So You've Got a Fat Bike

The wider Q factor of a fat bike can lead to serious knee issues. I've been thinking about what I did wrong on my fat bike last year and I thought I might share my mistakes. You can do what you want with the information.

Fat bikes are a lot of fun and you should ride yours. But not as much and not as hard as you do your summer bike. Make sure to transition slowly to the fat bike. And when you do fully transition, just have fun. This is the off season; you don't have to make every ride a suffer fest. A fat bike is made for floating on snow, not for perfect body mechanics. Your mechanics are compromised by the wide BB, so doing hard efforts every day might be doing more harm than good.

Get a crankset that is as narrow as possible. Look at the gap between your crank arms and chainstays. If there is more than half an inch, get some narrower cranks. My gap was almost an inch on each side. Therefore, my Q factor was two inches wider than it had to be. Even going as narrow as possible, the Q factor of fat bikes is less than optimal for most people. I think the e13 crankset is about as narrow as you can go. Spend the money. And slide your cleats laterally until your shoe rubs on the crank, or damn near if you're concerned about scuff marks.

Shoes, shoes, shoes. You're already on a bike that is totally different from what you've been riding all year, and to make matters worse you're slipping into different shoes as well. Most of us wear the Lake winter boots. These are awesome, and toasty warm, and that Boa system--awesome. But take a look at the insole. Go do it right now. There isn't one. It's a piece of insulation, flat as cardboard. Why does this matter? Pronation. Pronation is what happens when your arches aren't supported. It causes your knees to be pulled out of alignment. Instead of a straight line between hip, center of patella, and second toe, the line will kink at the knee. Pronation pulls the knee joint in towards the top tube. The wide BB of a fat bike, combined with no arch support will conspire to kill your knees. The wide BB is already pulling the knee in towards the top tube; and flat insoles cause the knee to drift even further out of alignment. This is easy to fix, however. Leave the cardboard in your Lakes and put your summer insoles on top. But if you've got an extra 125 bucks, go see Balser at Penn and he will set you up with some custom molded insoles. They will not only save your knees but more importantly they will make you faster.

Pedals. Hmmm. I don't know a lot about pedals, but I know that crank brothers suck. They should be avoided at all costs. Sure they look cool and the don't fill up with mud or snow, but the engagement is so sloppy. This is particularly a problem with the Lake boots because the tread isn't as tall. To see what I'm talking about, try this: clip an empty shoe into your crank bros. Notice how you can rock the shoe side to side. Notice how you can slide the shoe fore, aft, and side to side.This is slop, and slop is bad for your knees. Slop should not be confused for float. If you have speedplay road pedals you know what I mean. This is what pedals should feel like. They have perfect, slop-free engagement, and the smoothest float you've ever floated on. But you can't ride speedplays on your pugsley. Or can you? I heard Speedplay is coming out with a new mountain pedal this winter. They might be available already, I don't know. Anyways, they're supposed to have the best engagement in the world. If I were you I would look into getting a pair of these. If you must stick to your crank bros, there is a trick to get rid of some of that knee-killing slop. Wrap a bit of athletic tape around the pedal where the shoe lugs contact the pedal. Not too much though because you don't want to eliminate all your float.

Lastly, I can tell you that your adductors (your inner thigh muscles) are going to get really tight as a consequence of riding a fat bike. You wont necessarily even feel it. But what will happen is that those tight muscles will pull your knee even further in towards the top tube. All you have to do to prevent this is stretch. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7aM7ezL1rpU&feature=related Here's a link to a basic adductor stretch. I like to support my weight on a chair while I do it. And don't be afraid to hold it for two, even three, minutes. Like I said, this is a basic one, and you will find a lot more when you google "adductor stretch." If you have a foam roller, you can use than on your adductors as well.

So in review: Start slow, get a new crank, get some decent insoles in your boots, throw your crank brothers in the garbage, and don't forget to stretch your groin.

Hope this helps you stay injury free this fat bike season.

Trek Demos

A fleet of 2012 models will be out at Murphy Oct 1 & 2. Come on out, trade your drivers license for a bike worth more than your car, and ride.

On a personal note, my knee is getting better, but these tendon things take time. I've been riding a lot on my new Cronus CX Ultimate. Doing some gravel. The bike is pretty and sweet, pretty sweet. Not as stiff in the front end as the Focus Mares was, but that is a good thing for rough cross riding and all gravel centuries IMO. When it comes to the BB, the 90mm shell with press in bearings provides a lot of go when you stand up and mash. Another neat feature is the fork mounted cable hanger, which does away with fork chatter.

Will I be out there at the CX races this season? I don't know. I am terribly out of shape, I have lost weight but it certainly didn't come of my belly, and my knee hurts when I ride hard. But, yes there is a but, after every hard ride I do, given a few days rest, my knee feels better than before.

See you at the demo!

Progress

Breaking up scar tissue. Tendon gonna be smooth as butter, the good stuff. None of that I-can't-believe crap.

I'll admit, there was a time in my life, not too long ago, when I couldn't believe. Everything tasted like margarine (mainly because I was eating a lot of margarine). But no more. No more, I tell you. Things are changing. Life is starting to taste like good ol' saturated fat again.

What gives? Well let me tell you: blood doping has worked wonders; as well as butter-knifing (as they say [whoever "they" are]); as well as using every possible punctuation mark in one sentence.?! But there is one thing, above all else, that has catalyzed my recovery. . .

It was not this non-believer; that's for sure (burn in hell, Fabio). . .  

. . .It was this little dude, reminding us what it's all about.

Enjoy.

PRP

Fed up with the PT I was seeing, I saw an actual sports doc last week. An MRI the same day showed that his diagnosis of tendinosis (hey, that rhymed) was correct. He recommended a procedure called platelet-rich plasma. Dr. Moser (that's my doctor) told me all about PRP: hemotobin-this, growth-factor-that, mumbo jumbo, insurance doesn't cover it. . . . The internets, however, told me that PRP is an injection that pro athletes have been getting for years, with very promising results. If the pros do it, then it's got to be good, especially if the internet says so. It didn't sound too painful or anything. It involves having 10cc of blood drawn, which is then spun in a centrifuge in order to separate the super awesome blood from all the other stuff. The super blood is then injected into the tendon. A technique called needling is used during the injection, which is a euphemism for viciously stabbing the tendon in various areas for what seems like 10 minutes. At no point during my brief internet research did it say anything about "needling." No where did it say I would nearly pass out from the pain. Do the pros pass out? My vision went grainy like the picture on an old TV that has a coat-hanger for an antenna. I tried tilting my head in different ways for better reception. The florescent lights were very bright. The ceiling tiles were the kind with the little holes in them. "Almost there," he said. I was breathing as if I were having a baby. The similarities were obvious. I was on a table, and a man was standing between my legs. He coached me on how to breath: "Deep breaths now. That's right. Good." I heard someone start to cry, maybe myself. And then it was over. It was the happiest moment of my life. As I hobbled out, taking those first baby steps, the patients in the waiting room looked up from their magazines, pretending not to be amazed. But they were. I could tell.

What the Physical Therapist Said

One week in PT and I think I'm getting better. Initially she said it was quadriceps tendinitis, which is very rare, and she has never seen it in 15 years as a PT. She gave me a take-home electro-shock therapy kit; told me to do some eccentric exercises--stepdowns with 30lb in a backpack.

I think I am getting better. Maybe. One thing for sure is that the pain has become more localized. What used to be a general ache/burn in the upper knee area, has subsided to an area I can pinpoint on the upper medial portion of the knee. What does this mean? It meant we sat there ($100-an-hour sitting) and looked at an anatomy book for something other than tendinitis. It is not reassuring to hear the therapist say that she doesn't know what to do with me. I don't know what to do with me either. Is there anyone who knows what to do with me?

Keeping my hopes up. I know I'll get back on the bike eventually. Worst case, I'll become an avid canoeist.

What the doctor said

The joint is fine. The pain is coming from the VMO musculotendonis junction. There is a strain where the tendon meets muscle. With physical therapy, it should be a quick recovery.

Getting Good at Being Lazy

It's not easy, this inactivity, this couch-sitting, this watching people jogging outside my window. The trick is you have to be orderly. No dillydallying. You have to schedule your inactivity in order to make the best use of time. Intervals are the key. This is what works for me: (3 hours laying on the couch @ HR of 58) x 3 reps. In between reps, un-rest for 5 min by going to the bathroom, making tea, eating spinach, etc.

I think I have quadriceps tendinitis. People have informed me that the burning sensation I get above the knee cap while driving points to tendinitis. Thinking I had a patella tracking problem, I had been doing exercises to strengthen the quad, which is not what you want to do if you have tendinitis. Currently I am experimenting with intervals of RICE, foam roller, and light stretching.

Advice welcome

Don't Do What I Did.

I did it, single speeded myself into the ground. Or maybe it was xc skiing, or pugging, or running, or_fill in the blank_. As some of you know, my right knee has been messed up for a few months now. It isn't all that painful, more like a dull, background pain that is always there, and flares up with activity. I do a lot of driving commuting to school, and strangely, just sitting in the car is when my knee bothers me the most. It might have something to do with the many fine movements one has to do correct speed. Cruise control would be nice.

I haven't seen a doctor or specialist, but have talked with a number of cyclists who have had similar problems. Rest they tell me. Listen to your body. They tell me to do these stretchy-band exercises. And I do. I do the stupid stretchy-band exercises. But my knee doesn't get much better.

Having a high deductible insurance plan, I have been ambivalent about seeing a doctor. I think I am ready though, ready to shell out the big bucks. But you know what they are going to tell me? I just know what they're going to say: "Well, Cody, your symptoms point to a number of possible problems. Without an MRI I can't be sure just what it is. Go home and rest for a few months. Strengthen your quads. You know where the quads are, right? Here--take this stretchy-band. It's free."

If you don't see me at the races this summer, I'll be at home, in front of the TV, drinking beer, maybe a tear running down my unshaven cheek, maybe not, but certainly there will be a giant rubberband fastened to a chair leg, the other end shackled around my ankle.

I am young and stupid. I did not listen to my body. It's a lot like having a girlfriend or a wife--you have to listen to them (not just once in a while; all the time). Ignore her too long and she will slam your head in a door, throw spike-healed shoes at you, make you watch American Idol. Listen to her or she will make you hurt.

Eligible for an Upgrade



Electrical tape replaces a long gone battery cover.



They say it's time. Two years only and they send me a letter saying it's time to toss out the old phone and get a new one for 49.99 after mail-in rebate So what if the screen is a little scratched. And so what if I am one of those people who walk around outside with the phone an inch from my eyeballs, one hand shielding the sunlight as I read a text that says: omg I just saw an old fat guy jogging in track shorts wo a shirt on... total barf. I like being that guy--not the fat and running one--but the one who walks around slowly without knowing whats in front of him. If I looked up I might see that fat guy, shirtless and pale as the full moon, the rise and fall.

Nokia doesn't mean anything to you, but it does to me.

A makeshift bottle opener

The Miracle Carwash, Dubuque, Iowa

It was so bright I couldn’t sleep. Across the street from the Hotel there was a building with a great big electric sign, neon in fact. They must have imported it from Texas, because everything’s bigger in Texas. Like Texas toast. That stuff is huge. I couldn’t sleep because the Miracle Carwash was so bright.


I turned on the TV and nothing was on: a commercial for Pajama Jeans; the amazing Magic Bullet food chopper, dicer, and slicer; also a pill that could give you a beach body in two weeks or your money back. I had about given up on basic cable when I came across a guy putting his palm on people’s foreheads, shouting some angry, devil-be-gone stuff, and making them faint. He even made cripple people get up and walk, but it was the way you would expect a cripple person to walk—kind of a hunched, air-swim/crawl sort of thing. The studio audience gasped and I did too. I did, I gasped.

If cripples could walk (sort of) I could sleep, right? I needed to sleep. It would take a miracle, I thought. If only there was a slick-haired televangelist to smack me in the temple, that would do the trick. But the Hotel Julien was too cheap to have a miracle performing, televangelist on staff. I didn’t even need to call down the front desk; I already knew this, but I called just in case. No luck.

I stood up and put my palm to forehead as I had seen the man on TV do. I pushed pretty hard and muttered a few commands: drive the Devil from this man and let him sleep in peace once again. I must have been doing something wrong, because I couldn’t make myself faint no matter how hard I pushed. I noticed (it was hard not to notice because of how bright it was) that the Miracle Carwash was able to perform its phenomena in a way that was touchfree (how this was possible I wasn’t sure, but carwashes sometimes work in mysterious ways). This was the answerer, then. It had to be. It was like a sign from a sign. I put on some socks, tall ones with the stripes; a hat and jacket; and walked down to the front desk where I purchased two rolls of quarters from the lady who was drinking coffee out of a mug with a picture of her wiener dog on it, Poochie.

The fifth time through, the sounds of water jetting against metal became soothing like waves on the ocean, but really loud like you are right by the ocean, maybe sleeping on the beach because you are homeless and you drank a lot of Black Velvet while watching the sunset, comparing its beauty to your shitty life, that you passed out there, the water lapping at you like a dog licks its wounds. Each time through I became drowsier. The sounds of water were putting me to sleep like one of those machines people put in their bedrooms to simulate a waterfall, or a rainforest, or the ocean, but in the carwash there weren’t any whale calls or other strange animal sounds.

I ran out of quarters. I got out of my car and began picking up rocks to throw at the sign that was keeping me awake. Miracles, I decided, were impossible, and I decided to decide this forever. If suddenly Jesus walked up to me and asked if I knew what time it was or if I had change for a five so he could wash his rusty Ford, I would tell him to go jump in a lake. I would ask him why don’t you just make your own change? In between stone throws, I'd tell him I’m busy here, can’t you see. Jesus, being the guy he is, would say let me give you a hand with that. He’d take aim at the flickering, blue Miracle, winding up like a Major League pitcher, releasing with perfect force and timing. The sign would explode, showers of colored sparks snowing down on the both of us.

Cold Bear #1

DNF. Broken chain on the late night, last minute, not tested pug build. FYI don't try to reuse the pins on Sham chains, as that is what I did and likely the reason it broke. Nevertheless, by the time of the snap (a half lap to the finish) Brendan was, for the most part, out of sight. I was starting to get more comfortable with the pug though, and was picking up the pace, chasing.

Next weekend I'm heading down to Iowa for the Triple D, a 60+ mile trail race. I did 50 miles on the snowmo trails the other day averaging 14 mph on a 29er SS 38x16. Might be a road race if these conditions hold up. 

Cold Bear

The Cold Bear Challenge is tough. It is often cold. The trail conditions can be unridable at times. What's more is that some participants push morbidly obese bicycles up the steep and copious hills. Last year I put my blood sweat and tears into the seriess and came out in second place in the advanced category. For my efforts I was rewarded with a cup. However, my prized pint glass/ trophy from the Cold Bear Challenge has broke, shattered into a hundred little pieces. This happened months ago, and I have been mourning ever since, slowly progressing through the five stages of loss. My therapist says I should move on. Maybe I should. No. I can't. I can't move on because I keep stepping on the glass' invisible shards, the ones that scattered into the kitchens corners upon impact, the ones so tiny that not even a broom can sweep them up. A pin prick in the heal every now and then, a cold jolt in a big toe. I dig out these thin shards with a tweezers and hold them up to the light. The tiny reminders shine with my blood. Like I said, the Cold Bear is tough. This time next year I hope to be stepping on first place, pug catagogy shards of glass.

That's right the pug frame I've had hanging on a hook for the last year is coming together. Ben at Milltown Cycles is setting me up with some wheels (White non-trash Darryls). Due to a ordering mix-up with White Industries however, only the front wheel will be ready for tomorrows race. If you need some better wheels for your Mukluk call up Ben. He's got some Darryls on hand, and I'm sure he wont mess up your order. Sponsor plug aside, one of my cohorts may lend me a rear marge. That is if the aforementioned individual has forgotten about my reputation of breaking wheels. I've said too much. Peace out.

Abducted by Aliens

Last night in  a dream I was was abducted by aliens. Seriously. They swooped over me with incredible acceleration, and in the traditional fashion, a blue shaft of light came down and levitated me into their saucer shaped craft. I had a pair of xc skis in my arms. And I was smiling as the blue force field picked me up.

This is how it happend

A few things contributed to this strange dream. First of all I watched the trailer for Cowboys and Aliens last night (looks like an hilarious movie eventhough it's not supposed to be). Secondly there's this new humidifier I bought and placed at my bed side. The product boasted about calming effects, which sounded good while I was in the store. But when I got it home and set it up next to my bed, it turns out that the calming effect is that it emits a shaft of sleep-deprivingly-bright, blue light at the ceiling and makes a loud humming noise not unlike a hovering spaceship. But the third is perhaps the most complicit factor. . .

. . .I picked up some classic xc skis yesterday afternoon and spent the rest of the evening watching various youtube videos on waxing (about four hours worth) until I couldn't keep my eyes open. I know a lot more about wax now. There is about a bazillion (that is 10 x a gazillion) different waxes for different snow temperatures and conditions. They sell little thermometers you can stick in the snow to get a reading to the nearest tenth of a degree. On top of that you need to know the moisture content of the snow, wind direction, does it have sharp or rounded crystals, did it fall on a full moon,  etc. I believe you also need a telescope and astrological calender to determine the arrangement of certain planets and stars, their alignment being a chief factor in how fast or slow your skis will be be with a given wax. And that's just what goes into selecting "the wax of the day" (that's right, you have to do this every day). I wont even go into putting the stuff on, which involves hot irons, toxic solvents, scraping tools, wire brushes, two sacrificial goats, and a pact with the devil.

WTF?

Aliens are rarely confused

My unconscious mind, completely confused and disoriented by the world of youtube, concluded that ski waxing is a task beyond human comprehension and thus a job only an advanced species could get right. In my dream I actually wanted to be abducted. I was standing on my roof with my skis under my arm, shouting at the sky. The aliens, with their advanced knowledge of physics were going to show me how to wax my new skis. They were going to dispel myths of layering and tip-to-tail. They would tell me the optimal iron temperature and the exact amount of time I should let the wax cool. These brilliant creatures were going to give me waxes that defied the laws of molecular chemistry.

Whether they did or not I cannot say. See you on the trails! I'll be the one leaving a track of blue light in the snow.

Focus CX For Sale

My Focus Mares 2, fancy-dancy race machine is for sale. Full Carbon frame and fork. Ultegra. BB30. Tappered Steer-tube. Size large 56cm. Will do complete bike for 17 or frame-set for 12. Here's the website.

Snow Fort: Tunneling into All-grown-up Land.

mine was more awesomer than this

 When I was younger snow like this meant one thing. It meant that my dad would go out in his Chevy pick-up and plow all the snow form our driveway into huge piles. It meant days and days of endless digging, tunneling, and carving out huge rooms in the snow. One year when we got a lot of snow, I made the biggest snow fort in history. It had several large rooms all connected eith tunnels you had to crawl through. It was a never ending process, the rooms always growing. As I scraped snow from the walls and hauled out sled-fulls of the stuff, I imagined the parties I would have, who I would invite. Certainly my older brothers would not be invited. And not Joe, my next-door-neighbor (he was the kind of kid who would ride his bike up to a jump like he was going to do it but veer off at the last second). No cry-babies would be allowed in my humongous snow fort.


Perhaps my standards were too high because no one ever came to the fort, and the parties I envisioned, where me and a dozen other kids would sit around drinking apple juice from crystal wine glasses, never happened. I suppose I knew there wouldn’t be any parties. No apple juice. No soft jazz playing in the background. So why did I keep digging?

I remember having a collection of icicles. They were diamonds and I was rich. And come to think of it, I never just sat in my fort, relaxing. I was always digging, making it bigger. My hands would get cold, my thin Power Rangers gloves soaking wet, but I wouldn't go inside. This fort was going to be bigger than my bedroom, bigger than my parent’s bedroom, bigger than the whole house! When the fort was big enough, I would know it because I wouldn't have a bed time anymore; wouldn't have to go to school; all of the sudden a beard would sprout under my face mask and Stephanie from down the street would be my wife. When the fort was big enough I wouldn't be a kid anymore and I would be able to do whatever I wanted; even eat a whole batch of cookie dough without getting sick.

When I went inside that night, I kept my fort a secret, but somehow my mom knew. She told me about a kid in the next town over who suffocated when his snow fort collapsed on him. I wondered if it was the same “kid from the next town over” who lost all his fingers when he reached under the lawn mower, or the same kid who burned his house down playing with matches. Nevertheless, I imagined the snow fort collapse as if it happened to me. I imagined the weight of it all; trying to take a breath but not being able to. Not being able to move my arms to dig myself out. The next day I continued enlarging my snow sanctuary anyways. But my desire for a humongous fort, and thus freedom, was weighed down by thoughts of suffocation. Was I making the walls too thin? Would the roof hold? I contemplated the thought that this thing that made me all-grown-up could collapse and suffocate me at any moment.

At some point I got bored of being an adult and went sledding at Dead Man’s Hill with all the other kids.


 



catching some sweet air



A Detailed Training Regiment for 2011

The Art of Neti-Potting

When I woke up this morning there was 12 inches of fresh, fluffy snow on the ground here in Northfield. It was all crap though. You couldn’t even make snowballs out of the stuff, or build snowmen, or dig sweet snow forts. I guess you could go sledding. But who the hell goes sledding?

On top of it all, I have a cold. It’s the worst one I have ever had, ever. Probably got it from school; some jerk student who sneezed on every door handle in Armstrong Hall or something like that. My mom would say it was because I didn’t wear a scarf last week when I rode my bike twenty-five miles into the country on icy, gravel roads, and then twenty-five miles back in a head-wind. What does she know? Scarves are stupid anyways.

Whatever the origin of this disease, one thing was certain: every time I tried to blow my nose, the cement-like stuff up there didn’t come out. Nothing happened. It just felt like something inside my ears was going to turn inside out, or that I’d blow so hard I’d crap myself.

But this morning I bought a neti pot. I don’t know why they call them neti pots. They should call them awesome pots because they are awesome.

When I got the thing home, I mixed in the 1 tsp of natural, organic, free-range salt with 8oz of warm water. I stuck the end of the spout up my left nostril, and like it said, I tilted my head down and sideways so the warm water would flow into one nostril and out the other, flushing out the source of all my troubles.

On my first attempt I almost drown. “Did Dick Cheney invent this thing?” I thought. Cruel and unusual. The salt water went in the one nostril but it backed up into my mouth and went down my wind pipe. It reminded me of my first swim in the ocean, jumping in with my mouth wide open, shocked at how salty it was. It was like that except there were no hot chicks to pull me out of the kitchen sink (which I was doubled over into) and give me mouth-to-mouth.

When I finally caught my breath, I gathered the courage to try again like any bad ass such as myself would do. I was not going to let some sissy, little piece of porcelain get the best of me. Full of vigor, I cocked my head sideways like the way a stupid dog does when you tell it to sit; inserted the spout, and the warm, salty liquid into my head. My brain began to tingle and burn. It felt like I had just been dared to snort a line of pepper and did it. Despite the burn, I continued holding my breath. And just about when I couldn’t do it any longer, the dams broke free. I closed one eye and was able to see the stuff coming out of my nose. It was a bubbly, yellow, sludge. There were chunks of stuff every now and then. And I think I saw a few long lost nickels drop into the drain.

I could breathe again. I could smell that the garbage was ripe and ready to be taken out. I looked outside at the children playing in the fresh fluff. The sun glinted off the snow in just the right way. Birds were chirping. There was laughter in the world again. And I was sure, absolutely positive, that I could smell flowers—Daffodils and Daisies—under the snow, waiting for spring.

Smud.

It's a bummer I had to miss out on this.

MN State Cyclocross Championship

Conditions were great at state cross this weekend--heavy snow and mud. A lot of guys who ride on the road most the year surprised me with their bike skills, Jordan especially. That kid is going to be untouchable in a few years. As for me, I finished 6th overall, not the result I was hoping for, but like I said a lot of guys were surprisingly adept in the slick stuff. Marko Lalonde showed up and Adam Bergman gave the mountain biker a run for his money--well there wasn't actually any prize money involved for this race, just prestige. The Ukrainian national road champion--or something like that--showed up, but wasn't much of a factor in the race. Doug had a good ride, coming in 3rd. Then it was Jordo, who had a horrible start but somehow worked his way up there. Josh Roser killed it for the 35+. He could only get one pedal clipped in. I finished right behind him.





I wish I could make it to the Zac Dap today, but I pulled calf muscle during the running start yesterday, and now I can hardly walk. Hopefully it comes around for Jingle Cross.

Limping my way up the stairs. Check out the gloves. $4.95 at Menards!

velocx and gopher gallop cx

3rd on Saturday, behind Adam and Jordan. 2nd to Doug on Sunday, Eppen 3rd. Here's some pics from the Gopher Gallop on Sunday (some by Josh of Angry Catfishery, some by Tim Gut, fellow fishery teamate).

 

Starting the second lap.

Taking a bad line though the sand to avoid Eppen after he plowed into the pile on the right of the photo.

A short but steep (and rough) climb.

This is a little climb right after a very tricky, off camber corner.

Top of a somewhat steep climb out of the woods. On the last lap, Doug made his move here. My gaurd was down as I didn't think he would attemp a pass in the single track.