Pushing through the 24-hour haze

Closing in on the 24th hour
My ability to ride certain features diminished throughout the event
Will I race again? I'm saying "no" right now. But, ask me in eleven months

This weekend, I was forced to contemplate exactly how much is too much. I think I'll need further contemplation to arrive at a precise conclusion, but I have settled on the following guideline: One hour is adequate for 'cross. Three hours is overkill, and anything beyond should be employed by the CIA as a means of extracting information from terrorism suspects.

To wit: On Saturday, I set aside my better judgment, drove home from a lovely Thanksgiving weekend in Brooklyn, and saddled up for FSXO, a 24-hour 'cross race at a secret location in Emmaus.

My approach to the race, which turned out not to be a winning strategy, was to go forth at an endurance pace, which, I figured, I could keep up for a while. The race started at 5 on Saturday afternoon, and although I'd spent some time last week setting up, I had not fully understood how technically challenging the course was. And, it was dark. One of my critical errors, aside from undertaking this absurdity in the first place, was to make liberal use of the PBR shortcut (it's exactly what you think it is) in the first several laps.

Then, I was drunk and had a hard time parceling out appropriate efforts. But, somehow, I pressed on. For the first hour or so, I managed to stay on the lead lap with most of the others, but eventually my lack of speed and technical skills caught up with me, and I was soon losing ground on Jasen Thorpe, Aaron Snyder, Steve Schneider, and others. At around 8, someone pointed out that, shit, we've still got 21 hours to go.

I think it was around 9 when I broke my derailleur in half, thus forcing a break, while Mark and Mike Jerry-rigged a Campy Record derailleur onto my 105-equipped 'cross bike. Once adjusted, I had three or four gears to chose from, one or two of which worked relatively quietly. So, that was good. Meanwhile, I'd bumped my knee on my handlebar at some point, re-opening a wound, which bled profusely. While Mark was working on my bike, Ray helped me out by affixing a bandage, which worked well to keep me from bleeding out through my knee during the remainder of the event. Thanks Ray!

Sometime around 11 I started to feel pretty tired -- we'd been riding for six hours -- so I took a break by the fire, at which time I realized that the folks hanging out there, those who weren't racing, seemed to be having a lot more fun than me. "Next year," I thought to myself.

At some point, I started riding again, knocking out a few more laps. Later still, Dan showed up with a cake, and it was awesome. A little before 3 in the morning, with most people done for the night, but plenty of folks still hanging out by the fire, Matt and I rolled down the hill from the secret location to my place to crash for a few hours.

In the morning -- after four hours off the course -- we rolled back, to discover that no one was really at it yet, except for the fools racing for the PBR record. Everyone was slow to get started, but we eventually started riding again. Even by that time, with eight or nine hours still to race, it was pretty clear that Jasen had the win locked up. Even when Aaron showed back up having had a full night's rest, Jasen seemed pretty unfazed (he eventually rode about 90 laps).

In the middle of the afternoon, I started to lose enthusiasm for life, riding bikes, and everything else. Meanwhile, I soon became ensnared in a three-way tie for fifth. At this particular race, placing fifth means you've won, so once I realized that I wasn't going to win outright, my goal was pretty clear. So, I spent most of the afternoon sitting by the fire, trying to stay awake and watching the other fifth-place contenders. At sometime around 4, we all started riding again, whichever of the three of us rode the most laps without passing the fourth-placed rider, would take home the grand prize.

Unfortunately for me, I'm pretty bad at riding 'cross, so the other two quickly out-distanced me. It was kind of pathetic actually, and in retrospect, I really wish I'd spent more of the afternoon riding my bike, instead of sitting around. I could probably have finished third fairly easily, with two of the faster riders spending the afternoon in a smoldering staring contest for fifth place, but instead decided to join that race to the bottom, ultimately losing it.

On the upside, Acu-Jamie made some awesome zitti, or which I ate an entire crock pot. So, that was good. Also, I slept really well on Sunday night.

Beginner lessons

Matt and I had warm weather for a mountain bike ride on Friday afternoon, shredding the trails at Salisbury. It was the second time we rode off road last week, and I found the second outing to be a bit more challenging that the first, mostly because there were lots of rocks to impede the bike's natural course and motion. Matt, who has more experience riding off road than me, seemed to be less effected, but I wound up walking a fair bit.

That got me thinking about challenges and being a beginner. I've long had a fear of being a beginner, especially where cycling is concerned. After all, I've been riding on the road for years, and -- I think -- I've passed the point at which anyone would think of me as a beginner -- although I'm still far from what I would consider an "expert." But, that's all on the road. Off road, I'm a pathetic mess, and it's been both tough and enlightening to begin that process.

The trails at Salisbury were very fun and also proved challenging. Unlike the trails here at South Mountain -- originally intended for hiking, but also used for mountain bikes -- Salisbury was purpose-built for two-wheeled use. So, you get things like really fun bermmy switchbacks on the way down the ridge, and logs -- even big ones -- ramped for easier riding. I anticipate that riding there will be well worth the 20-minute drive once my skills improve to the point where I can ride over rocks, rather than getting intimidated by them and slowing down.

As it stands, I'm still at the point where larger rocks make me nervous. For one, bright, shining moment on Friday, I thought I had figured it all out and was rolling right along down a moderate incline -- when I got ahead of myself and wrecked. It was the sort of slow-speed wreck that shouldn't have caused more than a momentary hitch, but I smacked my knee on a rock.

It's been a while since I've really crashed (in fact, I think the last time was that time I broke my wrist, and that came not as a beginner's mistake, but as an occupational hazard of racing, and I experienced the blinding flash of pain that momentarily made me think I was about to die. But, of course, I didn't -- and wasn't going to -- die, I jumped up and hobbled down the trail, pacing back and forth for a few minutes until the pain subsided. Then, the ride went on without further interruptions. Later, I found that my knee was swollen, and I had some scratches on my shin.

Two days later, my knee is still swollen, but I was able to ride on the road both Saturday and Sunday without pain -- so, I suppose, learning my limit was worth the momentary pain. But, I think I'll hold off on riding off road again until the swelling subsides.

Post No. 1,000: Occupy adulthood

This is a momentous blog post. For one thing, it's the season of my birthday -- I'll be 27 on Monday. Imagine that. Before you know it, I'll be ... 28.

For another thing, this is my 1,000th post here on GBBM. I don't know if I'd say that I, "never thought I'd see the day," but I can say that when I started this project in 2007, I didn't really know what to make of it. A blog? What's a blog? Will people read it? (there was a time when I cared if people read it) OK, whatever, I'll do it. Four years later, I'm still not really sure what this is all about. The difference, though, is that these days I'm more OK with not knowing, more secure in the knowledge that it's all going someplace -- even if I don't know where that place is quite yet.

1,000 is a fairly arbitrary number, and therefore feels like a potentially odd time for introspection. But, we're a people who love arbitrary events -- Why is Jan. 1 on the start of a new year, anyway? Couldn't the Earth's 365-day trip around the sun begin or end on any day of our choosing? Why is an 18 year old better equipped to vote than a 17 year old? -- and it's a nice, round number.

So, I got to thinking about everything that's happened to me during these thousand posts. There are the obvious things: I got a job, moved out of my parents' house, got another job, got another job, lost a job, got another job, moved to a new state. Some things that hurt: Money woes, crashes, hangovers, broken hearts (mine or hers). And the things that get taken for granted: haircuts (not enough), oil changes (too many), flat tires (on my bike, not my car), grocery shopping, cooking, taking out the trash (when stench was powerful enough to overcome laziness).

But, through it all, there was a general arc of a life changing (mine). I was reading, recently, a story in the Washingtonian about twentysomthings (oh, BTW, that's one word now, haven't you heard?), which painted us as an entitled, ungrateful, self-important lot who turn up their noses at jobs they deem below them. Yeah, I guess that's about right.

I still have friends (only a few, but still too many) who live with their parents, or otherwise accept help from home. Some have yet to cut a rent check that bears their own name. Others don't know their way around the grocery store (hint, the produce is almost always to your right as you walk in, meat case along the back wall). If I've accomplished nothing since moving back to Saratoga Springs to take a low-paying ($21,000, if you're curious) job at a newspaper, at least I've grown out from under my parent's wings.

No, fuck that. I've accomplished much more than just writing rent checks. According to that Washingtonian article, I've achieved what few in my generation have: I settled for a low-paying gig, worked my ass off and thanked my editors for (almost) every assignment, no matter how stupid, and was eventually rewarded with a job that I find intellectually satisfying and challenging. I wonder what I'd be doing now, had I passed on that newspapers' offer, and had instead chosen to continue living in Brooklyn, arguing with my parents about dirty dishes and selling sneakers. It's hard to say, but I'm going to guess that I wouldn't be where I am now.

Here's what I'm trying to get at: Social media, an upbringing that promised us the world and the lush '90s has separated many of my peers and I from our parents in one crucial way: Past generations did. They didn't waste years thinking about whether or not they were making the absolute right decision, or agonize about whether or not their job was as fulfilling as their college professors had promised, they just chose a path, and went for it. If it worked out, great. If not, they figured something else out. Can we expect more than past generations? Well, we can expect whatever we want, doesn't mean it's going to happen.

A good friend once observed that I had a very pragmatic view of relationships ("Well, I liked her a lot, but it wasn't going to work out in the long term, so, it sort of felt like there was no point, you know?"), and I've come to realize that my pragmatism is not limited to my view of romantic situations. But frankly, I think a bit of pragmatism can do everyone some good now and then.

Should we lower our expectations? Maybe. Should we be pragmatic about our choices? Yes. It's great to have goals, and it's admirable to try to achieve those goals. But what worries me is seeing lots of my peers still searching for jobs that aren't going to materialize, and putting the rest of their lives on hold in the meantime. just. do. something.

I referenced the ongoing "#Occupy" protests in the headline of this blog, mostly because the one thing I know about social media is that it's good to reference terms in your headline that are likely to garner (even accidental) hits on Google. But, I also had a sincere point to make about those protests. Here it is: There are a lot of people (many from my generation) participating in those sleep-ins, or whatever they are. I've said to anyone who's asked my opinion (like, two people), that I think the protesters need to organize themselves and come up with a coherent message and demands. As it stands now, all they're doing is bad math (99 percent? Please.), and moving away from pragmatism. They feel marginalized, but they're also not doing any thing to change their position -- not in their own lives, and not in the larger sense of the alleged 99-percent's alleged struggle with the alleged 1-percent. Instead of doing something, they're sitting around complaining about things they don't like -- and they can't even agree on what those things are. Typical, apparently, of my generation.

Remember the Civil Rights movement? They accomplished something. How'd they do it? Well, for one thing, they had a pretty damn good sense of what they wanted. It wasn't therichpeople'smoney/organicfood/domesticjobs/revisedimmigrationlaws/mycar'sbrokenandsomeone'sgottafixit. It was equal rights. Done. Simple. Oh, and a charismatic leader didn't hurt anything either. But our generation wouldn't know about that. I don't know about other institutions, but at my liberal arts school, all that was need to effect change was a few dozen students signing a petition about some trifling grievance. Unfortunately, that's not how it works in the real world -- but my peers must have skipped the lecture that day.

God damn, I did not realize how angry I was at so many of my peers! Thankfully, all hope is not lost. For every acquaintance I have living with their parents, there are several more out in the world doing things -- and many of them (pragmatic or not) have found things to do that fulfill them. Hell, it even appears that my brother will get a job some time in the next two or three months. Knowing, despite evidence to the contrary, that there are people in my generation who "do" makes me hopeful that we'll find a way to stop Facebook from taking over the world, and then maybe address our real problems in a meaningful way. We don't need to occupy Wall Street -- we need to occupy our lives to the fullest extent possible.

(Here's to one thousand more!)

Hitting the dirt

Back in June, when I had little elbow and no wrist, I went with Matt to the Stoopid 50, a 50-mile mountain bike race outside of Happy Valley. As far as races go, it was pretty fun -- nearly as cool as a 'cross race, and much cooler than your average road race. Even not racing, and alternately getting rained on and swatting at flies, I had a great time.

It also got me thinking, "I could do this." Sure, I wasn't going to out ride the speedy guys who were challenging for the podium, but there were plenty of slower folks just out for a good time. Plus, there was beer and pulled pork at the finish line. I mean, come on! Who wouldn't want to do that? I resolved to get a bike to test and to start riding off road, as soon as I regained the use of my arm.

Then, when I did regain said mobility, I was so concerned with getting back into shape for road racing, that I soon forgot about my off road delusions. Fast forward a couple of months: Racing was done and I was looking for fun ways to maintain some modicum of fitness without resorting to rollers this early in the off season, or running. Seemed like a good enough time to get back on the mountain bike track.

Incidentally, this happened last year too, after Jamie took me for a ride in October. Only, that time it didn't stick -- I was in the midst of moving and lots of other things. So, I'm a year late to the party, but at least I got here.

A few weeks ago, we started calling in some mountain bikes for our "tall" testers to try out -- most of our mountain bike test riders fit best on medium bikes, so there haven't been any bikes for me to chose from, but now I've got a Cannondale Scalpel 29er to test -- a dual-suspension, 100mm travel bike that's more technically advanced than my car, and is lighter than my first two road bikes.

Matt suggested we ride dirt at lunch today, and we did, heading to South Mountain -- trails I last explored by foot. The verdict? It was fun. I surprised myself a little by riding more obstacles than I thought I would have been able too. Of course, I also walked quite a few sections. But, like I said, it was fun. It's an entirely different challenge than I'm used to, and I greatly enjoyed the chance to think about where my pedals would need to go, and how I needed to re-adjust my weight to get over or around rocks, roots and logs.

While the trails were challenging, they also provided several opportunities to open the throttle and push the bike -- at least to the greatest extent that I felt comfortable. I have to say, mountain bikes have come a long way since I bought my Trek 820 in 1996. Dual suspension, combined with 29-inch wheels makes everything a lot easier on the trail, to say nothing of a fork that actually works as intended, and grippy tires. It's really no wonder I didn't have fun riding that old hardtail -- after just an hour on the Scalpel today it was immediately apparent that modern bikes can work with you in a way that my old bike never did or could have. Instead of fighting the bike today, I felt that I was able to let it go. It was really quite a rush.

The complexity is also somewhat staggering -- I needed help to set the sag on the suspension, and then, upon realizing that I needed to ride with a shock pump, became nervous about the possibility of something going wrong. Of course, nothing broke on our short ride -- and, anyway, the off-the-grid aspect of mountain biking is part of what appeals to me. But, before our next ride I think I'll take some time to better familiarize myself with the bike. Also, I'm going to need to stop the seat post from slipping -- my knees were killing me by the time we got back to the office.

In the near-term, I definitely see myself riding more dirt. In the longer term, the 2012 Stoopid 50 is eight months away...

Celebrating PA, on the bike and off

Third place prize
I was the low man on the podium at Crossasaurs Awesome
It was awesome! See what I can do when there's no mud and lots of straightaways?

My friends declared this weekend, "Pennsylvania Fest," and while I didn't participate in all of the Fest activities (choosing to sleep in and ride, instead of visiting the Yuengling brewery, Clover Hill Vineyards and Winery, and Cabella's), I did take some time to celebrate Pennsylvania in my own ways. Incidentally, a week from Monday will mark one year since I moved here.

How does a cyclist celebrate his adoptive state? Relaxing at a bonfire, drinking beer with friends, and riding bikes, of course.

It occurred to me today that, "went to a bonfire," requires a little explanation when talking to folks who haven't experienced the country life. Everyone loves a fire, and it's a pretty great, relaxing way to spend a couple hours, if you ask me. But, it's also not something that happens when you've lived your entire life in the city. Bonfires happened with some regularity in Saratoga -- particularly in the fall and winter. I always look forward to chances to warm my toes by the fire.

Anyhow, a relaxing bonfire turned into a trip to the VFW, before the party moved to the Jungle Room. A pretty solid Pennsylvania day.

On the bike front, I wound up leaving late to ride on Saturday. I still don't know as many of the roads around here as I'd like to -- so, I just simply took off, riding generally west and south, both on roads I know, and on roads that were new -- toward the setting sun. Knowing that I was likely to be rolling home at dusk, I'd brought a handlebar light along, as well as a blinky. It was a good thing, as around 4:30, on my way home, I came across Kiem Road. I'd ridden it once before, during the Rapha Gentleman's Race, but had no real memory of it. Bill talks of it often, as a favorite road, one that inspired him, and the last time I'd come across it on a previous exploration, I'd demurred, riding instead on toward home.

It was late, I had a bonfire to get to and I was running out of light, but I took the left anyway -- I was in an exploratory mood, and what the hell? It is a fun road. The dirt was in good shape, and the climb back up Oysterdale Road was a pleasant surprise. Then it got dark. I switched the lights on, and eventually made it home.

Today, on little sleep and a hangover I rolled to the Derby. Things got off to an amusing start, when the entire peloton acted collectively on bad advice, attempting to ride a bridge, only to discover that there was no pavement on the bridge, just lots of soil. After surviving the ordeal, the pace became slightly quicker than usual on the way out. After the turn, I quickly found myself off the front -- first in a group of three, and then in a group of five.

Both efforts were fairly painful, and lasted about 20 minutes, before the second group was finally overtaken, just a mile from the finish. I made a last-ditch solo dig, only to be (as-scripted), swarmed from behind. So it goes.

Not content to stop there, I rolled home and switched my skinny tires for (slightly) wider ones, taking the 'cross bike down to Crossasaurus Awesome, in Schwenksville. After last week's debacle here in Emmaus (I drank more beers than I completed laps of the course), I was racing in the Bs, which is the appropriate field for me. Because I have no points or standing of any kind at 'cross races, I started at the back of the small field. A crash in the first lap caused a slight delay, but the race was soon rolling along at full tilt.

I came through traffic on the first lap, arriving at the front to cheers of "rainbow warrior!" at the barriers (I was wearing my Bicycling Magazine kit). It was pretty sweet. Actually, I wasn't quite at the front -- there were two riders way ahead, racing for first and second. I initially settled into fourth, but was soon able to overtake the guy ahead of me, slotting into the last podium position, where I stayed for the next couple laps.

For a while, I thought I was gaining on the leaders, but I probably wasn't. In any event, I certainly wasn't going to be able to catch them, so I settled into a rhythm of trying to hold off the three riders who were coming up behind me.

They did eventually catch me, and I even briefly slipped back to fourth, but the course was very well suited to my specific 'cross abilities (applying watts to long straightaways), and I was able to open up big enough gaps on the non-technical bits to keep myself from risking the podium position -- until the last lap, when the three finally did catch me.

Even with a big burst of speed leading into the barriers, I came through with only a marginal lead -- and I'm about as fast over the barriers as your grandmother, so it wasn't going to be easy. Fortunately, I proved faster in the final sprint, and preserved my third-place finish. And, can I just say, tubulars are awesome for 'cross.

A day watching running

Looking south on 4th Avenue in Brooklyn
This was taken at about mile 7
We had a really hard time picking Rachel out of the crowd

At the end of the day today my back was aching, my legs were sore, and my hip was killing me -- but I wasn't saying anything, to anyone. Why not? All I did was walk around the city a little bit, ride the subway, and eat. I did also spend several hours cheering for runners in the NYC Marathon with Jamie and various others with connections to his wife/my friend Rachel, as well as Aunt Cindy.

However, I did not run a marathon, and therefore have no right to say anything about the physical state of my puny cyclist's body. Minor aches aside, it was a great way to spend a day, and it was the closest I've been to the race, since I rode with the elite wheelchairs in 2008 (and '07).

Much of the day was occupied by cheering on the runners (including spending some time in a sweet, unofficial VIP section), many of whom helpfully display their names on their clothes. The real highlight of the day, though, was overhearing the following conversation between a well-dressed lady cruising down Park Avenue and a Marathon finisher sitting a bench outside of Central Park, enjoying a well-earned Diet Coke with her male companion:

Well-dressed lady: "Finally sitting down?"

Runner: "Yup."

Well-dressed lady: "Gonna be hard to get up!"

Runner: "How would you know?"

A little rude? Yeah, sure. But I can almost guarantee that if I'd been in that runner's shoes, I would have retorted with a similar sentiment, but with more profanity: "How the fuck would you know, asshole?" It's the Brooklyn in me -- I can't turn it off. Given the enormity of running a marathon, I can only imagine how unwelcome the intrusion of an outsider who hasn't experienced the rigors of endurance events would be. Sort of like how I tire of explaining how long bike races are, or how fast they are.

And, as I've pointed out, I've never run a marathon, and likely never will. So, I don't get it, and don't claim to. But, I do understand that it's a huge accomplishment for the participants, and for anyone willing to spend the day outside, cheering the participants is a great way to be a part of the event. At first, it seems preposterous that cheering for someone could make any kind of difference in someone's day -- but then I think about the races I've done, and there is, without a doubt, a boost from the cheers. In that way, us lowly spectators, with bodies that could certainly not withstand the pounding that comes with a run of 26.2 miles, can be a part of it, potentially making a difference in someone's day, and, incidentally, having some fun along the way ourselves.

I may not enjoy running, but I can appreciate supporting those who do.

Some muddy photos

I was having a really good race tonight at Fifth Street tonight, sitting second wheel behind Jasen and rolling away from the rest of the race when I blew a flat and had to retire form the race. Boy was that disappointing. At least I feel like I'm getting the hang of piloting a bike around a 'cross course. I made up for the sad end to the race with ample drink following the race, undoing any good work that I'd done on the bike tonight.

I'll give it another go on Saturday, when I face off against Yozell at the first day of Bear Creek 'Cross. I wonder who'll win...

As I mentioned the other day, Travis accompanied me to HPCX last weekend, and took a few photos. Here were the best of the bunch:

After the race, muddy and miserable
The key advantage to nearly getting lapped:
I was the first to the power washer.

On a rare stretch of pavement
Unfortunately, I became unable to access the big ring mid-way through the race
I was effectively speed limited after that