Putting a stake in the ground

One of the more frustrating things about fitness is that it changes. Actually, the frustrating part is that it gets worse. If it didn’t change for the better, we’d all give up hope and end up like the humans in Wall-E. Or ordinary Americans.

Of course, I thought that hiking for turns all winter had kept me in good shape. Moreover, in the fall I asserted that skiing is harder than cycling, so I assumed I’d have no problems transitioning to the bike.

And for the most part, I haven’t. I placed 10th in a race I didn’t really train for. I just got done riding 100 miles on dirt in one day. And I’ve already lost about half the weight I gained over the winter.

But I’m still slower than I was in the fall. Yesterday after work, I did the Clark’s TT to see how I measured up. Last September, on my very first ride up the trail, I did it in 11:13, the median time, incidentally. I figured I’d be somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 minutes this time around. And I was, if you consider a variance of 77 seconds “in the neighborhood.” I finished in 13:17.

Apparently, however, nearly everyone else is waiting until they’re back to full fitness before submitting times, as I’m currently in first place. Out of three. But still.

At least I have a baseline. Now establish yours. Clark’s, Crank, and Sidewinder TTs are all open for business. Go on and make me look slow. We’ll all be faster as the season goes on.

Changing gears

Just got this in my inbox from the Utah Avalanche Center:

We have ended our avalanche advisories for the season.

This does not mean that there will be no more avalanches. It just means that we have run out of money and our forecasters are heading off to their summer jobs, with a short vacation in between.

I knew it was coming, but the email message brings a sort of finality with it. Dug mentioned that he needs RAWROD to get him to put the skis away and get out the bike every spring. The timing of this message seems to confirm the rightness of that change.

Now that I’m on the bike, I’m happy to be there. It’s been a fantastic ski season—a 10—a happy welcome back to Utah.

But now that I’m on the bike, or more precisely, now that I’ve spent 12 hours on one bike, I can’t get a certain thought out of my head. As Aaron and I were chatting with the Samurai on Friday morning, they both commented that my rigid single speed was sort of like telemark skiing—it’s a choice of equipment that makes the task more difficult than it needs to be.

Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy riding the single speed and find certain benefits to it. But it definitely is one of those things like making drop-knee turns: it’s not the most efficient way around the mountain.

At first I thought the cure to my ills was just a suspension fork, and that once my delicate wrists were spared the abuse of riding rigid, all would be well. But coming across White Rim on Saturday, spinning a cadence as high as 125 and as low as 30 when I’m most comfortable between 80 and 95, the tradeoffs of riding just one gear became all the more poignant.

So I guess the easy solution is to ride my geared, front-suspended 29er more often. Except I don’t like the geometry of that bike and the fork could use some TLC.

The fact that I don’t have enough space in a three car garage suggests I have too many bikes anyway. So I’m pondering thinning the herd. But I’m still left with the problem of what constitutes a bike I would be happy with. And since this is my blog, and I am not without opinions on the matter, I’m going to ramble on a bit.

29ers: Big wheels ride smoother—they’re worth about 20-30 mm of suspension. But they’re also heavier and don’t handle as well at slow speeds. They can improve traction, but no more than an active rear suspension that keeps the tire in contact with the ground. And contrary to what anyone tells you, the size (I didn’t say shape) of the tire’s contact patch is no different than that of a 26” bike running the same tire pressure. It doesn’t matter how wide your tires are or what diameter they are, a 180 pound bike + rider running 30 PSI will have six square inches of rubber touching the ground.

Full Suspension Bikes: I’m a dirtbag and hate dropping the cash for a full suspension bike, since that’s a big up-front cost and a whole host of moving parts that need to be maintained, even if they offer certain advantages that I won’t get into here. I’ve owned two and would likely buy another if money were no object. In fact, if money were no object and I had a four car garage, I would have a 7 inch travel freeride bike that would only ever go downhill.

Single Speeds: Riding a single speed is fun and a great way to get a good workout in a short amount of time. It forces you to do intervals when you may have been too lazy otherwise. And intervals do, in fact, make you faster. But single speeds aren’t inherently faster bikes. If you cover a certain amount of ground in a certain time, it requires a certain wattage regardless of which gear you were spinning. The only way to go faster is to increase your output. And last I checked, single speeds couldn’t do that for you.

So what’s the right answer? For the mostly not-very-technical trails I spend most of my time riding, a geared 29er with a suspension fork. But if you see me riding my rigid single speed again, you’ll know this was just RAWROD talking.

RAWROD weekend in photos

Thought you might enjoy a few photos from the weekend.

Overlooking the Colorado River from Slickrock:

Aaron and Brandon stare into the void:

The view from the edge:

Aaron:

Brandon:

Me:

Aaron at Sovereign:

Steve on Schaefer Trail:

Steve on Musselman Arch:

Views from the White Rim Trail:

The trail gets pretty close to the edge at times:

Views like this never get old:

Mayonnaise, an apple, and a diet coke

I thought I’d do my best to keep this short, but since I’m not particularly good at that to begin with and it was a rather eventful weekend in Moab, you may want to go get some popcorn or something.

Anyway, Thursday after work, Aaron and I left for Moab. Our original plan was to ski in the La Sals on Friday and ride RAWROD on Saturday, but the snow in the La Sals wasn’t so good, so we decided to just ride trails both days instead.

Aside from having to borrow a pillow from Aaron, nearly running out of gas after a wrong turn on our way to camp, and a great deal of wind through the night, the trip there went without incident. On Friday morning we headed towards town to ride Slickrock, passing the Samurai, Bart, Adam, and Kenny all headed the other way for the fast guys’ version of the White Rim ride. We were happy to let them have it and to be meeting Brandon in town for some fun rides.

It was my first attempt at riding slickrock on a single speed; same for Brandon. We used this as an excuse not to climb the Road to Paris (I don’t know if this feature has a name, but it’s the steep pitch off the trail rider’s right when riding clockwise shortly before Cogs to Spare, which until recently was unmarked but now has white dots and jeep rubber on it.) But since Aaron had never done it before and had gears, we insisted that he try it. He cleaned it on his second attempt. Nice. Slickrock felt fresh on the single, although Cogs to Spare earned it’s name and found me walking.

After some lunch, we met up with Keith and headed over to Sovereign. If you haven’t ridden Sovereign in a while, it’s worth revisiting. It’s no longer one trail but a network of trails, with spurs and connectors winding all along the mesa.

And it was great fun. Except for the part when I was trying to ride up a steep rock ramp and spun out and took a little spill, coccyx-first, on a large pointy rock. It hurt so bad that everything went black. And I yelled. And howled. To the point that Aaron thought my weekend was over and that maybe they’d need to haul me out on a stretcher or something.

Thanks to my one physiologic advantage, I escaped without a fracture. And if there’s any one thing cyclists can do, it is endure pain, so I pedaled out under my own power.

The best part about RAWROD is Friday night. We sit around a campfire and eat. And while eating in and of itself can be fun, eating with the reckless abandon of one about to spend twelve hours on a bike the next day but not in a race is a completely different kind of joy. Cookies, cake, chips, thank you very much. No guilt whatsoever. And of course, the bratwurst.

I had one the traditional way, with mustard on Kenny’s bread. Then I had another and a whole new world of indulgence was opened up to me. It was identical to the first except that in addition to the mustard, I added mayonnaise. I hate myself for even thinking about eating it, but it was delicious. And so, along with the shake I had at the Moab Diner just hours previously, bratwurst with mayonnaise joined the rarified air of food worth getting fat over.

My brother Steve had come down with Kris Friday night, and the two of us set off Saturday morning at about 7:00. I’m pretty sure this was the third time Steve had been on a mountain bike in the last five years, but I’ve learned with him that it doesn’t seem to matter what he’s pedaling.

I am in better shape than I was last year, yet I knew I was in for a tougher day. First of all, I was on a single speed. Second, last year my biggest problem was with asthma, and with the wind blowing the way it was, I knew this year the dust would make it worse.

The first 60 or so miles are fairly flat and easy. Then you get to the first of three big climbs, Mirphy’s Hogback. I learned last year while pushing my bike up the last pitch of Mirphy’s that one could walk pretty much the whole climb and then get on and pedal before coming around the last corner and into visibility of those waiting above and still get cheered as if he had ridden the whole thing. So that’s what I did, and that’s what happened. I didn’t need the cheers or feel like I deserved them, but it beat the ominous silence that greets anyone pushing his bike.

Instead of hanging out and eating lunch at the top of Mirphy’s, everyone was shivering in the wind and hoping it wouldn’t rain. I would have liked to keep going, but I was out of food and water and needed to wait for the truck. It started raining right before the truck arrived, so Steve and I scarfed our sandwiches, refilled with water, and kept going. It’s good we waited, because it would be the last water I got. Aside from the rain and hail that pelted us as we descended.

Between Mirphy’s and Potato Bottom is a lot of flat riding that this year included 30 mph headwinds with gusts as high as 40 or 50. Steve, Kenny, Dug, and I got into a paceline with a handful of others and dropped the hammer through this section. I would have loved a little more gear through here, but you gotta dance with the girl that brung ya.

Our only break before hardscrabble was to throw rocks off of a cliff. I took no part—no way you’re getting me near the edge of a precipice like that—but Kenny and Dug reminded us precisely why my son breaks things for entertainment—it’s just plain fun. Check out the end of Kris’s video if you want to know what I’m talking about.

Just before Hardscrabble, I dropped my chain and fell out of the paceline with no expectation they would wait. I put it back on but once I resumed riding, the asthma and associated hypoxic state I had tried to ignore all day finally came to a head. I couldn’t fill my lungs more than about 25% without coughing violently, so I just soft pedaled along figuring I’d get there eventually.

I didn’t even try riding up Hardscrabble, and I figured my one goal for the day—cleaning the final climb up Horsethief—was out of the question as well.

With just a couple of miles before Horsethief, I was plodding along, hoping to muster the energy to finish. Then I got caught by one of the support trucks—the one with my cooler in it. “Do you need anything?”

I got out my cooler and found an apple and a diet coke in the bottom. I pounded about half the diet coke and poured the rest in my bottle. Then I just pedaled slowly and ate the apple as I went.

I started to feel better and was able to fill my lungs about 50%by the time I got to the bottom of Horsethief. Sitting and waiting for me was Steve. Then Elden pulled in right behind. Elden had his helmet camera, so I told him he needed to go in front of me so it wasn’t on film when I got off and walked.

“No way, man. You’re my subject. I’m going to ride behind you.”

Steve passed along Dug’s simple yet profound advice: ride as slowly as you can without tipping over.

This seems a no-brainer, but the natural tendency as a cyclist is to attack every climb and try to get it over with as soon as possible.

The three of us, along with Jilene, started up the hill. Slowly. Steve and Jilene had gears and used them. Elden and I pedaled very, very slowly. Horsethief is 1.6 miles, so it isn’t a long climb. And with only 890 feet of elevation gain, it isn’t that steep either. But all bets are off when you already have 99 miles in your legs and you haven’t eaten properly for the last 40. It may as well be Mont Ventoux.

About 3/4 of the way up, we were still pedaling. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t much care about cleaning the climb. I didn’t much care about anything except not riding anymore. I told Elden and Jilene I needed some crazy Belgians to ring a cowbell for me. Or to paint “Allez Mark” on the dirt. Or to yell hurtful things at me. Or to dress like the devil and run alongside me.

Jilene took this as a cue to become my cheerleader. Except that she yelled nice, encouraging things that a woman would want to hear when what I really needed was for someone to tell me I was fat and pathetic, an embarrassment to the $400 bicycle I was riding. Or that Fast Friday was a stronger rider than me. I wanted a fight or flight response. What I got was kind, gentle words, with slightly sexual overtones. But whatever. It seemed to work.

I kept pedaling. And finished. And went back to my car, which, even though I had the keys, was wide open. I asked Aaron how he got in. “Oh, I grew up in West Valley. I know how to get into cars.”

If Friday night brats are the best part, then the second best part is eating a burger at Ray’s Tavern in Green River when it’s all over. As Dug walked out of Ray’s, he stopped at my table and said “I’m not sure I was even aware you had a brother, let alone one who can ride like that.” Nice job, Bro. Thanks for waiting for me at Horsethief.

Jeremiah 48:36

“Therefore my heart shall sound for Moab like pipes…”

See you Monday.

Water tankers and soft serve

Last night at the RMR crit they had us racing on a different course than we’ve used before. They recently did some work on the oval that made that unrideable, and they’re currently repaving portions of the drag strip, rendering the normal “outside” track unusable as well.

So they had us on the other end of the drag strip and riding through part of the parking lot, with the course marked with white trash barrels, culminating in a chicane before getting onto the drag strip again. At the end of the drag strip, the only true straightaway, we had a 180 degree turn.

Just for fun, the tanker truck used for the repaving at the other end of the drag strip decided (or rather, its driver decided) to drive onto the course during the second last lap of the A flight. He somehow realized there was in fact a bike race going on and pulled back off the course just before the peloton T-boned his payload. Then he pulled back onto the course when they were done and stayed there, delaying the start of the C flight by 30 minutes or so.

Needless to say the racing was completely different than riding in the oval. In the oval, it’s just hammer down for 30 minutes. Out on this course it was constant acceleration and deceleration—slow through the corners, then sprint for all you’re worth to get back up to speed, repeated five times each lap.

The pack split on the first corner, two riders in front of me, so I had to bridge to stay with the lead group. Then it split again, and again, and again, and again, and again. Each time 2-3 riders in front of me. I discovered that chasing back onto a 27-30 mph peloton is hard work.

Finally, mercifully, they called “three laps to go.” As we went through the chicane and onto the home stretch, the pack split, yet again about three riders in front of me. Then as we crossed the line, I heard the bell ring. WTF? I guess we were skipping the second last lap. Didn’t matter, because this time I didn’t have the legs to bridge. I got passed by a guy who made a heroic pull—we almost got back on—but just didn’t.

Sam and Steve finished fourth and fifth. Except as Steve crossed the line, they wrote down 473 instead of 475 and refused to acknowledge that they could have made a mistake. Wonder if 473 was even racing?

Afterwards, Rachel drove my car home so she could go eat brownies at Gina’s house (I’m sure they did other things, but I don’t know what). I took the kids to get ice cream cones at McDonald’s.

Here’s the thing, though, once you tell kids you’re going to McDonald’s, nothing else will do. Did you know that if you’re driving around West Valley City looking for McDonald’s, you’re likely to pass 2 Cafe Saigons, 3 Mi Rancheritos, a Pho Hua, 2 Burger Kings, 2 KFCs, a Greek Souvlaki, a Golden Corral, and a Costco before you see one? Me neither.

More vicissitudes of road riding

As a cyclist, I voluntarily endure things most normal humans don’t put up with. Leg shaving is an obvious one. Most people shave either their legs or their face. I shave both (though in winter I shave neither). And while I’m at it, I figure I may as well shave my back too. But since I can’t reach that part, I need help. Thanks, Rachel!

Then there’s the willful starvation. I was watching Versus the other day, and they showed a clip of Carlos Sastre in the final time trial from last year’s Tour. He was so skinny, at first I thought he was Kristin Armstrong, who is one of the skinniest women I’ve ever seen. Seems that no matter how much we weigh, it’s always too much.

A perhaps more obvious drawback is the one most non-cyclists are familiar with, and that’s interacting with cars. But really, when it comes right down to it, would you rather be the guy in a tight pink outfit with shaved legs, or the chubby, 20-something in the back seat of his buddy’s PT Cruiser convertible yelling obscenities at said cyclist? That’s what I thought.

(By the way, why on earth would three dudes be driving up American Fork canyon together in a PT Cruiser convertible? Ick.)

Finally there’s the cyclist’s approach to treating ailments. Pro cyclists don’t shake hands with people, don’t touch elevator buttons, use paper towels to open bathroom doors, and probably keep Purel in their jersey pockets. Because if they get sick, they may have to take antibiotics. And antibiotics supposedly have an adverse effect on performance.

This week I have a crit Tuesday night and a 100 mile mountain bike ride on the weekend. So when I came down with a sinus infection on Sunday, I was loathe to start a round of antibiotics. My doctor prescribed some, just in case I need them, but then suggested some alternative treatments, including a neti pot.

For those who have never used a neti pot, it pretty much goes like this: you pour salt water in one nostril and let it drain out the other side. Then repeat on the other side. It’s about as pleasant as it sounds. But as you can imagine, it really clears things out.

For those sensitive to "R" rated words, I advise turning this video, or at least the sound, off about 10 seconds before it ends.

It seems to work. I started the regimen yesterday, and I think my infection is already nearly gone. Don’t think antibiotics would have done the job any faster. Of course now that I’m nearly back to normal, I did about 10 seconds of interweb research and found that my fear of antibiotics was apparently all for naught.