root-drop, and this guy apparently had gone over the bars.  Before I knew it, I was dropping the same roots...my butt was practically behind the back tire and I was jamming on the rear brake, hoping not only to not end up like the other guy, but also not to hit him!  I succeeded on both counts, then put my bike into the woods and went back to the guy to help him out.  He definately had broken his arm, and was in shock.  I pulled his bike off the trail got him sat down, collected his water bottles, and then said I would go to the aid station and get help.  I did exactly that, then sat for 3 minutes or so until a guy on a Milwaukee Bicycle Co. 29er that had been immediately in front of me passed by..then I started racing again.  In my concern for the other dude and my self-imposed penalty...I pretty much forgot to take any food or drink.  Slight mistake.

The course went back to alternating between tough singletrack and tough gravel roads...the hills were just nonstop...there was almost NO flat ground...and I just kept on pedaling.

I had heard rumors of a rail-grade in the course, and was just wondering when that might come into play...when it did.  I caught a gentleman named Rodney from Columbus, and we started cranking off the miles together.  It was boring...4 miles of 1-2% grade up, followed by 4 miles of the same grade down.  The only interesting part was when we were about to cross Ohio longest covered bridge...and it was closed.  Trail blocked.  Shut down.  For a WEDDING!  We had to back track and detour out to a highway to get around...probably an additional mile or so that earlier or later riders didn't have to contend with...lucky us! 

Aid Station 4 was at 72 miles, and I inhaled my Donut Stiks and some more Gatorade, along with a Gu, and sat with my shoes off for a couple minutes.  I didn't even want to know what time it was, for fear that reality might come knocking at my door with an unhealthy dose.  I started off on my own, and literally didn't see another racer for about the next 40 minutes, which was kinda cool.

There were some more KILLER hills (I hope I don't sound redundant...I'm being TRUTHFUL!)  Over the course of the race, I probably had to walk 5 or 6 times because I ran out of gears on the 2 X 10...something I'm not very used to!

At about mile 78, there was a cool suspension bridge crossing, and on the other side there was a makeshift aid station manned by two dudes from a local bike shop.  I was riding with a guy on a singlespeed (!!!!!) at this time, and we both stopped.  I went to grab a peanut butter and jelly sammy, and when I swung my leg over the bike, my hamstring LOCKED.  I screamed like a little girl...I'm sure it scared the bike shop dudes cuz they started running around saying "What can we get you?  What do you need?"  I scored some Ibuprofin and a glass of water, straightened my leg with considerable effort, and tried to stretch it out without pulling the muscle.  The singlespeed dude asked the bike shop guys if they had a beer.  They did.  He chugged it.  Harder man than I.  Lol.

Mile 80...and I kept thinking back to the New Jersey guy's advice about how my legs would thank me.  Well...I'm not sure they were thanking me by the time we got to the top of the mile-long climb!  I was in my lowest gear, barely turning it over, and finally just gave up and walked the final couple hundred yards.  What kind of masochist puts this hill in the course at 80 miles?!?  I laughed to myself while at the same time saying I wanted to punch that guy in the throat.

By this time, I was under 20 miles, so I knew that barring catastrophy, I was going to finish.  Then I ran out of water.  Oops...forgot to fill the Camelback at Aid 4!  I rode 4 or 5 miles on empty before hitting Aid 5, and even though there was only 5 miles of singletrack to the finish, I filled my bottle and my Camelback with the intention of getting some good hydration before all the beer I was going to drink!

I flew through the last 5 miles...I was REALLY having fun at this point and I had done what I'd come to do. My legs still felt good, despite slight cramping, I had a lot left in the tank, which was OK, since my goal had merely been finishing, and considering the course, you just never knew when you might need those reserves.  Upon crossing the finish line, I was given a huge beer jug courtesy of race sponsor Great Lakes Brewing, and told to drink all the beer I wanted.  Awesome.  I cleaned up first, and grabbed one of my personal beers, a New Glarus Honey Bock, to celebrate.  Then I celebrated some more with Great Lake Holy Moses and Dortmonger and the Drunkcyclist crew.

Mitch ended up blazing the course in 8 hours 17 minutes...good enough for 32nd place.  I was 72nd, at just under 10 hours.  Mike and Felbert rode together and finished in just over 12 hours, so we were 100% on the finishes...not bad considering we are all flatlanders.

So...was it to be the last of my Mohicans?  As of now, 4 days hence, I'm still thinking yes.  There are new challenges and tons more stupid things for me to do in this world, but I can honestly say this was a terrific experience.  I would highly recommend giving it a try.

It begins.

I've thought about doing this for a long time now, but my fear of narcissism has generally eclipsed my desire to write.  I am doing it now mostly because of the encouragement of others, who seem to find that my talents in the realm of the written word are slightly better than average.  I don't want to write a diary...who the heck keeps a diary anymore?...but I do want to use this forum to describe my own life, with a distinct focus on the levity with which I tend to view my own muddlings through the mortal coil. Oh, and the title of the blog, though it may change in the future, is a reference to my mother's CONSTANT insistance that I write for the newspaper in high school and college.  So...here it is, Mom...I'm a writer.

So, since this is my opportunity to "publish" whatever I want, I'll start off with a couple things I wrote last year, and just hope somebody out there derives some sort of entertainment from them...

I wrote this and submitted it to Dirt Rag Magazine, but they didn't like it.  Its about what goes through my head on a typical workday followed by a nice bike ride in the woods...

Somewhat cognitive streaming.   Like telling the tale of a day when you ripped out of bed by the inside of your eyeballs when the clock radio goes off tuned in hard to Jimi...who plays that stuff at a quarter to five?  Heartbeat city.  The rate is jacked before the feet even hit the floor…and they hit the floor running.  Time.  Everything is about time.  What do you have time for…after making the time to do the necessary things like punching the clock?  Minutes to eat, minutes to dress, minutes to drive…how do those minutes turn to hours once the grind is at hand?  Thinking freedom all day long, a mind like a rat in a trap.  Consuming.  Eating minutes, feasting upon hours, waiting for the body to follow suit.  The endless cycle.  Work-hard-to-play-hard.  Nose to the stone, eyes on the prize, always dedicate a portion of the brain to the AFTER.  Freeflowing mindscape that channels those deep feelings…the ones that cause your chest to burn from WANT.  I will go there.  I will do that.  The bastards always trying to tie me down, but I choose not to be tied.  Do not run out of gas.  Feed the machine, the hours are on a downhill slide.  The sky is bright on the outside.  The madness continues,  a clutching tangle of thorns ripping away at the raw skin that is DESIRE.  The holy moment will come, the grail…the end.  I’m down with it.  So I switch into my chameleon colors, and roar for the horizon.  The hours become minutes again…fleeting.  Racing the golden orb as it follows its daily crescent.   Dancing along the shafts of light as they play through the scene, I fill those minutes with my soul.  Those moments create and resonate the very structure of being.  It’s about speed.  It’s about flow.  It’s about a ribbon of life through the chaos of the world.  Slam it back into gear, and run hard away from the reality of the darkness.  It will come, but I will fight it, and I will win by embracing it.  Take the trip back home to feel the hearthstone…warm and welcoming.  The lingering vacuum where once there was power announces itself with every step, but it’s the best kind of pain.  Burned out and ready to dream of the minutes I have lived, rather than those in which I have merely been alive.