24 Hours of Afton

I had everything ready to go for this event nearly a week in advance. Gear, food, first aid, and camping equipment was neatly laid out across the living room floor. I was a bit excited. I brought everything from a spare bike to spare bolts, Vaseline to hemorrhoid cream.

Kayla and I headed up on Friday night to set up camp, stopping at Chipoltle on the way where I ate two chicken fajita bowls because Kayla didn't like hers. Fine by me. Over-eating in such a fashion would normally fill my belly with guilt, as if I were a ninth grade school girl cheating on her diet. But knowing what was coming the next day, I instead took on the persona of a jolly sumo wrestler.

Anyways, let's get to the race. Well what I remember of it anyways. It was a la mans start--not a bunch of guys helping their pregnant wives with breathing techniques--but a mad dash. We ran up a hill and around a shed, then back down the hill to our bikes, which we had to find among hundreds of others strewn about the ground. It was a bit like playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey where you are blind folded and spun around seven times. And riding up the first few singletrack hills in a tight group (all going in granny mode) was a test of balance to say the least. Like with field sobriety tests, some of us passed and some of us hit the ground. Perhaps some were still feeling the effects of the previous night. I was feeling pretty shitty the first few laps. I was keeping an eye on Charley, but also on my HR monitor. I was quick to let him go, knowing his pace was unsustainable for me. Whenever I felt I was pushing too hard, I asked myself, "self, can you really maintain this for 24 hours?" The answer was always no, so I'd slow the pace a bit. As for Mr. Popp, I knew he would be super consistent, perhaps even stronger as the hours ticked by. I did know, however, that I could make up time on the more technical portions of the laps (the plunge was my favorite). So that's what I did. I tore it up as if in a xc race on the descents and (it sounds paradoxical) rested on the climbs. In fact, I looked forward to man handler because it was one of the few non bumpy sections, allowing me to sit up, straighten out the back, and rest. I ate a sandwich or bar each lap on shady lane. I was loving the climbs.

Probably about the fifth lap I got into a rhythm. Riding that long, you start to shift into the same gears at the same spots, get out of the saddle at the same spots, learn the best lines (usually on the grass), get through the pit quickly, and you do all this without thinking. What you think about, though, is that you are not even halfway done. You think about the blister on your right pinkie toe. When climbing shady lane in the dark, unable to chew down that bland bar, you try and send telepathic messages to your pit crew to cook some mac and cheese. You think about what a fresh chamois will feel like. You break the lap down into climbs: there's shady lane, the switchbacks, the man handler, and then you're done. You think about dry socks, sharp rocks. You think about back rubs and those warm towels that first class passengers put over their face.You think about how much better night time is than hot day. You feel sorry for the team riders racing by at xc pace, while, in comparison, you are sitting on a beach sipping some fruity drink with one of those little umbrellas. You think "Oh shit, I forgot to drink this lap." You wonder what your brother is doing. You want to know what time it is. You think about one more lap. And then another. Your light burns out and you ride with a guy whos name is Dean, a solo rider who just turned fifty and races dirt bikes and goes on two hour road rides standing in the big ring the whole time and wants to beat his record of 15 laps and claims a 29er hardtail is all he needs and thinks fishing is boring and can somehow tell whole stories without missing a breath while you can hardly keep up. And then the sun finds its way into singletrack. You start thinking about math. You think about how many more laps you have to do to make sure you don't get beat by a girl. You tell everyone you will never do this again. You start to think about next year.

What kept me going: Perpetuem drink mix, peanut butter banana sandwiches, Macro bars, potato chips, the guys on top of man handler, pretzels with peanut butter in the middle, mac and cheese, pretzels with cheese in the middle, my crew girl, ramen, and electrolyte pills.

Hawk Chase

photo from skinnyski.com

Last Sunday was the Hawk Chase in Duluth, a new stop this year for the mn mtb series. Once again it was a race which left the bike decorated in mud. There were only a few really muddy spots. But it was the kind of sticky, clay mud that warrants the use of a mud tire, which I didn't bring with. I was running the semi slick Bontrager 29.0s. Needless to say I was sliding around a lot. Anyways, off the start it was Doug, Brendan, Erik Tonkin, Sam, Skj, and myself. Doug lead in the single track for the first lap then let everyone by. Sam moved up into the lead. But we were all still a group for a while. I knew there was going to be a break in the pack coming soon, and I wanted to go with it so I got around Scott. A little while later I went down in a slick corner. Scott went by but I caught back up. Then the three in front road away from Scott and I. I decided to hang behind Scott since he was riding awesome in the mud, picking great lines through the slick rocks, roots, and bridges. Each time we came to mud he just road right through like nothing, leaving me chasing on foot. When I'd finally get back on the bike I'd have to chase for a minute or so just to catch back up. On the last lap, though, he insisted I go on ahead. I told him it wouldn't be fair to pass him now after all the work he did, but he gave me the go ahead, and I went ahead. I finished 3rd behind Tonkin then Sam. Brendan flatted at some point. After awards (all the prize money going straight to the gas station), Kayla and I hit the road on a trip plagued by road construction and the entire population of the greater twin cities coming home from the cabin all at the same time. 5 hours later we were home, and I was already thinking about the upcoming 24 hours of Afton. See you there!

A Tale of Two Bucks

Thursday's Buck had your noble author leading out up the hill with Brendan soon taking over on a paved climb, only to let me by as he clipped a pedal on a stump. While dodging his tumbling body, I asked if he was Ok. He said yea, dude, never been better. At this point I pulled a Contador and took off like a bat out of hell...no...more like a Contador out of saddle. I proceeded to take advantage of Brendan's misfortune for the next three laps or so. But suddenly guilt struck me. It was so strong, I could feel it like a hunk of burning lead in my legs. Thus, I decided to let up and let him pass.

Not waiting to be seated

Sunday's Buck had Brendan leading up the initial climb with your author in toe. By the time we started the second lap, it was down to Brendan, me, and Eric Thompson. I took the pull on the second lap. The first lap went by smooth, but the second I may have set the pace a bit too high for my own good. By the third lap, on the grassy part of the climb, I was waving for Brendan or Eric to take a pull, but they didn't want it. On the paved part of this climb, however, they blew by me, sneaking into the singletrack in front a lapped rider who apparently couldn't slow down for one more half a second to let me in. Oh well, the way I was hurting, I couldn't have stuck with those guys for much longer anyway. The next lap was spent alone except for all the lapped traffic. SamO came and gave me company with two to go. We had a thoroughly indepth conversation about life and all its complexities for a lap and a half. He was really haulin. I fell off, and he ended up gaining 50 seconds on me, and catching Eric all in the final half lap. That kid knows how to pace a race.

With one more Thursday Buck left, that will make it ten for me this season. Ten times 4 laps plus the six from Sunday puts me at 46 laps. It will be a relief to be done. It will also be sad to be done.

Reverse Psychology

A persuasion technique involving the advocacy of a belief or behavior that is opposite to the one desired, with the expectation that this approach will encourage the subject of the persuasion to do what is desired: the opposite of what is suggested.

It was reverse Thursday at Buck this week. After the start there was a rush to get things sorted out because the revised course had us filing into the single track just 1/3rd the way up the hill. After a bit of charging I was able to get around some guys and up to Brendan and Chris, but burned more than a few matches doing so. Once Brendan slipped into the darkness of the woods, we never saw him again. Chris went down on a wet root, and let me by, only to stick to my wheel for the next 3 and a half laps. This course set-up was tough. Basically the only recovery came on the paved decent on the back side of the hill. It lasted about 5 seconds, and actually raised the heart rate due to a precariously placed patch of gravel on the asphalt where we had to turn into the wooded singletrack at 30 mph. Well it seemed like 30 mph.

The difficulty of this set-up showed in the amount of lapped traffic. I think there were a number of racers out there who weren't used to getting lapped, and thus were a bit reluctant to let folks pass. After the race, Brendan told me he called, "race leader" to a particular racer a handful of times before said rider let him by. Upon passing, the rider said to Brendan, "Some leader... It's only Buck." Apparently it's easy to win this race since it's "only Buck." It's not like it's a tough race like Hillside or anything. Seriously though, it seems the guy getting lapped was actually using a complex method of reverse psychology known as sarcasm as a means of ensuring Brendan's victory, encouraging him to prove precisely the opposite of what was suggested--that he was in fact "some leader," going on to win by over two minutes.

Meanwhile, Buck had me suffering, suffering its punchy climbs, its 120 degree corners, its no-recovery, its reverse mind games. I'm glad I didn't have to ride it alone, however. I might have got lost in the reversidness (yea, I made that up) if Chris hadn't been back there navigating for me. But I lost him on the last lap when he called out something that sounded like, "Alright, Cody. I've had enough of a workout." Well put, Chris. I think all of us who showed up this week got worked. Even though it's "only Buck."

Arms up, legs hairy.

So I won a race. It was just last year that I was threading Wellgo platforms into my first ever mountain bike. Soon thereafter I got some padded, baggy shorts and crankbros for my first race ever--the rec class at Buck--and it was all uphill from there. I soon found myself in bib shorts, and liked the way the Lycra felt on my rear. I traded my white, cotton socks for real cycling socks, and made sure they were color-coordinated with my shoes . I bought a tub of chamois butter, and, as the directions recommended, I "applied liberally."

Such things--leotards, 15 dollar socks, excessive amounts of ass lube--may seem a bit gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), but one must not read into it too much; they are no more than rights of passage for us mountain bikers. The ultimate cyclist ritual, however--leg shaving--seems to me a waist of time. Not to say the thought hasn't crossed my mind. In fact, after my mighty win at Hillside, I sought to ease my curiosity on the subject, turning to none other than the all-knowing, Google. I typed: cyclists+leg+shave+why. At the very top of 112,000 results were the 5 reasons why coach Levi (whoever that is) shaves his legs, his number one being to "look good." Here's what coach Levi had to say regarding the matter: "you can have a fancy kit, sleek helmet, top-of-the-line bike, but if you pair tight spandex with hairy legs, the cycling fashion police will be forced to haul you away." I quickly concluded that coach Levi himself might be a bit gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), so I decided it be best to postpone the date with my girlfriend's Sheek razor and flirty mango shave cream.

Although Google placed coach Levi at the top of their list, I wasn't convinced that he was the premier source on the controversial topic of leg shaving, thus began my search for Jack Hinkens. I found him at an undisclosed bicycle shop, sitting on the couch, watching the TDF. His Incredibly smooth legs gave him away. They must have been freshly shaven and oiled, for the flash of sun off his calves nearly knocked me on the floor. After regaining my balance, I said, "Yo Jack, what up with the hairless legs, bro."

Jack's shiny shaved legs

He looked at me with his squinted eyes as if I already knew the answer. This is what he had to say: "beside the obvious benefits of aerodynamics, I do it because...well...it's not my choice really. As you know, I've been spending a lot of time in Europe, and I found this girl. Her name is Helga, a sweet, little, Swiss gal. But you can't tell anyone. You can't tell anyone that she doesn't shave her own legs...or anywhere else for that matter. That's why she makes me do it. She likes to watch. Mainly, though, she likes to run her hairy legs up and down my smooth ones, whispering unspeakables into my ear. But don't tell anyone, man."

"Don't worry, Jack." I said, "Your secret is safe with me."

My interview with Jack was very helpful. I realized the true reason why cyclists shave their legs. It's not about looking good or even making band-aids easier to pull off (ouch). The real reason cyclists sport smooth legs is that their wives and girlfriends make them do it, and these guys are not man enough to put their foot down. It's a sick world out there, I know. In protest, then, I have decided to keep my legs hairy, even though it will mean constantly looking over my shoulder, awaiting the arrival of the cycling fashion police to haul me away. I just hope they don't confiscate my sleek helmet.