tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784765005599332702024-03-14T00:23:58.632-05:00Charlie Farrow's Amateur Bike Racing Websiteamateur: n. 1. a person who engages in some art, science, sport, etc. for the pure pleasure of it rather than for money. 2. a person who does something without professional skill...derived from the french word "amare" which means "to love."
That's me...Even though I am without professional skill...far from it; I love adventure, I love climbing, I love a good Hard-core Stout, I LOVE DULUTH, MN and I am obsessed with cycling & no one pays me so much as a penny! I am the consummate Amateur...Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.comBlogger685125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-52021482444563818312014-06-06T15:37:00.003-05:002014-06-06T21:22:51.320-05:00Trans Iowa Part III "Come in," they moooo-ed. "We'll give you shelter from the storm." <b><span style="color: purple; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Sorry</span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"> for the substantial delay in submitting Part III of my personal
narrative involving the running of the Trans-Iowa. In my defense, I have been
super busy getting my dear Seniors ready for graduating from Esko High School. Here is an observation just to set the record
straight, today’s youth are just as compassionate and connected to the world
around them as we ever were. Of course, that’s not necessarily something to
brag about, still I find joy and humor in my interactions with the vast
majority of the teenagers that I deal with each and every day. Don’t believe me? Check out this recent article,
published by The Dailybeast </span><i>(<a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/05/28/today-s-clean-cut-teens-less-sex-less-drugs.html">http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/05/28/today-s-clean-cut-teens-less-sex-less-drugs.html</a>
). </i> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></b>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">During these last few dayz I have
spent with these fledgling adults, one message to them was to quote from the
great American poet who just recently passed away; namely Maya Angelo— <i>“Most people don’t grow up. Most people age.
They find parking spaces, honor their credit cards, get married, have children,
and call that maturity. What this is, is
aging.”</i></span></span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Appropriately,
I then cautioned them to resist the insidious, but all too common inclination
of modern adulthood. W<span style="color: purple;">hich is</span> to continuously complicate their lives with superfluous
endeavors and ravenous consumption. I offered several examples as my starting point for
an emotional long-winded rant, one was about the current state of cycling. One of which
was the absurdity of the marketing of shiny widgets and techno-contrivances the
bike industry offers up to the fanatical consuming bikers each year. This year’s gadgets include offering digital
derailleurs that will save you a ton of weight and only cost $800... Ultimately
beseeching my captive audience to join me in my quest to start a Neo-Luddite
movement where simplistic micro-communities reign, where people engage in
face-to-face conversations about books their reading, and where the populace
doesn’t buy into every new and shiny trinket the capitalists’ offer up for mass
consumption…But I digress…</span></span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Perhaps
it is a good thing that I have had several weeks to gain perspective on the
running of the tenth Trans-Iowa. On
reflection, one thing that pops into my mind is how hobbled I have become in
the last few years and how much faster the fast guyz have gotten. Back in the day, if the conditions were
doable, I would race the Trans-Iowa with an eye on finishing up in the top five
or at least in the top ten, of course back then it attracted only the most
dysfunctional and marginalized of Midwestern riders—in the early races, normal
people did not sign up for the Trans-Iowa.</span></span></b></div>
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</span></b><br />
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<b style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">It is
to Guitar Ted’s credit and commitment to the absurdly irrational, that this
race still attracts a relative high number of nerd-do-wells, bohemians, and
misfits—it’s why I keep coming down to Iowa every April. I suspect it is also why many of you also come
back each year or want to experience the event in the future. Just think about
it; early on, some ten years ago, back then when GT and his buddies put this
thing into motion, if you were a really talented cyclist with a bright future
ahead of you, you would not risk it on such an unglamorous and potentially
damaging event as the Trans-Iowa! Even
today, where the canvas is a different color; wherein gravel endurance events
have become vogue, and consequently expensive, even extravagant affairs. Where
“the Industry” produces special carbon and titanium bikes made specifically for
gravel; cutting edge bikes that one can pay many thousands of dollars for…All
in an effort to enjoy an advantage over those other old men in one’s age group
and also where full-on sponsored pros grace the tops of the results page. No
the Trans-Iowa is not a glitzy affair or a big production and I doubt it will
ever be and that is just fine by me. And I suspect you agree with me. <span style="color: purple;"> </span><span style="color: purple;">The Trans Iowa is about defeating ones demons…Defeating them alone </span></span></span></b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: large;"><b>with no fanfare or support!</b></span></div>
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</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">In any
event, this year I rode solely with the goal being to just try and finish the
damned thing. When I think about how
fast the top guyz were going this year, even against very significant headwinds,
including the performance by Troy Krause on a single speed, (not to mention
Barre riding a fixed gear bike), it really puts my forlorn effort into
perspective. It should come as no
surprise, but for those of you that don’t know me personally, I have never been
“exceptional” at anything in my long life, but due to several recent debacles
(this race included) I have grown even more humble in the assessment of my
achievements and yet also more respectful of the really exceptional
achievements of those of whom I have known over the years. In the context of the Trans-Iowa, I am
thinking of two guyz associated with this event over the years. In my mind, Troy Krause and Mike Johnson have
become synonymous with the characteristics needed to do well in this event,
namely mental toughness and physical perseverance. This year they once again
turned in most impressive results.</span></span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">To be
honest when I think about this year’s Trans-Iowa, essentially three
peculiarities come to mind. The first
two were essentially acts of God while the third involves a reaction or a
manifestation of these acts of God. I
remember strong headwinds. You know, the
kind of incessant wind that make that distressingly disturbing relentless roaring
sound in ones helmet, all the time wearing steadily away at the resolve of even
the most stoic of willful riders. The second
was the rain that came with nightfall. The third was the generosity of cows...</span></span></b></div>
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</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">At one
point, well into the evening hours, the rains became torrential and spiteful in
its delivery. At its peak, the downpour was
so intense that Jay Barre and I sought “shelter from the storm” within a large
metal sided barn-like structure. The
large barn doors were locked, but the doors were old and badly rotted away at
their base, allowing for a jagged gap just large enough to allow us the
opportunity to squeeze through, crawling through the barnyard muck on our stomachs.
Once inside we were treated to a small mountain of fresh hay bales and a
gathering of scared calves. I nodded a sincere
salutation in the general direction of our newly befriended bovines, grabbed a
few broken hay bales and fashioned a soft bed. Resting my old bones in the
supine position, I smiled the smile of sweet salvation. Nothing mattered to me
at that brief moment of respite other than the contentment of non-movement and good cheer directed towards my partner. I looked over at the youthful Barre, who was involuntarily nodding,
fighting the good fight to stay awake. I
remember thinking that it doesn’t get any better than this…</span></span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">At this
late date, that’s what I most vividly remember about the tenth running of the
Trans-Iowa. <span style="color: purple;">Hanging out with Jay Barre</span>, late night or maybe early morning, in
that barn with the cowering cows, while the<span style="color: purple;"> Demons of Despair outside</span> tried to conquer us…</span></span></b></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-63602585726820252582014-05-02T15:55:00.001-05:002014-05-02T15:55:21.339-05:00Part 2: Perhaps a little context would be helpful?
<br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 241, 168); margin: 0in 12.95pt 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Part II: Some context or “How I came to lie down upon the fresh grass on
that lonely road, just six miles from my goal of finishing the tenth running of
the Trans-Iowa.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 241, 168); margin: 0in 12.95pt 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>… Learning is defined as “a modification of a behavioral tendency by
experience (as exposure to conditioning).” Basically what I get from that
is that learnin’ involves not making the same mistake over and over
again. So based on that definition, I not be a “learneded” man, cuzin’ if
I was… I’d NOT keep headin’ down to Grinnell, Iowa nearly every spring in
search of clarity through sufferin’. Whilst my memory is not a personal
characteristic that I am proud of, to the best of my recollections, I’ve have
now made the late April trip down to Iowa on five occasions to partake in
Guitar Ted’s Classic Gravel suffer-fest and to the best of my knowledge I ain’t
any better elucidated than had I stayed home… </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 241, 168); margin: 0in 12.95pt 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>The first time I tried the Trans-Iowa, I did Okay, plus I got away with a
respectable effort by tucking behind two better cyclists than I’ll ever be (or
was): One of them was this amazingly strong young buck named John Gorilla and
the other was an enduro-machine from Michigan that was on a SS Gary Fisher
Superfly 29er. The conditions were tough (very windy, wet, and cold), but
not too tough, so we were going well, putting a lot of time on the rest of the
couple remaining riders, one of whom was the indomitable Charles Parsons…Then
suddenly and anticlimactically, in the later evening hours of that Saturday
night (the bars were still open, but it was late out, maybe 10 or 11 pm or 18
or so hours into it), GT had to call the race because of an impasse up the
road. A bridge had washed out and there was no way to change the racecourse, so
late into the event. So I walked away from that one not too
damaged. One lesson not learned the first time was: There is a BIG
difference between riding for eighteen hours and riding for more than
twenty-eight hours or even more. I guess I didn’t realize that as I made the
drive back home to Duluth after that first effort. </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 241, 168); margin: 0in 12.95pt 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>The next time (I think it was the following April), nearly killed me. The
only time I have been nearer to death during a bike race was during the
Tuscobia some years back (but thatz another story). Like the year before,
I went out with the leaders, trying to ride with Joe Meiser, Dave Praman, and
my training partner, Tim Ek. Meiser and Pramann attacked early in the
race, Eki and I were in the right place, so we went them and thus the foursome
put some major time on the rest of the field. During the daylight hour of
that perfect Saturday, Eki and I were just along for the ride, barely hanging
on. Eki got a flat and got dropped, but bravely fought his way back to the
three of us. Ultimately Eki was strong enough to hold on, and the three
of them lead by the Über strong Meiser went on to collectively ride an
impressive winning time of just over 25 hours or something incredible like
that…I got dropped about ten or so hours into it and then really struggled. It
was not a pretty sight; a grown man sprawled out on a lonely gravel road,
barely strong enough to endure the dry-heaves. I had gone out way
too fast and was completely shattered, especially during the dreaded nighttime
hours. Four things saved me: 1.) The conditions were really good; 2.)
Even though with the setting of the sun, I was alone, I didn’t get lost during
the night; 3.) I’d built up a lot of cushion in terms of time to spare, when I
was riding with the winners, so I was able to take a reinvigorating two or
three hour nap in a cemetery and still stay within the time constraint; and 4.)
I was lucky enough that with the rising sun, I was able to latch on to a group
of three or four guyz. These three factors allowed me to make the finish
line, but I was incredibly fatigued and swore I’d never do another Trans-Iowa.
It is important to note that Ben Shockey was amongst the riders that finished
that year—He rode the course on a fixed gear bike! </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Of course, I did not learn my lesson and so I headed
down to Iowa again the next year. The third Trans-Iowa, I tried was
probably the one that I was most ready for in terms of fitness. Four of
us from Duluth had trained hard all winter and we collectively felt like we
could influence the race given our fitness and experience. </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jason Buffington was along as
was Eki, both endurance machines with the horse-power to win the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was probably the most in shape I’d been in
20 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My altruistic plan was to try
and help either Buffington or Eki (or best case scenario: both) win the thing
and in doing so, to personally finish in the top five.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem was that the conditions were
horrendous including biblical rains a subsequent very soft track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even so, we were doing well and making
good time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only Gorrilla and Meiser were
a little wayz ahead of our chase group that included Lance Andre, Charley Tri,
Eki, Buffington, and me as we headed into the 2<sup>nd</sup> check point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was feeling good, the best I have ever felt
in a Trans Iowa, so good that I began to believe that we could pull of a top
finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But alas the rains began again
in earnest, to the point that even Buffington (Buffington never ever quits)
became convinced that there was no way that the race could continue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His assessment was that given the time
constraint of 34 hours combined with the incredibly slow conditions, the only
conclusion was that no one would make the full course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The consensus was that to continue on with
the certainty of not making the cut-off was foolhardy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mieser, Gorilla, and few other guyz rode up
the route for another hour or so, but they too pulled out at the next
town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the third Trans-Iowa in
which nobody finished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Once again I did not learn my lesson in 2011, so
I headed down, down, down yet another time to battle the gravel in April
2012.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As stated recently in a post I
made the same mistakes of going out too hard and then getting hopelessly
lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They picked me up in a car and rode me home in dishonor... </span></strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>In 2013, I was too wiped out from the Iditarod
Trail Invitational to even attempt the Trans-Iowa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 241, 168); margin: 0in 12.95pt 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Which brings me to the 2014 version of the Trans-Iowa from the
perspective of one use to seating in the cheap seats. Armed with my
propensity to not learn from my previous mistakes coupled with my forgetful
nature, I began to plan this year’s version without a care in the world. </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 241, 168); margin: 0in 12.95pt 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>The whole drive-train on my old trusty titanium Merlin was sorely in need
of replacement, to the degree that I doubted it could make the 300+ rugged
miles associated with the typical Trans Iowa, so I did the rational thing for a
man without any extra monies and limited cognitive skills. I decided to run my
old Kelly single speed, the bike I use all winter to commute. I figured,
“how hard can it be?” Trying to be smart about committing to riding a
singlespeed in the T.I., I figured a smart guy would ask his even smarter
buddies about what they thought about the idea. Isn’t that what smart people
do? Smart people ask even smarter people for advice. So, I asked my buddy Tim
Ek what he thought about the idea, when his advice was not what I wanted to
hear, I forgot about it and never asked him again. I asked my buddy
Jeremy Kershaw about what he thought about my choice of gearing, when he
indicated that he felt I was going with a gearing that was too stout, I forgot
about it and never asked him again. </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 241, 168); margin: 0in 12.95pt 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>The more I considered my plan, the more it made sense to me, and the
smarter I began to feel. When I heard that the youthful and talented Jay
Barre of the secretive Slender Fungus was going to run a fixed gear bike at the
T.I. my heart soared. I quickly emailed him and asked for his
advice. I figured, by that point, that if I was being smart about riding
a single speed, then that must make Jay a bonafide genius for riding a
fixie. What developed was a kind of intellectual synergy betwixt the two
of us smart people, since I had a smart guy to advise me, I no longer needed to
consult with the guyz that I normally ride with up here in Duluth. I knew
that a guy that was going to ride a bike for 343 miles on a bike of which one
could neither shift gears or coast had to be a genius. Jay Barre was very
helpful in sealing my fate for the T.I. #10….Thank you Mr. Barre…(looking back
I guess I never considered that he was way way stronger than me?)</strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 241, 168); margin: 0in 12.95pt 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> So I arrived to the quaint little college town of Grinnell, Iowa
fired up to battle the hilly gravel road of Iowa…no worse from the wear of four
previous efforts. Did I mention that I love this race?</strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Look for Part III in a couple dayz…</strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Part III: The race begins on a beautiful spring
morning……</strong></span></span></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-87392482350945029522014-04-29T15:42:00.000-05:002014-04-30T07:02:20.462-05:00Trans-Iowa Transgressions: Part I: Time is Finite...<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Part I: Making Summits matter in mountaineering, just as making
the finish line matters in the Trans‑Iowa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Either way, if you don’t make the goal, you fail. </span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Every dead hope is a phantom that grimaces over its tomb.</span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div align="right" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: right;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">EDWIN LEIBFREED,
"The White Feet of the Morrow"</span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<cite><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I stared again,
concentrating with rapt attention on my watch, my eyes hurt, my sight was
blurry, slow to focus, my hands were shaky, but the conclusion was undeniable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was seventeen or sixteen minutes before
2:00 pm last Sunday, I was not going to make it. I had burned my last match a
few miles back down the road, I was finished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The music in my head went dead. I was done. I was neither happy nor sad,
I felt nothing…I stopped pedaling, and put my feet down on the ground. I hesitated
and sorta looked around, it was a weird, surreal moment, for I had not really looked
around all that much whilst I was on the move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even the relentless wind seemed to pause…It felt strange to not be on the move...</span></span></b></cite></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<cite><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Like an old automaton
from a less complicated era, I stiffly climbed off my old trusty single-speed Kelly
‘cross bike and let it fall over into the grass. I pulled off my mud caked camelback
and tossed it on the grass as well. I did the same with my helmet. My body was
heavy and unwieldy, so I sat down hard, almost uncontrollably, on the grass
next to my artifacts of a T.I. battle fought and lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sitting up on the side of a rural, nondescript
hilly gravel road near to Grinnell, Iowa. </span></span></b></cite></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<cite><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Finally after hours
upon hours of fighting it, I let gravity take me and before I knew it I was
laying flat out on my back with my legs straight out. The cessation of movement
was so wonderful, so satisfying, that I just laid there and relished, at the most
basic primordial level, the calm sense of being; a sense of uncomplicated existence
washed over me, nothing really to think about other than the sheer experience
of being alive in the moment and being able to draw in a breathe of air.</span></span></b></cite></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<cite><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I laid there in an
exquisite comatose for what turned out to be only a few minutes, but this quiet
time allowed me to clear my head. Again, I automatically checked my watch, it
was just a few minutes before 2:00 pm; the race was still on. A fleeting
thought of serendipitous optimism: Did I still have a chance? Reality quickly
re-emerged; I was less than six miles from the finish of the tenth running of
the classic Trans-Iowa, but I knew now beyond any doubt that I was not going to
make it in to the finish line by the cut-off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span></b></cite></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<cite><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Momentarily I thought of
calling Guitar Ted, the iconic race director, to plead for just another
hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My head was clear enough to know
that I’d need another hour even though I was only six miles out; I was going
that slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about using some
kind of lame excuse about how old I am or how the single speeders should get extra-time,
or how he could put a footnote by my name designating me an “unofficial”
finisher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as I labored to cognitively
construct a reasonable argument to present to him, I became to realize
unequivocally that such a request would only force him into the difficult and incredibly
unfair position of having to tell me, “no.” My conclusion was sound; it is his
race, his rules, his parameters, and I respect him way more than some displaced
need that I may have about being able to claim my efforts during this race as being
legitimate within the context of the rules of the Trans-Iowa. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The rules state that the race ends after 34 hours at 2:00 pm on Sunday, even in my devolved state I could understand that fact...So...</span>Instead, I did the right thing; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called my buddy, Jeremy Kershaw, and asked
him to come get me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him that was
just up the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d be the guy in the
ditch, covered in barn-yard muck, laying next to a bike and some other muddy
and wet gear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So it goes….</span></span></b></cite></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Stay tuned for Part II in the very near
future…</span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Part II: Optimism runs HIGH: The
beginning of the tenth running of the Trans-Iowa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of
things, and good things never die (from Shawshenk Redemption) </span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">“Somewhere between the bottom of the
climb and the summit is the answer to the mystery of why we climb."
<cite><span style="color: windowtext;">— Greg Child.</span></cite></span></span></i></b></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-38827390689953681552014-04-21T12:09:00.001-05:002014-04-21T19:01:55.810-05:00Your cheatin' heart...<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: yellow;">Guitar
Ted</span>,</span> founder and director of the classic “unsupported” Trans-Iowa gravel
cycling races recently wrote down some thoughtful and compelling observations about
the likelihood of some past Trans-Iowa racers engaging in less than honorable
activities (the 10th running starts this upcoming Saturday). Suspect activities such as receiving
outside assistance from ones "covert support group" and other sketchy digressions were mentioned as examples of clear violations of the rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As all good writing does, his thoughts became
the basis of an interesting discussion. In this case, the conversation was amongst
a small group of riders as we cruised along the back-roads of old Duluth on
Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got home, I decided to
put ink to paper in an attempt to better articulate my thoughts on this topic of
cheating. </span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></strong><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="font-size: large; mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong> </strong></span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">As
a high school teacher, I deal with this issue of cheating on a fairly routine
basis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something like 80% of high school
kids admit to cheating at some point during their four years, so I know that
some kids will cheat in my classes. At the onset of every class, as a kind of prompt, I always tell my
students that any test, essay, or assignment that they do in my class is not worth the
price of cheating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some kid will inevitably
raise his or her hand and ask the appropriate question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The question<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>goes something like this (at least I am hoping for it): “<em>Whatz that
mean? Why is your class not worth cheating for?”</em> My response is that, <em>“I get that most
everybody cheats at some point, but smart people have learned that when deciding
to cheat, ya gotta do a cost/benefit analysis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That means that you gotta think about whether or not the awards or
benefits associated with getting away with the cheating is worth the risk or <u>costs</u> of
getting caught.”</em></span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></strong><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">The
next question I am hoping for is: “<em>So whatz the cost of getting caught cheating
in your class?”</em> Now I know that they are expecting me to say something like,
“<em>Ya won’t graduate or you will get suspended, you’ll get an F or I’ll call your
parents or something like that.”</em> Essentially, what they are expecting is for me
to tell them that if they get caught cheating they will be hit with some kind
of formal sanction. Yet, what I tell them is this—“<em>I’ll be super disappointed
with you, I’ll probably never trust you again, chances are we will never be friends,
and I’ll tell my friends and co-workers that you are a cheater.”</em> I go on to add that, <em>“So in
this class, the risks or costs are not worth the benefit in that the reward for not cheating is my respect and my friendship...</em><em>Because our
friendship is way more important or beneficial than any grade can get for you in this class.”</em>
The simple, but poignant idea, of course, is that when your reputation and/or respect is at stake, the respect and friendship you have earned from your peers is priceless and so clearly not worth the price of cheating. I may be wrong, but I honestly suspect that only a little bit cheating goes on in my
classes. As for the ones that do cheat, they clearly do not enjoy the respect of
the other members. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> By cheating they damage their reputations. </span>Research bears out
the fact that in most situations, informal sanctions are more powerful than consequences associated
with formalized punishments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></strong><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">In
fact in my sociology course, just a few dayz ago, we did a short lesson on the
socio-psychology of cheating. The Atlantic Monthly dedicated a pretty
comprehensive article on cheating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Essentially the conclusion was that most people will cheat given a
certain set of circumstances, but only malcontents will cheat in situations such
as the Trans-Iowa, where a guy’s reputation is essentially the only thing at
stake.</span></strong><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><strong><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">For
one to cheat in any competition, other than perhaps in the high stakes financial
realm of a few professional sports, but especially in an amateur long distance
gravel road race, too me seems like the pinnacle of moral dysfunction or
misplaced value.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who the hell cares? It
don't mean nothin' to nobody except the guyz doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Itz the guyz that you are riding with that matters...Thatz why itz so cool...</span>The whole thing is
about the experience. To cheat in a highly cohesive, inclusive group such as
those like-minded individuals in a race such as the Trans-Iowa and thus to risk
one’s reputation amongst the in-group seems absurd (Note: </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">an in-group
is a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_group" title="Social group"><span style="color: blue;">social
group</span></a> to which a person <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Self-categorization_theory" title="Self-categorization theory"><span style="color: blue;">psychologically identifies</span></a> as being a
member). </span></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></strong><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Thank you, Guitar Ted </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Georgia; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Georgia; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></span></em></span></strong>Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-54279113779042055522014-04-21T11:57:00.002-05:002014-04-21T11:57:22.535-05:00Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-40269076909838443262014-04-11T14:17:00.004-05:002014-04-11T14:17:56.028-05:00Yet another reason why my chances (for survival) look good for the Trans-Iowa Part X<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><span style="background-color: yellow;">Pre Trans-Iowa positive
thought of the day…or <em>”puttin’ a positive spin on seemingly a hopeless situation.”</em></span></strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">Obese Heart Attack Patients Are More Likely To Survive
After Treatment Than Normal Weight Patients</span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Date:</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> June 22, 2007</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 5.75pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Oxford University Press</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 5.75pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Summary: </span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Obese and very obese patients have a lower risk
of dying after they have been treated for heart attacks than do normal weight
patients, according to new research. Researchers found that amongst patients
who had received initial treatment for a specific type of heart attack, those
that were obese or very obese were less than half as likely to die during the
following three years as patients who had a normal body mass index.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 5.75pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>This is good news for me as I prepare for the
upcoming trans-Iowa….</strong></span></span></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-1156743829979965472014-04-10T15:22:00.000-05:002014-04-10T15:22:47.425-05:00Why I could have won the Trans Iowa....but now I won't be winning.....<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong>How I could have won
the tenth running of the Trans-Iowa….But it would have been morally and
ethically wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong>Whether it is in
pursuit of summits or even victory on a bicycle; style matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fastest guyz heading down to Iowa on the
last weekend of April to compete in the T.I. will be pleased to hear that I
will NOT be using Kershaw’s time-trial bars on my trusty Gunnar (or
Kelly).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put them on last night (rather
than go for a training ride) and they initially seemed kinda cool, but my
daughter mocked me sayin’ that those were for fast guyz not old fat guyz and
then I couldn’t get them to stay in one position (no matter how tight I cranked
the fastener bolts, both kept slipping down). So I did the right then and
quickly gave up on the idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem
with me is that I’ll do just about anything right now to try and figure out a
way that I can finish that monster route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As stated in a recent post, itz not the distance that is keeping me up
at nights, itz covering the distance in the allotted time-frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got enough miles in over the last thirty
years to not be psyched out by covering a lot ground going nearly nonstop and
unsupported, but to make 340 miles in 34 hours, that’s gonna be hard for me…. </strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong>The last time I tried
the Trans Iowa was in 2012.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just too
tired to do the one last year as I was just back from Alaska and my whole body
was racked with fatigue well into spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In 2012, I showed up to the race feeling good, so I took off hard and
stayed with the leaders, but after about eight hours I was really starting to
soak in the proverbial hurt-tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Quickly, I was dropped and then not long after being dropped, I
unknowingly took a wrong turn and got hopelessly lost. After what must have
been a couple hours or so, I finally lucked out and got to a small town, found
a phone and contacted Guitar-Ted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With
his help, I was able to backtrack and get back on route but I was hopelessly
behind in terms of making the time cuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I made the second checkpoint by just a few minutes and then basically fell
victim to the Demons of Despair and Misery as I entered the sadistic realm of long long night
time on the back roads of Iowa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">G.T. mercifully sent </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Matt Gersib out to retrieve me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m probably too bull headed to have made
such a pick-up call, but when the sag-wagon appeared, I made no dissenting
remarks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Matt told me to get in the car and I complied. </span>Had Matt not generously come to
my aid, I probably would have crashed out in a field (or preferably a
cemetery), languished in the supine position for a few hours, and then limped my sorry ass back into Grinnell well after the
time parameter, and well after everyone else had gone home...</span></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><strong>I guess my point is
that this year my plan for success has to be to start the race at a reasonable
pace, maintain that pace, and to NOT get lost…</strong></span></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-16615808880463042162014-04-09T14:52:00.001-05:002014-04-09T14:52:30.053-05:00I be too busy to write......<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b><i><span><span> </span>“You get to the top of a wall,
there’s nothing up there. Lionel Terray, the great French climber called it
‘The conquistadors of the useless.’ Yeah, the end result is absolutely useless,
but every time I travel, I learn something new and hopefully I get to be a
better person.” </span></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i><span>– <a href="http://www.180south.com/crew_yvon.html"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Yvon
Chouinard</span></a>, 180 Degrees South [Note: the idea of the conquistadors of
the useless is so apropos when considering the material rewards one earns with
taking on and completing the Trans-Iowa.<span>
</span></span></i></b></span><b><i><span></span></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Below are the
ramblings of a man well past his prime. A man troubled by a race that awaits
him in Iowa in just a few weeks away…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A man, too busy
doing nothing worth writing about. <span> </span>A
very, very, busy man, a man too busy to take just a few minutes to reflect on
the direction of his so-called “life.” Truth be told, what we have here is an
aged-man who claims to have no time to write but admittedly also the same aged
man that really has nothing really to show for being so busy. If he’s so busy,
one may logically ask, “Where are the results?” <span> </span>“What do you have to show for being so busy?” Think
of a guy like John Kerry.<span> </span>It would be
one thing to submit an excuse on the order of; “I’ve been super busy working
out a lasting peace deal betwixt the Israelis and the Palestinians. As well as
figuring out a way for the average Syrian to live in peace” ; Or Mark Zuckerberg,
“Please forgive my lack of writing, but you must understand that that I am brokering
a super important deal between Facebook and Twitter.”<span> </span>Or Bjorn Dahlie, (the best excuse possible): “Just
can’t write ‘cuz I am battlin’ my way across the top of Greenland on my trusty skis
and a small group of friends<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Too be honest, truth
be told, itz a sad situation in that really nothing much has happened for me of
late. <span> </span>Can’t claim nothing of interest or
even remotely impressive to report. No monumental, no earth-changing things
have been achieved by the writer, of late…It’s a sad situation for a Man,
(especially a man with one foot in the grave) to be devoid of meaningful results,
to be devoid of important things to report, or even to be devoid of interesting
retrospective comments on a life well lived. This lack of news to report, this
inability to add to one’s overall existential timeframe, makes me think that I
have become a man who is essentially already on the proverbial downward slope
or at least existing in a kind of holding area.<span>
</span>A man that is not fired up for his next great adventure is a man that
has thrown in the towel…think: Roberto Duran’s version of, “No mas.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">…. In any event,
after months of pretty much just getting through it day to day, or putting on a
brave face, or “playing silly games” that I associate with the banal artificial-constructs
or daily mundane tasks of modern life, (punctuated briefly by periodically
vicarious moments stimulated by my daughter’s ski and track meets) I have
finally found time to write, but alas there is little of interest to share… Please
understand that I am not blaming anyone for my recent harried, albeit
uninteresting life-style, for the cages or prisons that we build, especially in
this country, are largely self-built. <span> </span>Even
so, it is delusional for one to wish for self-actualization, even at basic very
basic level, when engaged in activities that seem quite trite and meaningless…but
I digress. <span> </span>Finally I am able to put my
ideas to paper. As alluded to above, there is not much to report…but there are
perhaps a few noteworthy or semi-honorable struggles of which I have engaged in
the last several months. Below is a brief summation….</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In
late-December, stalwart Eki, the youthful and most talented Peterson, and I
made a decent effort to be the first to ride from Duluth to Grand Marais via
the North Shore Trail but heavy fresh snow during the second day, coupled with
very cold temperatures broke our spirit compelling us to bail after two very
cold nights out. It was my third failed winter attempt on this route.<span> </span>The North Shore Trail is significantly more
challenging than the Arrowhead Trail.<span> </span>On
a happier note, Chris Finch and Cousin Jay, both of Duluth, did make the first
winter ascent in late January.<span> </span>They
completed the route in four or five days completely unsupported.<span> </span>Anyone that has tried the route, in any season
or condition, knows that these guyz have earned serious bragging rights.<span> </span>Bravo Mr. Finch and Mr. Gliddings!<span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In late January,
the Arrowhead 135 commenced on a pretty much regular or normal Monday morning given
that itz winter and the fact that the geographical position of International
Falls places it right next to Canada.<span> </span>Even
so, the temperature, (somewhere in the negative twenties at the start)
inexplicably seemed to somehow “surprise” many of the bike racers, causing many
to pull the plug.<span> </span>For me it was a
relatively uneventful race for the trail was solid, the skies were clear, and
the slight wind beneficial or at least indifferent (except for a brief period
of head winds, whilst crossing the lake to the half-way checkpoint).<span> </span>In my world, I’d take a cold and
solid-tracked trail any day over a warm and slushy trail. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In any event, I
had planned to either walk it or preferably to ski it, but due to several
snow-day closing at my school coupled with the surprising success of my kid’s
first High School cross-country ski season (she made it to STATE as a 7<sup>th</sup>
grader1), I was forced at the last minute to bike the 135 miles as I just could
not justify being gone from my job the extra day or two it would have required
of me if I have tried the route without a bike.<span>
</span>Although I had not been on the bike leading up to the race, I had
understood the serious implications of trying to complete the Arrowhead 135
sans a bicycle, so I had trained pretty much every day for many months, either
man-walking or skiing; the result being that I felt really good for the whole
race. As always the most meaningful experiences in these kinds of events are
social.<span> </span><span> </span>Seeing old friends and interacting with new
and interesting folks.<span> </span>I rode a lone
wayz with two really nice guyz, Adam Curtis and Chris Tassava.<span> </span>All in all it was really a fun event.<span> </span>My plan is to keep doing that race until I am
70…and beyond. Given the generous time frame (60 hours to finish it) there
really is little reason to not finish it if you live by one of my main mantras:
<i>“When in serious doubt, when itz getting
really crazy, when all hope seems lost, <b>take
a nap</b>. The longer the better.”</i><span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b><span style="background-color: purple;">Which brings me to the upcoming classic Trans-Iowa</span><span style="background-color: white;">.</span></b><span style="background-color: yellow;"> </span>The reason I believe that the Trans-Iowa
is the toughest event that I have done in cycling is because of itz most <u>challenging
time-constraint</u> of 34 hours….Thatz 320+ miles in 34 hours(this year the
rumor is that the course is 340+ miles) .<span>
</span>I know that as you read this…you are thinking that it sounds reasonable
to average 10 mph for 34 hours, but when you start to add in significant route-finding
challenges, tough road conditions, lotz of hills, mechanicals, and general
fatigue setting in…just finishing the damn thing is a huge accomplishment………..So
hopefully I can now start to find time to write and also I hope that I can
write in a few weeks time that I been pretty busy…busy completing the arduous Trans-Iowa
Part X…Now thatz a fine excuse…an excuse that folks can understand…and even
appreciate.<span> </span>More to come.....</span></span></div>
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Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-25230923744475800712013-10-25T14:12:00.002-05:002013-10-26T12:20:02.705-05:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000;">"I am just going outside and may be some time."</span> Captain Oates</span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Dear Members of the DBD Adventure Society and other persons of high interest:</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">As you well know, completing the Arrowhead 135 on a bicycle has become a routine, mundane, even boring endeavor enjoyed by both common men and even common women folk. It has become like climbing Everest, no more than jaunt out in the hill country. So in the interest of hardihood combined with the pursuit of manly deeds, I am inviting you to break from the masses and to engage the Arrowhead 135 in a more sporting fashion. Therefore I write to encourage you to forgo the tried and conquered mode of two-wheeled transport and to instead take on the Arrowhead Trail either by foot or ski. </span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">To inspire, I have decided to create the Captain Oates Manhaulers Society (C.O.M.S.). C.O.M.S. will act as a scaffolding apparatus by which worthy men will be able to share ideas and concerns as we begin preparations for the AH135 challenge. During the course of our preparations it is my hope that we can develop appropriate dictates by which our men can be expected to conduct themselves during the race. COMS members and other interested parties will be able to offer suggestions and protocols via Mr. Farrow’s blog (</span><a href="http://cpfarrow.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">http://cpfarrow.blogspot.com/</span></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> )</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Please indicate with a reply, if you are interested. If you are NOT interested and instead have your eyes on a new $5000 carbon snowbike, please forever cut any ties with me and know that you are dead to me. Also, If you do not know who Captain Oats is...well there is no need for you to contact us. </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Best regards, </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">G. Mallory</span></span></b></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-50503661414507322812013-08-12T08:35:00.001-05:002013-08-12T15:15:56.865-05:00I went to a garden party: Ya can't please everyone...so ya gotta please yourself!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Juxtaposition—<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">Definition: </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">an act or instance of placing close together or side by
side, especially for comparison or contrast. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">In <a href="http://grammar.about.com/od/c/g/compositionterm.htm"><span style="text-decoration: none;">composition</span></a>,
the placing of verbal elements side by side, leaving it up to the reader to
establish connections and impose a <a href="http://grammar.about.com/od/mo/g/meaningterm.htm"><span style="text-decoration: none;">meaning</span></a>. These
verbal elements (words, clauses, sentences) may be drawn from different sources
and juxtaposed to form a literary <a href="http://grammar.about.com/od/c/g/Collage.htm"><span style="text-decoration: none;">collage</span></a>. (Source: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wikipedia</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Buying a salad at a burger joint. Mixing beer with
tequila.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Kentucky Fried
Chicken sold pizza. When middle-aged people get drunk at weddings and try to
dance like the young people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guys that get
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their puffy ankles. People who kill wild animals because they love nature.
Mountain bike courses that do not require mountain bikes. When a gas station
has a Subway and a DQ under the same roof. Once proud dogs that are forced into silly bouffant
haircuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Racing on snowshoes when its
faster if you don’t have snowshoes on. Big tough Harley riders that ride motorized
tricycles.</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">My muse comes with the
thought that there is something to the old adage that “one cannot have his cake
and eat it (too).”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This idea stems from
my experiences at the recent Rusty Ride 100 miler over at Crosby-Ironton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to please everyone is a difficult
proposition that in the end is probably impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The course was composed of four approximate
twenty-five mile laps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With each lap, the
apparent concept was to uniquely provide a cycling experience composed of all five
of the current popular modes of bicycle racing in the Midwest. Namely;
endurance racing, gravel road racing, road racing, cyclocross, and mountain
bike racing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To achieve such an
ambitious end, each lap was composed of basically three separate and juxtaposed
segments- all of about the same length. Segment one consisted of basic flat
asphalt (and a little gravel).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kind of tarmac, which a fast
and strong flatland roadie would appreciate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Segment two was a winding, fast curving, and somewhat rolling grass
pathway that meandered through pretty wild flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Segment two would cater to a fast and skilled
cyclocross rider. Segment three was composed of a tightly cornered and fun,
albeit moderate aspect of the Cuyuna Mountain Bike Trail system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Here a good rider was treated to a sampling of some decent terrain. </span></span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It was a tough thing to
pull off and while I enjoyed the Cuyuna part, I languished on the tarmac and
simply endured the grass pathway. Perhaps others enjoyed the other aspects. The
undeniable fact of the matter is that to win such a race one has to truly be a well-rounded
rider.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> Kudos to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">Mr. Larry Sauber</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> for a top notch effort and the win. On the many (and unique) "two-way traffic sections" in which riders flew by each other, he always looked very strong. </span></span></span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia;"><b><i>Note: They had run out of the promised free indie beer when I finished...which made me very sad indeed. In fact I was inconsolable. My therapist feels it will take some time to heal. </i></b></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-26951257440468218022013-07-24T15:33:00.000-05:002013-07-24T20:54:29.977-05:00Eugene Curnow Trail Marathon: An Insider's View?<!--[if !mso]>
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<i><i><b>Postscript: As part of
my duties as <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">DBD Adventure Club Chronicler</span>, I was recently charged with the
task of researching the social factors inherent within the long distance trail
running sub-group that seems to be thriving here in the Northland. The Club’s
leadership, lead mainly by the Mallory faction, has become concerned about a
couple members who seem to have been inexplicably drawn to these people and
their strange ways. Fundamentally my job was to determine whether our boyz were
being drawn in to a counterproductive cult or that these people have adopted
habits and traditions that may be advantageous to the pursuit of adventure and
thus should garner a more detailed study. The following is an abridged version
of my report as submitted to the DBD Honor Board during the summer of 2103.</b></i></i><br />
<i><i><b><br /></b></i></i>
<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Why do they run?</span></b></i></div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">
</span></i>
<br />
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In an effort to understand that strange subcultural set
comprised of long distance runners, two weekends past I covertly entered their
realm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My primary goal was to make an
effort to understand these people and their unusual ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, to initiate the groundwork to
begin an unbiased anthropological study of the long distance trail runner. Now
of course if you are an adventure cyclist, you are now asking yourself, “</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Why?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">”
Below I shall try and convey to you my reasoning and then submit a
justification.<o:p></o:p></span></b></i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">To begin—Like you, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Dear Reader</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">, it is true that for the
first forty-five years of my life I simply dismissed these people as neurotic
and/or cautious skinny folk that ran out of sheer fright. Collectively, a subset
of shy persons that discovered early on that if they were to survive in an
often-nasty, “fight or flight”, aggressive world, they would have to learn to take
flight effectively, efficiently, and to run far far distances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In my world, like yours, other than occasionally beating up
a flock of cross country runners on my way to football practice or duct tapping
a troop of them to a flagpole during summer camp, I never really took anytime
to interact with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I vaguely
remember that a covey of these stick-people were allowed onto our track team,
but they were kept separate from the rest of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While we all hung out on the track next to
our high school, lounging on the big puffy high jump and pole-vaulting pads or
played Frisbee on the lush grass infield, they were forced off campus,
relegated to actually running in the local neighborhood streets. There coach,
an English Literature major, too, was skinny and exceedingly shy. They all
seemed to run as perhaps a herd of terrified gazelles would run when exposed on
the grasslands of the Serengeti.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
is, they ran as if lions were chasing them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Back then…I thought of myself as a lion. Of course I was a fool back
then…I am just now figuring that out. Such is the curse of wisdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people don’t obtain wisdom and if they
do get a bit of wisdom, it comes when they are too old to apply it…</span></b></i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Essentially throughout my school dayz I came to view <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them </i>as peculiar, but harmless, and so I
left <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i> pretty much alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, standing in the lunch lines, I stole
their desserts off their lunch trays like everyone else did in both high skool
and college, but that doesn’t count as real interaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So apart from a few indirect contacts during
my school dayz, my life’s path and that of the long distance runner was on
completely parallel tracks. Now it is true that relatively recently I have been
exposed to some impressive long distance “foot racers.” Especially when I first
began competing in the Arrowhead 135 some years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But these hardy men were often times former weapons
dealers (from France), wrestlers, or rugby players or the like that had simply
decided to essentially hike the Arrowhead because they couldn’t ski or they
didn’t have the right kind of bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
really were not runners per se or at least I convinced myself of that…</span></b></i></div>
<i></i><br />
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<div style="display: inline !important;">
<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">All this changed last February when I encountered </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Dave
Johnston of Alaska</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here was a true long
distance runner and yet he was nothing like the stereotype I had conjured in my
limited brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here was a Man’s Man that
had beer bottles stashed in his drop bags, ate frozen bacon by the handfuls,
and laughed a hearty laugh even in times of sheer exhaustion and desperation.
He opened my eyes, forced me to look with renewed perspective at these people. He
forced upon me the idea that perhaps I could learn something from these
waif-like bipeds? Now in fairness, the good Dr. Buffington, along with Mr.
Kershaw, have been extoling the virtues of long distance trail running in
developing raw toughness for sometime, and my friends at Esko including Mr. Hexum
and Mr. Smith were relatively honorable men and they ran long distances, but it
took my eye witnessing of Johnston’s amazing effort along that 350 mile stretch
of the Iditarod trail that forced me to seek a detailed and more studious accounting
of the sociological forces influencing this subgroup of enduro-athletes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could it be that the DBD has been wrong about
this group all along? The aforementioned are all tough Hard Men as are the
likes of John Storkamp, Matt Long, and the Lonesome Luddite…Are we as an
adventure society missing out on a whole group of potential candidates for
membership?</span></b></i></div>
</div>
<i>
</i><i>
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<i>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Of course the only accurate way to begin to understand a novel
species is to live amongst its population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Therefore I resigned myself to partake of the Eugene Curnow Trail Marathon
held two Saturdayz past. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is important
to note that apart from my scientific curiosity, I was fired up to partake in
this specific event because in doing so I would to be a part of the honoring of
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Eugene Curnow</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> (who has recently died), as I knew him to a fine generous man and I
greatly respected him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></i></div>
<i>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Buffington and I met up ay my home at 4:15 a.m. and then drove
in separate cars over to the finish line in Carlton, Minnesota (about twenty or
so miles south of Duluth) with the idea that we would leave a car at the finish
and drive the other to the start. Of course, there existed a flaw in our plan
in that Jason would beat me to the finish by a couple hours even if I had a
good effort. Such is the generosity of this amazing character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But to our delight, a school bus was waiting
and so together we jumped on a bus that would ferry us back to the start @
Spirit Mountain, the ski resort just south of Duluth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This way, we both had cars waiting for us at
the finish. It had rained all night and during the bus ride over we encountered
torrential rains, but interestingly there was no talk of cancellation amongst
the riders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No whispers of closing the
trail were discernable, no laments pertaining to mud or slippage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one seemed concerned about being fried by
lightening. I happily took note of the fact that on one seemed to find the
likelihood of sloppy, even grim conditions problematic. No one seemed
dissuaded, and no one seemed worried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
stark contrast, had it been a normal mountain bike race in today’s era of
meticulously groomed and highly maintained courses (like golf courses really), the race would have been
cancelled and moreover, it would be likely that the manicured course would be closed
for a week or more until everything was just right again…Note: Just sayin' I wouldn't want to be a guy trying to sell mud tires into todayz world of mountain bike racing when even the threat of a downpour causes a race cancellation... <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The scene at the start was very unrushed and casual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People waited in line to sign up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was but one category consisting of a
26-mile race, unlike the modern phenomena in many popular events where there
can be a plethora of age (and even weight) categories, combined with different
distances and course configurations; all designed to make as many people as
possible feel like they are “champions.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Highly fit, fluid, and sinewy athletic-types freely
interacted with aging folks with misshaped joints and broken strides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although it was clear from my physical
attributes that I would bring up the rear, John Storkamp, a top notch runner
and 2<sup>nd</sup> place finisher later in the day, engaged the author in
unrushed, pleasant discourse ranging from our shared experience in Alaska to
the whereabouts of Pierre Ostor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw
many friends and acquaintances. People that I knew, but I never knew that they
were runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began to suspect that I
had been wrong about these people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
began to feel not unlike that of the Grinch at the point of his rebirth. In
essence, young and old, fit and those in various stages of decline all seemed
fired up and ready to tackle the same challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d say there were some hundred and sixty at
the start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart grew three times in
size as the gun went off to start the race…<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Prior to the race, I had set a strict personal protocol to follow,
which was based on two fundamental overarching rules: 1. Under no circumstances
would I allow myself to get some kind of long lasting injury, like a torn calf,
a twisted knee, or a blown Achilles Heel; 2. I would walk the steep downhills
so as to not unduly stress my fragile, worn-out knees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To bolster Rule #2, I used ski poles the
whole distance and found that they worked well in cushioning the impact during
steep descents and was actually an advantage on the steep clay and muddy ascents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I have found that if I start off walking for the initial
twenty minutes of a trail running effort, my old joints tend to limber up some
and I feel much better during and after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Therefore as the throngs of people took off from the starting line, I
was left alone to ponder my inadequacies and mortality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a bit humbling for me, especially as
a small group of well-wishers, perhaps half-a-mile from the start, cheered for
me with accolades designed for a man in my tenuous position. They yelled, “You
can do it!” and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">“All that matters is that you’re out here trying!”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">After my warm-up period I began to do a bit of jogging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the terrain became more rugged I began to
catch up to some of the ancients of the sport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These were old old men and women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Several had to be in their seventies and many were in their
sixties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One old codger’s legs were so
bowed, gnarled, fused, and otherwise disjointed that they reminded me of the antiquated
limbs of the famed </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Spirit Tree of Grand Portage</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt inspired…for if he could do the miles
then so could I and moreover this man was out there doing it at an advanced
age…his love of the long distance game was uncomplicated and pure. “</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Unconditional love for a particular sport or endeavor speaks favorably of the pursuit,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">” I
noted in my research log. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As I progressed onward I came upon an overgrown boulder
field that they call Jarrow’s Beach, which is named after a long time and noted
local distance runner and athletic shoe storeowner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the true runners apparently dread this
segment as it forces them to walk or risk a broken ankle, I liked it as it gave
me time to relax and to converse with a young guy that was also using ski
poles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had been born and raised in
Gordon, Wisconsin and was using this race as a practice session to prepare for
the Superior 100 Mile race that commences in early September.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like me, he was quick to declare his
non-allegiance to the running community, but also like me, he seemed captivated
by the community’s zest for a good challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He commented, “My plan is to see if I can do it.” I guess there is
profound honesty in such a statement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
often tell my students that one of the great enduring questions in life is:
“</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">How do you know what ya don’t know?”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> Motivation, thusly, can be defined as the
futile effort to continuously and proactively attempt to uncover things that
you did not know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I go 100 miles on
foot within thirty-eight hours?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
young man from Gordon will know the answer to that question come early
September and good for him. Yes or No— Either way he will be a better person
for trying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Upon leaving the boulder field, feeling good, I began to
outpace the lad, so I bid him well and continued onward at about a thirteen-minute
mile pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It went on like that for most
of the race. I felt much better than I thought that I would and since I had
started dead last, I had the benefit of the illusion that I was going somewhat
fast because I was passing a fair number of runners as I progressed along the
route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Now of course the fact of the matter was that the majority
of the runners were ahead of me (I finished eightieth out of 150 or so
finishers), and some were a couple hours ahead of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The winner finished in approximately four
hours while it took me six hours and twenty minutes. Another interesting aspect
of the race was the fact that women were very well represented and were also
very competitive (two were in the top ten).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think that it is an accurate statement to proclaim that women are much
better represented in long distance trail running than in long distance
cycling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to my calculations,
women represented about one-third of the total participants in this particular
event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I continued on and was impressed by the enthusiastic aid
stations, where the runners were treated to a wide variety of foods, drinks,
and good cheer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone that I encountered
along the trail was in good spirits as well, even those shuffling along displaying
the telltale stiff stride indicative of one suffering from the dreaded malady
known as “chapping.” I was one such soul and as the march extended onward so
did </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">the flaming intensity of the rubbing away</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> of my tender skin surrounding my most
sensitive private areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally at the
second-to-last aid station, I asked matter-of-factly if there was a first
aid box available for my use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doubt
sensing my discomfort, the volunteer, (a paternalistic, no nonsense looking
woman), handed me a huge jar of Vaseline and pointed me to a large tarp-like
structure that was stacked to the ground to form a shield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The application brought immediate, if only
temporary relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, I knew I could
make it to the finish, so I just resigned myself “to sleep in my bed.” The end
was near when I did start to experience some serious leg cramps, but such
issues are usual for me so I soldiered on walking with a broken gait the last
couple miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the finish Jake Boyce
was there to welcome me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jake is a top-flight
cyclist, skier, rower, and I now come to find, a darn good albeit secret runner
as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very next day, he rode in a
local mountain bike race and did very well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was most impressive to me…<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As implied at the onset, empathy, not sympathy, was my
quest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am now confident to report that
these are a robust people not afraid of challenge and that we could learn from
them especially in their approach to completing long arduous travel over
terrain, the like of which will not afford the use of a bicycle or ski.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps one measure of the quality of a trail
race is the degree to which the route is essentially unrideable or
skiable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This particular course would
have allowed one to ride substantial segments, but even so it would be a close
match between a competent rider paired against a strong distance runner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Perhaps another one, may be a fifty miler, is in the cards
for the writer. All in the interest of
preparing to ski the Arrowhead 135 come early February 2014. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<!--EndFragment--></i></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-87074542479325920182013-07-07T09:16:00.001-05:002013-07-07T09:30:44.676-05:00The Lutsen 99er did not disappoint...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">“A beverage as</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">
black </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">as ink, useful against numerous </span></span></i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illness" style="color: #660000;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">illnesses</span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">, particularly those of the stomach or bowel.
Its consumers take it in the morning, quite frankly, in a porcelain cup that is
passed around and from which each one drinks a cupful. It is composed of water
and the fruit from a bush the natives called Bunnu.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">—Léonard
Rauwolf, 1583, <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Reise in die
Morgenländer </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The Lutsen 99er did not disappoint. Yet things did not start
out well for the author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps a bit
of background or a brief digression is warranted to help explain the dire
situation he found himself in as he made ready to ride his trusty Gunnar along
a 99 mile course that begins and ends at the fancy Lutsen Ski Resort some
ninety minutes of so northeast of old Duluth. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Being a true temperance man, fully in command of all faculties at all times, I am committed to a strictly held doctrine that allows
one to ingest fermented liquefied barley and hops only after being awake for
five hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course abiding by such a
dictate necessities great sacrifice and will power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet many of my associates maintain that it is
this strict personal adherence to such a severe mandate that affords me my
youthful good looks and easeful manner, (whilst my critics claim that it
explains my propensity for hitting my head frequently). As a kind of
scaffolding to aid me in staying true to this austerely puritanical life
choice, I do allow for and even rely upon the ingestion of copious measures of an
ancient mixture of hot water brewed or percolated through the powdered form of
the fruit born from the Bunnu bush, upon awakening from my nightly
slumber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I do occasionally wash my
parts in water, I find its taste to be woefully inadequate in comparison to the
fluids associated with both the brewing of the Bunnu fruit and the various
grains of the Great Plains of these United States of America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore
for me, in terms of hydration, it is Bunnu in the mornings and malted barley
and hops in the post-mornings. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgras2Bx4wS4LpHpc49iDEP4h8TGkCHOGvoVPZxawizwrNNxZhr9wDnYZ7zQqRCDBC1QU3dLHkIwmVEarMqku7aQImwv9yx0gaWNIplsOGoXUyy0vnL2LujNbDYNnzdgXE2bBrNrLVCuTq7/s1600/the-drunkards-progress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgras2Bx4wS4LpHpc49iDEP4h8TGkCHOGvoVPZxawizwrNNxZhr9wDnYZ7zQqRCDBC1QU3dLHkIwmVEarMqku7aQImwv9yx0gaWNIplsOGoXUyy0vnL2LujNbDYNnzdgXE2bBrNrLVCuTq7/s640/the-drunkards-progress.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Thusly I return to the problem I faced pre-Lutsen 99er—<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I was forced to leave very early from Duluth last Saturday
as I thought the race started at 7:00 a.m. (it actually started at 7:30).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had wanted to leave at 4:00 a.m., but I
overslept ‘til 5:30 due to the night before and an overzealous barkeep @
Brewhouse and the sublime Oatmeal stout he was touting, and did not get on the
road until around 5:40 or so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have
great Bunnu here at home, but I was in such a rush I took off without taking
the time to brew up a thermos or to pack away a cache of malted grains (to be
enjoyed only after the clock struck 10:30).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was just as I was leaving the Zenith City of the Unsalted Seas that I
realized my crucial mistake. With growing trepidation, for my wellness was at
risk, I made the rash decision to soldier onward for twenty or so miles to the
small hamlet of Two Harbors where I was confident that I could find my morning
drink, albeit in a cheaper, less virile form. Salvation was had at a Holiday
Store at the extreme outer edge of Two Harbors. I stopped and ran into the gas
station, poured out a large dark roast, paid the sleepy buxom malcontent at the
counter and hastily headed back to my car. I was by now worried about missing
the start (I have done it several times) but even so, I gave the Gunnar a
second look as it appeared slightly off kilter. A closer inspection revealed
that I had not adequately affixed the straps and thus the bike was in danger of
flying off the rack. I made the changes, jumped in the car, and took off. Not
long down the road, I sensed catastrophe. Instinctually, as I looked into the
rearview mirror, I groped for my coffee to settle my nerves, but there was no
cup. There was no cup of Joe cuz I’d left it on the roof of the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The die was cast, I knew then at that moment
that I was in for a long day…My only hope was to get to the start at Lutsen
with time enough, so as to find a coffee shop or the like before the gun went
off. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The problem was that at this point my whole system was in
disarray for the morning coffee acts as the catalyst. It gets the whole process
moving. Not unlike the fabled Lung Fish of the Kalahari Desert that can sit
encased in mud, idle for months, even years, in a trance-like state waiting for
that one day when it rains; nothing is gonna happen for that Lung Fish until it
gets itz shot of rain, there aint gonna be any eating or darting about chasin’
other Lung Fish or anything else that Lung Fishes do until it gets itz initial
water needs met. Such is the case of my innards as they wait for the
life-giving Bunnu. Without the life-giving essence of coffee there can be no
catalyst for movement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without coffee
there can be no activity, no life, no chasing around other humans. I worked
hard to hold back the tears of a forlorn man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ultimately, there was to be no coffee on that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lined up at the start as a zombie. I
feigned a smile as there were many friends about and their positive vibes were
contagious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gun went off and I took
off in the knowledge that I was in for a long day in the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The course was varied, interesting, challenging, and seriously
fun when it came to blasting through big puddles and fast flowing streams, but
I was surly and incontinent for the first couple hours.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Less than an hour into, I was still racing,
still a man with a mission. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I went to
pass a guy on a rugged, grassy descent and cut him off in my panic to miss a
boulder.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">No one went down, it was
accident, and so he probably should have let go after I mumbled a half-hearted,
indifferent “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">sorry</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">”, but he loudly and profanely called me on it using an overtly
aggressive tone and so I uncharacteristically aggressively returned in kind.
The result was an escalating childish tick-for-tat shouting match that went on
for more than a few seconds, maybe more, and then we got back to trying to stay
on the bumpy course.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I immediately felt
stupid and foolish.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I felt ashamed of
myself. If you are reading this and you’re that guy, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please accept my apology</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">If
there can be any justification for my actions, please accept that it was the
lack of coffee talking, not the usual happy-go-lucky me. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The fact of the matter is that I was being a
jerk and there ain’t no way to get around it. To conclude this sad chapter: Amid
a throng of bike racers, conjure an aged, bloated, weighty, crimson-faced man
squeezed into a blackish jersey (with flaming orange highlights), pressed into tight
ratty red bib shorts, ranting away at some poor, youthful bike racer as the
others look away aghast and you will begin to feel why I am embarrassed. Later,
I told my buddy, Eki, that I was probably 80% in the wrong.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Shortly after my little inexcusable tirade, I came racing down
a relatively steep incline and drove my front wheel into a basketball-sized boulder;
by luck it was a glancing blow, a flesh wound. I did not go down as I was able
to sort of ride it out by turning hard as I made impact, careening off, and
thus staying upright; sparing my rear wheel. Yet there was no denying that I
felt the wheel buckle on impact and so I waited (with dread) to hear that “POW”
noise that comes with a catastrophic blow out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But inexplicably I did not hear that “POW”
noise. Instead I immediately heard that high-pitch tweeny noise of a spoke
breaking under the pressure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled
far over and off the course into a cluster of bushes, partly to not cause a
crash as there were many in hot pursuit, but mostly to try and hide from the
guy I’d cut off just a few minutes before (and those that witnessed my
infraction and subsequent rant).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stranded,
alone, and forlorn. As I dismounted, I remember thinking, as the cruel pestilence of
summer fell upon me with unbridled bloodlust—Such is the providential righteousness
and justice of the trail. "Upon a pillory - that all the world may see. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A just desert for such impiety."—Or
in short: I got what I deserved. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Initially as the merciless, albeit opportunistic mosquitoes,
deer flies, and no-seeums had their way with me in devilish delight, I tried to
twist the busted spoke around its neighbor, but it didn’t work as it kept
hitting the brake caliper. So I was reduced to just bending the broken spoke
back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, in harried fashion, until it
broke off at the nipple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A particularly
ambitious rogue, perhaps in pursuit of some kind of medal of valor, attached
himself to my lip and gave me a bite so hard that I winced and slapped
simultaneously. I was not able to determine if it was the slap or the bite, but
the blood was mine. My brave enemy fell crumbled to the forest floor. Perhaps
the account of its fatalistic heroism shall become part of the annuls of insect
lore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A salty blood taste and resulting
pain forced concerted action, I jumped on the compromised bike and took off,
only to hear and feel and see that the tire was rubbing, rubbing, rubbing hard on
the fork with every revolution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The buggy
vanguard with fresh reinforcements seemed to revel in my despair, especially
the fearsome deer flies brigade, which had taken me to a new level of feverish loathsomeness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cared not for my future; my only concern
was to get off the wet, marshy trail and away from my tormentors. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instinctually, for elevated thought was no
longer within me, I sensed that my only salvation would to gain the higher
ground in the form of a gravel road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Rightly so, I took the busted wheel as a proper punishment
for my transgression and yet I hoped that I’d be spared a full on DNF.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The compromised wheel acted as a governor,
allowing me to push hard with maximum effort, but with little speed to show for
it and the certitude that in the near future, if things did not radically
change, the constant rubbing would wear a hole into the tire’s sidewall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally I arrived to a gravel road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rode up to the apex of a hill and with a
wind blowing; the bugs went into hiding, providing me with a brief respite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped and pulled off the front wheel. As
I inspected the damage, Brian Hayden of Duluth (a former reputable road racer
in his youth), in a gesture not unlike that of the Good Samaritan of Biblical
fame, stopped and offered that he could render the wheel usable if I was in
possession of a spoke wrench. Of course I had no spoke wrench, but he stayed
anywayz and as the constant throng of riders came whistling by, we begged for a
spoke wrench, ultimately to no avail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally I convinced him to leave me to my fate. And then shortly
thereafter I too decided to try and limp the bike onward to the first aid station,
where I hoped there maybe a spoke wrench and also a person able to use it as
designed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Not long after I had started up again, Dave Cizmas came by
me and offered heart felt assistance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Dave is a young and strong bike racer endowed with a most impressive
physique that was sculptured in part by lifting engine blocks as a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In any event, he told me that I’d better
“fix’ the wheel before I tried to go much farther because if I stayed on track
with the status quo, I would most probably wear a hole in the tire before I got
to the aid station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His manly remedy
involved slamming the imperfection out of the wheel “with great vigor” into the
ground in an effort to force a righting of a wrong. A kind of “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Might
makes Right</i>” approach to the problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was with his girlfriend, who was doing very well and had a chance to
finish high up in the standings, so I told them to keep going and to forget
about me. As they rode away, I took the wheel off the fork and slammed it against
the ground with all the force I could muster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I placed it back on the fork and was surprised to ascertain that I’d “fixed”
it good enough to minimize the rubbing. I was off again in search of the first
aid station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Shortly thereafter I arrived to a bustling aid station. I
spied an Erik’s Cycles banner and made for the mechanic that was manning a
mobile bike shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was in the process of
fixing another bike, so I left mine and went over to a table full of great
snacks including peanut butter and jelly filled raisin bagels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I’d consumed a couple of the
bagels, he was ready to assess my situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Within just a few minutes and the deft use a spoke wrench, combined with
a techy tensioner gauge, he was able to straighten my wheel to near
perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I thanked him and began to
pull away, he warned me that the wheel would not be very strong and to therefore
ride “soft” through the trails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a
testament to his abilities, the wheel held up very well, it did become a bit
wobbly as the day progressed, but the rub was gone and it got me the rest of
the way to the finish line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In any event, whilst I wrestled with trying to lie in the
bed that I’d made for myself, real men were out there racing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three of the very top guyz (including 2<sup>nd</sup>
place Lillie, 6<sup>th</sup> place Bush, and 10<sup>th</sup> place, 47 year
old, Tom Meyer) all forgot to bring more than one gear and suspension forks to
the dance, but they seemed to do just fine. Thatz weird, I hope someone sets
them straight on the necessity of possessing all that techy, expensive stuff if
ya wanna go really fast. Locals Eki, Mike Bushey, and Shawn Miller all put on
great efforts. As implied above, my buddy, Tim Ek, finished in 5<sup>th</sup>
place overall in an outstanding 6:21.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This race effort for Eki stands as a measure of the potential he still
holds, look for continued success for this man in his prime. Expect further
high finishes for this humble cyclist. Mike Bushey was right there as well in 7<sup>th</sup>
place. Eki conveyed to the author that Mike Bushey put on a well-planned clinic
in terms of how to ride a rigid bike fast and efficiently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The amazing thing about Bushey, who is a
highly accomplished mountain bike racer; he is just a neophyte when it comes to
endurance racing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apart from being a
fine cyclist, he is a gentleman of the highest order.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Todd McFadden, the seasoned, albeit ageless phenom, may have
won the whole thing had he not had to deal with a leaky tire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The good news is that after two efforts at
plugging the hole, he used with success a new innovation in cycling technology;
it is called a “tube.” Still the delays cost him and so he had to settle for a
top eleven finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whilst on the topic of
new and exciting innovations in cycling technology, rumors have it that some of
the leading bike companies are coming out with high-end race bikes affixed with
just a single front chainring! Also, (note: this cannot be substantiated by
brand administrators at this time)—Just as Specialized took the lead in the
development and refinement of the 29er, Specialized has created a kind of
“clown bike” designed around very wide rims and tires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently this wider “fat-bike” design will
be used by those interested in riding on snowy trails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I digress…<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My buddies from a recent foray in Alaska were all there at
the race. The indomitable, yet ever cheerful, Dan Dittmer was right there with
McFadden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While Ken Zylstra and Mike
Criego turned in admirable times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other
noteworthy performances included a high finish by local academician Dan
Glisczinski, bean-counter Bart Rodberg, and the jovial duo of Don Jahr and
Chris White.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be amiss to also
not mention the champion of the 60-to-Death category winner, Mark
Wilhelmson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Greg Ames on his own
hand-man bike turned in a good effort, as did Rudy O’Brien on top of his
beautiful titanium Carver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In closing, it all worked out and they even had a fine brew
at the finish line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still love bike
racing…but I be a mess without me coffee in the mornin'</span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-29519131887424866892013-05-30T14:21:00.002-05:002013-05-30T14:30:09.231-05:00The snubbers are out...hide your heart :(<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="color: #444444;">Watch
out! It’s prime snubbing season out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve been snubbed so many times in the last month that I have become
numb to the affronts. My therapist has diagnosed me with PSSD (Post-Snub Stress
Disorder) and thus put me onto an extensive regimen of proactive self-affirmations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Combining these affirmations with dietary
supplements involving consuming vast amount of fermented grain and barley
products, I am beginning to accept that I, alone, cannot change snubbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="color: #444444;">
</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="color: #444444;">With
the loving, nonjudgmental support of my therapist, I have learned to cope with
snubbing by following a strict protocol that commences as soon as the snub
occurs... Each time I am snubbed, I have been trained to calmly dismount from
my bike, hold back my tears, and to shout out in a definitive fashion ten daily
affirmations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Note: Since I cannot
control the snubber, (only the snubber can control the snubbing), I can only
control my response to the snub (I am in control). In any event, calling out to
the snubber is largely a metaphor for my empowerment. <o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="color: #444444;">
</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="color: #444444;">So
after being snubbed, I jump off the bike and with dramatic feeling, hands
clinched skyward, I call out ten healing affirmations as follows—1. I love
myself and I will not weep; 2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe
in myself and I will not weep; 3. I am capable of riding my bike; 4. I may not
be fast, but I am the star here, it’s about time I shine, your snub can’t hurt
me; 5. It’s my life, your snub does not hurt me; 6. I feel great, your snub
cannot change that; 7. Today is an awesome day, your snub does not change this
fact; 8. It’s my show time, not yours; 9. Your snub has not caused me to panic,
everything will be okay; 10. Hey snubber you did not win, I won.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="color: #444444;">
</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="color: #444444;">So far
the ten affirmations have seemed to help and I am beginning to internalize the
notion that when snubbed it is not a personal affront to my physical and/or
mental being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am actually starting to
feel empathy for the snubber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="color: #444444;">
</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="color: #444444;">Also as
a pseudo-student of sociological phenomena I am making an effort to essentially
compartmentalize my experiences as a victim of snubbery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In order words I am trying to separate the
personal pain and suffering that I feel when snubbed from the lofty goal of
understanding the snubber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea
being that if I can come to understand the motivations or psyche of the snubber,
I ,one day, may be able to perhaps work with the snubber to end his or her
destructives behaviors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
<strong><span style="color: #444444;">
</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="color: #444444;">So far,
the professional me has been able to discern three basic factors that play into
complexity of the mind-set of the typical snubber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Factor one is the gear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are much more likely to snubbed by a
roadie wearing a neon-green cycling jacket on top of one of the hundreds of absurdly
priced carbon road-machine models marketed by Trek or Specialized. When was the
last time you got snubbed by a guy on a Surly Cross Check? Factor two:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Snubbers almost always have some fancy pants
gizmo stuck in their ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Presumably
they are listening to some kind of aggressive music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are disconnected from the sounds of the
street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To them another cyclist is just
another distraction. So sad….Factor three: Snubbers have somehow convinced
themselves that they are better off cycling, but they don’t really love the
whole cycling experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are out there because they think they are
cool…but we know different!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-9569356199192530152013-04-24T10:42:00.002-05:002013-04-24T14:05:06.544-05:00Fear and Loathing on the North Shore Trail <br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Riding
the beautiful North-shore Trail both as a cathartic mental and physical exercise
and as a platform from which to relish an authentic Irish Coffee Stout
exquisitely handcrafted in Stillwater, Minnesota. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_IMj4gm7E9KMyVFh6bQzRBdVUHDmdcWfLhV0eMvIcRXDSnXQ0fEKDif-_t7B8PDDXa2itQeJns6rPN25h64K9ro8zUjJZ89E5to6ELPkGIz8-hQtLD4hJXExuHuZXR_oxLqXcXGTPZns/s1600/lotz+of+snow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_IMj4gm7E9KMyVFh6bQzRBdVUHDmdcWfLhV0eMvIcRXDSnXQ0fEKDif-_t7B8PDDXa2itQeJns6rPN25h64K9ro8zUjJZ89E5to6ELPkGIz8-hQtLD4hJXExuHuZXR_oxLqXcXGTPZns/s320/lotz+of+snow.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">The shelters along the North Shore Trail are top notch.</span> </div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In an
effort to comfort myself for being forced to bail on the upcoming epic that is
the Trans-Iowa (April 27/28) due to a myriad of unexpected complications in
family schedules, I took up the authentic and as yet unaccomplished challenge of
trying to make it to Grand Marais from Duluth via the 150 mile North Shore
Trail (NS Trail) on a bicycle, unsupported, on snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Note: There
is an account of Pierre Oster and the brothers </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Evingson
doing the route perhaps ten years or so ago, but they may have received some
kind outside assistance or did it over the course of two separate efforts…Farrow
did the route unsupported several summers ago in good style, but did not access
the trail until the Jean Duluth Road and Zimmerman Road intersection and left
the trail briefly to resupply at approximately the midway point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bragging rights for completing the full route,
unsupported from the Lester River Pavilion to the Grand Marais parking lot is
waiting for the right man or woman!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My plan
was to be fully packed and ready to leave right away after work on Friday, (my
wife had agreed to pick me up in Grand Marais on Sunday afternoon), as I
figured I could reasonably do the full 150 mile route in approximately two and
a half dayz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But a huge snowstorm forced
me to reconsider.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKvH9n_M7i8VZH8BgW7WEMGfe4blGuFpC-N9_O4PqH0d7BRVe5RmPukw96vWM8gpSxD7eINYT2tyqyN0VtpAekEteLWWCwGJWAiMYGR1eohBmKwz5NyYI6eAMPNNFWdgCcM9Lar5Hgf8p/s1600/burning+morning.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKvH9n_M7i8VZH8BgW7WEMGfe4blGuFpC-N9_O4PqH0d7BRVe5RmPukw96vWM8gpSxD7eINYT2tyqyN0VtpAekEteLWWCwGJWAiMYGR1eohBmKwz5NyYI6eAMPNNFWdgCcM9Lar5Hgf8p/s320/burning+morning.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">Burnin' daylight on a beautiful Sunday morning</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
started to snow heavily on Thursday night and did not end until Duluth had received
over a fo</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">ot of fresh snow and Two Harbors, nearly two feet of heavy wet snow.
The whole North Shore corridor received record snowfalls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a record fifth time this winter, my school
where I teach was forced to call off classes on Friday due to difficult
traveling conditions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After shoveling
snow for much of the morning, I grabbed my trusty man-dog, Hondo, and drove out
to the Martin Road where the North Shore Trail officially originates. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Note— For
purists the route actually starts at the parking lot just off of Superior
Street where the bridge crosses the Lester River and thus to be considered
“untainted” and/or unabridged and therefore recognized by the DBD Honor Board, one
would need to leave from that specific Lester River Access point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the
Martin Road access point, I was not surprised to see that the trail was un-ride
able.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hondo and I slogged up the trail
for a mile or so, and sadly with each “post-hole” step, my resolve weakened.
But as luck would have it, just as I was getting Hondo back into my car, a huge
truck pulled up complete with a trailer carrying four snowmobiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feigning allegiance to the NRA and local
snowmobile tribes, I was able to engage and ultimately ingratiate the occupant
of the mammoth truck. During the course of our conversation, I ascertained that
he too was checking on trail conditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The rotund, but amicable fellow conveyed to me that given the fact that
the parking lot was closed at the Martin Road, he was on his way to Two Harbors
with sleds for himself and three buddies coming up from the Twin Cities. Due to
the new snow, they had changed their rendezvous point to a motel in Two Harbor.
Their new plan was to access the NS trail via Hwy 2, (due north of Two Harbors)
Saturday morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought that while snowmobile
traffic would be very low, if-at-all near Duluth, there would be sufficient
snowmobile traffic once one got past Two Harbors. He said that he knew of
several other guyz that were eager to get one last ride in. I let it be known
that I too would be heading out for one last ride…I did not let on that I’d be
on a bicycle…<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3VxmvY_DMRiMxNSfz9rQ7A1roFW1JBNrZMNqP2-BXgKCla0blK-n3WiclECpqYQLrBS95ZFqkfMFguZspglKvQrblEvxTZJq8hoSlIfQIcgZ-z4h-YAqYswgDFYIZwPAir0bdATvrEat/s1600/mucky+trail....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3VxmvY_DMRiMxNSfz9rQ7A1roFW1JBNrZMNqP2-BXgKCla0blK-n3WiclECpqYQLrBS95ZFqkfMFguZspglKvQrblEvxTZJq8hoSlIfQIcgZ-z4h-YAqYswgDFYIZwPAir0bdATvrEat/s320/mucky+trail....JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">The condition of the trail was mostly pretty good. Yet there were a few spots that made for bushwacking...</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Renewed
with a sense of possibility, when just a few minutes before meeting the
snowmobiler, I had none, I optimistically resigned myself to wait until
Saturday morning and then ride the asphalt to Two Harbors. The problem with
this revised plan was, of course, twofold: 1. The purity of the effort would be
compromised and; 2, I would lose at least six or seven hours of ride time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact of the matter was that I knew that
if I waited until Saturday, I would lose the time needed to make it all the way
to Grand Marais by a reasonable time of day (so as to allow time for my wife to
pick me up and then the drive time back to Duluth).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, also I reasoned that any effort was
better than no effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore I resigned
myself to a less ambitious goal: To make Finland (about the half way point to
Grand Marais) via the NS Trail from Two Harbors and then ride home on Sunday
via Hwy 61.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plan would still involve
near 160 miles of riding and would negate involving my wife’s drive time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet of the total distance covered less than
half would be on the North Shore Trail. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Leaving
at 8:00 a.m. on Saturday from my humble abode on my fully loaded and trusty Moonlander,
I rode up to Two Harbors on the scenic highway, and then headed up Hwy 2 where
I gained the North Shore Trail. The weather was perfect complete with a vibrant
blue sky, a robin-egg blue Lake Superior, and a full sun. My heart soared as I
broke the bounds of domestic responsibility, if only for a day or so. The temperatures
were in the low 30s. Riding the asphalt segment was uneventful and I found the NS
Trail to be in relatively good shape (Alaskan-style). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjPZ70DhQZ_lsmcSmV15z5R03aUnFGIo8JBynzxgvoFhKY3deQ7RClNLuNt_8tKQ6NZwh3ZwQmya8Gqlc9vVYQu9X7CQsxJAMyhSH2Zr5ZSp6ArH8PuYOdi8wDv2CypFAvY97BbvDeWCy/s1600/sweet+bivy+shelter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjPZ70DhQZ_lsmcSmV15z5R03aUnFGIo8JBynzxgvoFhKY3deQ7RClNLuNt_8tKQ6NZwh3ZwQmya8Gqlc9vVYQu9X7CQsxJAMyhSH2Zr5ZSp6ArH8PuYOdi8wDv2CypFAvY97BbvDeWCy/s320/sweet+bivy+shelter.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">My new Big Agnes (extra wide) integrated bag and pad make for a great set-up</span></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By Sunday
morning, I had ridden all the way to where the trail runs parallel directly
north of Finland (by something like ten miles). From Finland I took a fun
access trail back down to Finland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On
Saturday night, I bivied in a top notch trail shelter after riding nearly
fourteen hours, including a nice break in Two Harbors. It got quite chilly that
evening, but I was warm and slept well after enduring a very bizarre encounter
with a most peculiar man. The following is a recollection of that fantastical
meeting.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO6J5JhzUDWZcXTZEJz65JKrR9KbXtn_VrwFgig2DDNVNcwDFjm_i_dItHei3Kb1iTJ3ChFFurF6RrPfLn2gAltMdAJszyCGXn7J-d0W0BmO_698aKNhGDJGunhytA_7F7M_PSGWoFZGZJ/s1600/free+beer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO6J5JhzUDWZcXTZEJz65JKrR9KbXtn_VrwFgig2DDNVNcwDFjm_i_dItHei3Kb1iTJ3ChFFurF6RrPfLn2gAltMdAJszyCGXn7J-d0W0BmO_698aKNhGDJGunhytA_7F7M_PSGWoFZGZJ/s320/free+beer.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">Found this sign next next to an abandoned trailer</span> </div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was just
about the onset of darkness, approximately 9:00 p.m., when he came flying by
the shelter, of which I was making ready for my bivouac. As is my usual
response, I waved and smiled at him as he passed in a gesture of amicability.
Inexplicably he slammed on the brakes of his sled-jet and made an athletic move
off of the vehicle’s couch that belied his massive girth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he ambled toward me, I quickly began to take
stock of any defensive weapon that I may have at my disposable—my little
Leatherman was my final thought as he was on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You need
help?” he asked in a confused, slightly agitated voice.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You were
waving at me like you needed help?” He continued.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No sir,”
sez I. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I was only
waving to you to be friendly,” sez I.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well you
sure look like you need help!” he states as he pulled off his fully encased
helmet, revealing a creased, wrinkled face belonging to a man probably in his
late sixties or seventies. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What the
hell are you doing out here on that thing? Is that a motorcycle?” Apparently
looking at my two panniers on the rear of my bike, he stated “Is that an
electric motor?” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Nope,
itz just an oversized bicycle, those are where I keep my camping gear” sez I as
I nonchalantly moved towards the bike and my frame pack where my little
Leatherman was stowed away. Upon hearing my explanation, his erratic eye
movements suggested an effort at rudimentary cognition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After an exceedingly long and awkward silence,
whilst he stared at my bike, he finally volunteered that he had, at an earlier
time in his life, been a good downhill skier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That he had won a bronze medal at Afton Alps back in the early 70s. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Quickly determining
that— 1.) He was relatively harmless, and; 2.) He was incapable of
comprehending the conceptual aspects associated with winter cycling, I did
sense a chance to develop a rapport with this strange man. Thus I replied that
my daughter enjoyed alpine skiing at Spirit Mountain in Duluth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently not hearing me, he then embarked
on an agonizingly long-winded, albeit benign narrative regarding the several occasions
in his youth, that he had camped out in the winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maintaining that tents and shelters were for
sissies, he boasted of how he had camped out one particularity wintery night in
which it had gotten so cold out and snowed so hard that he had built up three
fires around his sleeping bag and that even with the heat from the fires he had
still melted down, down, down five feet into the snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So deep had he melted down into the snow when
he awoke in the morning, he had to dig and climb out of a significant chasm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpS1rusH76-N9aXmtX6KAcvi_8Azk2hPFSoPgO0kCox6fqrlbkzSf04ROQa0hbdEzq1XF_e5bKqYLF6NRcUQY3iFZi0PpE2I1atW1AtRRbV639RRpejUk_LiVxFfjnjKvF7rrRmcjzobSx/s1600/nice+set-up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpS1rusH76-N9aXmtX6KAcvi_8Azk2hPFSoPgO0kCox6fqrlbkzSf04ROQa0hbdEzq1XF_e5bKqYLF6NRcUQY3iFZi0PpE2I1atW1AtRRbV639RRpejUk_LiVxFfjnjKvF7rrRmcjzobSx/s320/nice+set-up.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">The Moonlander fully loaded and ready for anything...</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I robotically
continued to nod and feign amazement at his stories, all the while hoping with
all my heart that he would soon grow tired of his own voice and remount his
snow machine and leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the
course of his lecture, I learned that he had a hunting shelter just a few miles
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally he commenced with the
words I had been so longing to hear. Namely, “Well I suppose I better be…” THEN
he had an original thought, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>compelling
him to stop dead midsentence! He even stopped putting his helmet on, an instead
looked me in the eye and excitedly exclaimed, “I have a great idea, I am gonna
head back to my cabin, get my girlfriend and some sleeping bags and some
firewood and head back here and camp out with you!” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Taken aback,
stunned, dry mouthed, astonished, astounded, bewildered aghast, horrified, I
could only produce, “Sure it’s a free country.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> A</o:p></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">s he
sped away, I was initially dumbfounded, numb, inconsolable and then I hastily began
to develop a plan to move out and find a different spot to camp….but after a
few minutes of racking my harried brain, it dawned on me that there was no way he
would come back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guy was just
blowing steam, living back in his glory dayz, I surmised that I would never see
him again…<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Soon I
was back to arranging my sleeping bag and pad, getting my stove going, and
making everything ready so that I could lay back and relish and cherish and
savor my authentic Irish Coffee Stout exquisitely handcrafted in Stillwater,
Minnesota by the artisans of Lift Bridge Brewing Company. I had been saving
this piece of liquid art for weeks, waiting for just the right ambiance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love solo camping now more than ever because
it is the only time in my hectic life where I can truly relax. Imbibing this
singular fermented nectar comprising </span></b><strong><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">a</span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> “</span></strong><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">delightful combination
of whiskey, coffee, and cream…aged in whiskey barrels, then blended with a big
Milk Stout, and finally infused with locally roasted coffee,” would act as a
perfect complement to a day well played. </span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such was how the
initial hour or so after my strange encounter with the once semi-great downhill
skier, holder of a bronze medal, was spent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as
I took the last measure of the fermented barley elixir of the gods, I heard
that familiar high pitched buzzing sound of approaching snowmobilers. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhOCdVefN2hbif0USnWLPzU5uTKSjwIA9UZgziNKx3FDwZzGETMreaZpi2kONKuzfZcn_Z72kkbuBiyT7WO0r2X7Y_jO0CCRkoSp1vd6T3dsW-84RWvUKf6qV5ikYeFTY7WBJSwFPl4as/s1600/Irish+coffee.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhOCdVefN2hbif0USnWLPzU5uTKSjwIA9UZgziNKx3FDwZzGETMreaZpi2kONKuzfZcn_Z72kkbuBiyT7WO0r2X7Y_jO0CCRkoSp1vd6T3dsW-84RWvUKf6qV5ikYeFTY7WBJSwFPl4as/s320/Irish+coffee.JPG" width="180" /></a></div>
<div align="center">
<b><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Netcar of the gods</span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I could
not believe that he was back and was accompanied by another sled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They pulled up, he alone dismounted and
labored over to my humble abode.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
some perplexing, incomprehensible reason, the first words out of my mouth were,
“Do you guyz want some jerky?” <o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No, no,
and don’t worry we’re not gonna stay, I just brought my girlfriend here to
prove that you are really here on a bike,” came his reply. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I could
tell from his mannerisms that he was exceedingly pleased with himself; no doubt
sensing that he had surprised both the woman and me. He did not introduce the
stout woman, nor did the woman make a move to leave her snowmobile or remove
her massive helmet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was dark out and
so I could not discern much of her appearance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Yet, her mannerisms toward me implied repulsion as if I were something vile. </span>She just stared intently at me as if I was the ELEPHANT MAN.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt naked, unloved, and vulnerable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQ2tzr8M4zn1UxcQBpKLlFHfKaKKeBegLiuTBHJVL15l3pLzvwBX_4LHomUe20K-5gmXX6t4O5uhQP0ALEiGJavLCVofIoQ7agA3sCClZdoQQe4HzoPxLIHS-b6NJxvPA37BRmvI9ZO_4/s1600/the-elephant-man-4-1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQ2tzr8M4zn1UxcQBpKLlFHfKaKKeBegLiuTBHJVL15l3pLzvwBX_4LHomUe20K-5gmXX6t4O5uhQP0ALEiGJavLCVofIoQ7agA3sCClZdoQQe4HzoPxLIHS-b6NJxvPA37BRmvI9ZO_4/s320/the-elephant-man-4-1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center">
<span style="color: #660000;">I am not an animal!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong>“<span style="color: #660000;">Well now
that you have seen</span> <span style="color: #660000;">IT</span>, letz get back home,” he shouted to the woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stepped back onto his sled and started it
up. And just like that, the whole strange encounter lasting less than ten minutes,
they were gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took me a good hour
to once again recapture a sense of complacency and relaxation and then I
laughed out loud!</strong> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPNYeXx8HFWJMufONtTTkpt8CMvgE4E0CvqimBpwgLLRD06Sx-qS79zbvb74CVWXKSO9w3XPDBlzyBaRgg-YI8Xt5RzMspgkV6CiS9gj0XOw8f5oDIkqREBWDYM7iKDLkgi9GTt-G6lDDe/s1600/P1010145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPNYeXx8HFWJMufONtTTkpt8CMvgE4E0CvqimBpwgLLRD06Sx-qS79zbvb74CVWXKSO9w3XPDBlzyBaRgg-YI8Xt5RzMspgkV6CiS9gj0XOw8f5oDIkqREBWDYM7iKDLkgi9GTt-G6lDDe/s320/P1010145.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Once in
Finland @ 8:45 am on Sunday morning, with a heavy heart (for I know that I
could have made it to Grand Marais as the trail was in ride-able shape, if I
had just another day to ride North) I gained the asphalt and headed for Hwy 61
and then back to Duluth. It was a good effort with 20+ hours of ride time and
probably 165+ miles of riding with at least 70 miles of that on the North Shore
trail. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6sOLKUMhuHHnl_o8NJJR0dKzCEEgUuOXTvYQPhtaD3ccbyn7tU_WDeTB06eHojyxTQT32n6TS_9M2QCRFnCn6FE-id2kdGlScsPNpOm1R8dA7MZja-tmfwe3q7MiiomoWG2vVDRcW-Ib/s1600/P1010164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6sOLKUMhuHHnl_o8NJJR0dKzCEEgUuOXTvYQPhtaD3ccbyn7tU_WDeTB06eHojyxTQT32n6TS_9M2QCRFnCn6FE-id2kdGlScsPNpOm1R8dA7MZja-tmfwe3q7MiiomoWG2vVDRcW-Ib/s320/P1010164.JPG" width="180" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Note: If
we are Men...the DBD must ride this entire route from <u>Lester River to Grand
Marais</u> early in the winter next season before the interlopers from the
south upstage us, I know for a fact Dittmer, et. al. have their eyes on this
jewel of the North Shore! It is only a matter of time before someone makes this
entire route! We need to be the ones that do it!! We need to be first!!!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_VTt-HfRd6DofISiSvSNgWKm5TLJia-_7lilC7hRUJvJx8ayVj6CrT9RePOcIgZZMYIltGoYBhNmWY2cTwAbJfb8GW-7PT-x1dr0QCUhn20ZXfHWXPKZXO3YbARyfWp1rEU9SCl02LzCb/s1600/P1010144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_VTt-HfRd6DofISiSvSNgWKm5TLJia-_7lilC7hRUJvJx8ayVj6CrT9RePOcIgZZMYIltGoYBhNmWY2cTwAbJfb8GW-7PT-x1dr0QCUhn20ZXfHWXPKZXO3YbARyfWp1rEU9SCl02LzCb/s320/P1010144.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For more
information about that Coffee Stout: <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(</span></b><a href="http://www.liftbridgebrewery.com/irish_coffee_stout.aspx"><b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.liftbridgebrewery.com/irish_coffee_stout.aspx</span></span></b></a><b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-83460358136270419372013-03-26T07:29:00.001-05:002013-03-26T07:29:38.255-05:00The Final Chapter on my Alaskan experience
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The Final Chapter: I know, Dear Reader, that you must be sick of
the thousands of words regarding what was essentially a minute part played by a
bit player in an epic race that was contested by several of the top actors in
the game of long distance snow bike racing.
Whilst Lindsay and I tottered along way way way back, true athletes, in
their prime, were putting on a magnificent show, out front, pushing against
each other and the conditions all with the famed Iditarod trail as their
backdrop. Special kudos to the leading
quintet of Petervary, Berntson, Oatley, Breitenbach, and Lacy of whom all took
part in expanding the bounds by which this race is measured by aspiring enduro-cyclists. The same can be said of Ms. Horanyi and Ms.
Ver Hoef, both of whom unequivocally demonstrated that strong women deserve the
same respect as strong men when it comes to events like this (and all other
pursuits as well). Finally, the
man-hauler, Dave Johnston, who missed breaking Steve Reifenstuhl’s 2005 foot record
by just four hours, who through his appreciation of beer, the other finer
pursuits of life, and good cheer along the trail has forced the author to
concede that runner’s are people too. <o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwsPiLoTu9eCexkKr4cy_WYd37Fw2UA1pe8p2O5DCUSiOejVxei6C7yGL9Xb_tQGs2FEwK4KJiuIn-CbbxN5N93piaktgxaUdwaVL_LOdLOOR1ZRQRqgshbHiueviVvbvbzfK7ceMWy3-/s1600/P1000994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwsPiLoTu9eCexkKr4cy_WYd37Fw2UA1pe8p2O5DCUSiOejVxei6C7yGL9Xb_tQGs2FEwK4KJiuIn-CbbxN5N93piaktgxaUdwaVL_LOdLOOR1ZRQRqgshbHiueviVvbvbzfK7ceMWy3-/s320/P1000994.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The swollen head of a contented man...A man near the end of his rope...but a contented man nonetheless. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In closing, I loved being a part of this
race. The whole thing from hanging out
at Irene’s Bed&Breakfast, to stumbling along following Lindsay’s red
blinking rear light along the trail, to my head swelling up like </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><i>Elephant Man</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">, to eating those huge Man-cakes at<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a> Peter and Tracy Schneiderheinze’s cozy home in McGrath. I
am still constantly thinking back on how fun it all was and how I cannot wait
to go back. My simple advice to you is
to go do it!</span></b></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-57764717404737117442013-03-25T08:51:00.000-05:002013-03-25T12:55:58.237-05:00Gear List Part III: Da Bike and stuff...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Gear List part III: The Bike and accessories.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Like most things in my life I was a late adopter to the idea of
the snow bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the Pugsley first
came out I mocked them as “clown bikes.” Thus, it was a source of comfort to me
that the legendary Pramann had set the Arrowhead 135 course record on a
standard mountain bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first three
or maybe even four Arrowhead races were contested with the majority of the
riders on either standard mountain bikes or on 29ers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even up in Alaska several of the top guyz were
riding regular bikes across the barrens, legendary tough guyz like John
Stamstad and Rocky Reifenstuhl come immediately to mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact of the matter is that I’d probably
still be riding a std mountain bike had it not been for the fact that a friend
of mine won a Pugsely frame at the pre-race festivities several Arrowhead races
ago and generously gave me the frame as she maintained that she had no use for
it as she was a committed endurance runner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You can tell that she is still a committed runner because whenever I see
her she is limping around injured with some kind of “I-band” or plantar
injury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took me a few months to build
up the Pugsley using old parts from other bikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the summer I saved enough money and
bought the wheels and tires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally I
took it for a ride and realized that it was a total blast to ride…I was
hooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I rode that bike for four years, in summer, spring, winter,
and fall until the braking rims on the wheels wore through (I use cyclocross
brakes on it).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last spring (2012) my
wife had given me the thumbs up on the Alaskan race so I started shopping
around for a new set of wider 80 mm rims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course I soon realized that not only would I need new rims and tires,
but also I would have to switch the bike over to disk brakes and swap out the
drive train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also learned that the
Pugsely probably would not have enough clearance for the widest of the currently available tires. I did the math and figured that by the time I made the Pugs
“Alaskan ready” it would not cost that much more to get a new Moonlander.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I bought the Moonlander from Ski Hut (up
here in Duluth) and ultimately turned the Pugsley into a single-speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a wise decision, as I have grown very
fond of both of these utilitarian bikes.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I first got the Moonlander, I was thinking that before I
went to Alaska, I would swap out the relatively low-end rear derailleur, but it
worked great and it still works great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was thinking that I would swap out the cheap thumb shifters, but they worked
great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was thinking that the chain
ring configurations were not in line with the way I pedal, but I was wrong, the
gearing on the Moonlander is spot on for the way I ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There is a lesson here somewhere? </span>Essentially what I am conveying is that apart
from swapping out the handlebar in favor of a wider one (and the saddle), I am
riding the bike as it arrived to the store. I am doing so because the guyz at Surly put together a package that functions as advertised. Also, I did add a Shimano 18 tooth single speed
cog to the front hub so as to allow me the chance to continue on down the trail (pedaling a
single speed) even if my rear hub became incapacitated. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Note: In my view and at my level of skill, the wider the wheel/tire combo the better. I don't usually buy into the idea that guyz can tell the difference between a $30 aluminum seat post and a $180 carbon seat post, but CLEARLY in soft or sketchy snow conditions, one can tell the difference between a 100 mm rim and a 80 mm rim. I am completely being honest here, no hype. The difference is palatable and in loose snow allows the guy with the 100 mm the option to ride whereas walking is the only option for the 80 and 60 mm guy. I am thinking that 120 mm might even be feasible and worthwhile? You can spend your money on a new fancy carbon frame or fork, but I am saving my nickles and dimes for the wider rims...I bet they are on some one's drawing table...</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The weight of the bike and gear at the start of the race in
Alaska was approximately 63 pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those sixty-three pounds, in my mind, represent about as low as I could
go and still deal with basically anything the weather or trail conditions could
dish out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I chose clothing in a manner
that did not allow for any extras. In others words the set up was progressive
in that as it got colder I would add another layer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The upper body had four potential layers, the
lower had three, the hands had three, and the head had three, the neck had two
and feet had two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along with an old REI
bivy bag, I brought a light, down sleeping that is rated to zero degrees and a
pad rated to zero degrees as well. I know from experience that if I am wearing a
light hat, my down jacket, a light wool under-layer, light wool socks, and wool
pants, I can sleep in ten below very comfortably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect that if I was wearing everything that
I had with me in that bag, I could stay warm in twenty to twenty-five below and
not freeze in forty below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond that…it
would be “interesting.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I used a good solid rear rack where I packed all my sleeping
gear plus my down jacket, and extra tube. On the front I used a Revelate handlebar
thingies that allowed me to secure a front pack. It worked great and I highly recommend
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the front, I carried extra
clothing and some extra food and an extra headlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also had a Revelate frame pack where I kept
my wallet, some tools, pump, extra batteries, food, camera, glasses, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally I had two of the “feed bags” where I
kept the majority of my food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the
right fork I was able to carry a 40 fl oz thermos using a nifty Salsa carrying
cage that is oversized and quite handy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Note: For an account from a guy that really know his stuff read Jay Petervary's Outside interview [ http://www.outsideonline.com/outdoor-gear/cycle-life/A-Conversation-With-Jay-Petervary.html?page=1 ]. Petervary is a very impressive man as is Jeff Oatley and the other top guyz that contested in this race... I count myself lucky to have met them...</span></b></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-14157325627108994582013-03-24T11:57:00.000-05:002013-03-24T12:00:10.548-05:00DBD Issued gear for the recent foray in Alaska Part II<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivL-M7Cw-uMpQkzhFUpL0MwGBqnoFJjwBHyPGzbxGyLoCUMds4x40m8VAYraOmiYKBAChJ1IMrXex9i81TKZBQdbhFOXnMCinHf-sitkLjYwwbVZBGulsrHxPMNa1lGCROvu-BbY_jyu14/s1600/P1010069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivL-M7Cw-uMpQkzhFUpL0MwGBqnoFJjwBHyPGzbxGyLoCUMds4x40m8VAYraOmiYKBAChJ1IMrXex9i81TKZBQdbhFOXnMCinHf-sitkLjYwwbVZBGulsrHxPMNa1lGCROvu-BbY_jyu14/s320/P1010069.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First layer for hand warmth was a pair of light army-surplus wool mitts, Second layer was a pair of double wool mitts that are very well made. Third was my trusty Granite Gear mitts...I never had to use 'em...For head gear I went with two hats, two face masks, and two neck gaors</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnD_TPlbmVhHTAm_WaGQ2zb5qO7RmUvhBIm30ejEa1Pvvk-2e3tSBUO2hg-kg3yA36YU_H6vP4Vzmhh2UxvcxBe5xjERLMVFlFoaTiANWAkdOV2Sp071Ejw1drkhdDbyX6nbPXmZEK5Vh1/s1600/P1010068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnD_TPlbmVhHTAm_WaGQ2zb5qO7RmUvhBIm30ejEa1Pvvk-2e3tSBUO2hg-kg3yA36YU_H6vP4Vzmhh2UxvcxBe5xjERLMVFlFoaTiANWAkdOV2Sp071Ejw1drkhdDbyX6nbPXmZEK5Vh1/s320/P1010068.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love that jersey....pockets in the front and back</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYDow18z3RcJhjaUIxl2KsX4Q21-gR-3QRSBFHspZhdfc544iNuSOiKfOyXU2Nua8V69IEIRsZPgkCyulwcfoHIFGHP7XmN2qPdXR5XTM7FUotbt5bP4bgjk2Cy93Vnx6lZN-U6x_WmHM/s1600/P1010067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYDow18z3RcJhjaUIxl2KsX4Q21-gR-3QRSBFHspZhdfc544iNuSOiKfOyXU2Nua8V69IEIRsZPgkCyulwcfoHIFGHP7XmN2qPdXR5XTM7FUotbt5bP4bgjk2Cy93Vnx6lZN-U6x_WmHM/s320/P1010067.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First layer was an old wool long sleeve undershirt. Second layer was my trusty wool jersey (circa 1978). Third layer was my old Patagonia ninja with hood (circa 1990). </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilo2I9YEmIaMy_FOGVSVeEKJ-EZgQFIn-XTLG5XuW6em5yN_TTzWW4H7zv7GIVqs4oW-QYFl7HnKKTmZ3I_SHENqbLhnUqjOeWZ5EcMZS4SG5RzsH5yF_tp_cFg9X4CitIuDdVY49j1NVK/s1600/P1010066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilo2I9YEmIaMy_FOGVSVeEKJ-EZgQFIn-XTLG5XuW6em5yN_TTzWW4H7zv7GIVqs4oW-QYFl7HnKKTmZ3I_SHENqbLhnUqjOeWZ5EcMZS4SG5RzsH5yF_tp_cFg9X4CitIuDdVY49j1NVK/s320/P1010066.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manly footwear...I started with a pair of craft wool socks, then a pair of stout vapor barrier socks, then the Lake Winter boots and then a 40-Below overboot that I have used many times up in the big cold mountains. I bought those overboots in 1989...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUX1MpDAxkqkdBNCtbAscTRkdLTfzaOSZ6B9P-aajOmYxXs44FIV868Z0D_iuHu3RX5jzIXyHELIKPD0HjHApW5xVGhZhYanRsHwXIy6ztGjlhN2_MQ_kcjFUsxe0hwB7nZlEoZg0rJGPw/s1600/P1010065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUX1MpDAxkqkdBNCtbAscTRkdLTfzaOSZ6B9P-aajOmYxXs44FIV868Z0D_iuHu3RX5jzIXyHELIKPD0HjHApW5xVGhZhYanRsHwXIy6ztGjlhN2_MQ_kcjFUsxe0hwB7nZlEoZg0rJGPw/s320/P1010065.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To protect my nether area I used a good pair of bibs. I brought a pair of patogonia underwear, but I never used them. I wore my circa 1970s "woolies" the whole way and they worked great. Thanks to Kevin Kenny of Empire Canvas for putting in some size zips. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTEtMblohArJEFzQOvGkyR9BvTTQ54NLVdkcSlLl09plZ8GfAE3DTkfin5pv0bZv_COt-BthPyLc4wWDZf9_GoeiwXjTwXRx4qo3fSTHvIYK1CdxneOi35qCDSpJNRU6Hs0-tSjI-Egzmd/s1600/P1010064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTEtMblohArJEFzQOvGkyR9BvTTQ54NLVdkcSlLl09plZ8GfAE3DTkfin5pv0bZv_COt-BthPyLc4wWDZf9_GoeiwXjTwXRx4qo3fSTHvIYK1CdxneOi35qCDSpJNRU6Hs0-tSjI-Egzmd/s320/P1010064.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I went with three light weight water bottles and a 40 fl. oz. thermos. I was able to bring 100 fl oz and that seemed good enough. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DJ0-5M4xVJwOwAeWlK1L6PP0qAhhA4UOtUvbLPxEeh-JdXrrEzrFBwJg9UosMJ_C3PO1pPyW1de22gB7pucvjjkooSQoLQLWB17F0XOsPqEPZCWCn8r1h1CFeMAQbH_R7VaE-1E1RHlp/s1600/P1010055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DJ0-5M4xVJwOwAeWlK1L6PP0qAhhA4UOtUvbLPxEeh-JdXrrEzrFBwJg9UosMJ_C3PO1pPyW1de22gB7pucvjjkooSQoLQLWB17F0XOsPqEPZCWCn8r1h1CFeMAQbH_R7VaE-1E1RHlp/s320/P1010055.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A man needs to do his homework to prepare for the Iditarod. Read what Mallory, Mawson, Shackleton, and the Boyz were up against and then "buck-up," cuz what your doing aint nothing special!</td></tr>
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<br />Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-35967781830057728642013-03-24T11:50:00.002-05:002013-03-24T11:50:18.562-05:00DBD Issued gear for recent foray in Alaska Part I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Due to several requests, I have reluctantly decided to let the general public in on how a highly trained DBD man dresses for the Alaskan race from Knik to McGrath. First, obtain a loyal man-dog that idolizes you. Second, get a good pair of bibs with a hefty chamois, red are best because they make you go faster and women will think that you have money. Then get a pair of light wool socks. Then put on an old wool long sleeve T-shirt. Be careful with this layer, it is the kind that your wife is gonna try to throw out or give to the Salvation Army. Never wash this layer, because it will allow your wife to find it. <br />
<br />
Wear over the light wool socks a pair of vapor barrier socks. The ones pictured are from a company with initials, something like RHL. In any event they work great. Then add a very old wool cycling jersey, the one I use has pockets in the front and back. I had it shortened too much a few years ago...so it makes me look silly, but I still love it. Again hide these kinds of shirts/jerseys from your wife as she will try to discard them. Add over the bibs a pair of manly woolies. The ones pictured were my Dad's until I stole them many many years ago. Kevin Kinney added side zips so they are now modern. On this race I brought two hats and two face masks and two neck 'gaters. Finish off the torso with a thick Patagonia ninja top and the footwear with Lake Boots and 40 Below Overboots if it getz cold. Top it all off with a very old down sweater. Note the admiring Man-dog. <br />
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<br />Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-45063388764904926612013-03-18T13:32:00.000-05:002013-03-19T08:41:15.677-05:00"Look away for I am hideous"...a man's head swells on the Iditarod Trail<br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Segment 3: Lack of sleep leads
to instability, then madness, but ultimate redemption.</span><br />
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My fearless Leader...I would follow him anywhere...</div>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Part VI From Point Desecration
(~Mile 175) to beautiful downtown Rohn (Mile 210), Alaska, and then onto the
last checkpoint, Nikolai (Mile 300). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Most of the human
species is endowed with a coping mechanism that allows the simple man to block
from memory painful and/or shameful remembrances (this can be either a good thing or a bad thing). For what other reason would
nations continue to wage war upon other nations or even on their own citizens. Such
was the situation with my dishonorable act of desecration along the once
pristine trail as we ascended towards Rainy Pass that beautiful morning. The
fact of the matter is that by the time I had caught back up to my mentor, the
whole event was nothing more than a distant memory that would be completely
forgotten as soon as I was able to gain a proper restroom and take care of some
needed paper-work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But alas there are
occasions in a reckless man’s life when his previous deceits, miscalculations
and misappropriations, can come back to haunt him—Such was the case of the
misplaced dung heap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. Gauld on the move (not far from Desecration Point)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Fast-forward Dear Reader, some
thirty-six or hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conjure a vision of
blurry-eyed, yet hardy men sitting around a circle within a cozy home in the
center of the hamlet of McGrath, itz mid-morning on the first Friday of March.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some are reclined on a large horse-shoe
shaped sofa, others are reposed upon the floor, there is a collective sense of
great contentment for these men have just successfully crossed the first 350
miles of the famed Iditarod trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
lively conversation is centered upon various antidotes, all based on the universal
agreement that the Iditarod Trail traverses challenging, albeit beautifully
remote wilderness. Then Ken Zylstra, a reflective, sophisticated family man of
fifty years offered a sad commentary on a discovery of which he described as the
result of a reckless rogue’s actions that involved “clearly, undeniably and decidedly
poor form.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went on to describe his
encounter with a ‘huge pile of fresh sh___” lying in the middle of the trail
about midway up Rainy Pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All in attendance
shook their heads in disgust, comments included, “Who would do such a thing, it
must have been a rider.” Hoping that my red face would not give me away I, too,
shook my head, feigning repugnance at the thought of such a misdeed. Then the
thought occurred to me that may be I could try something like, “I bet it was a
snowmobiler!” but instead, I offered no comment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lesson #9: I better start to make amends or
I will have a lot to answer for at the “Pearly Gates.”</i></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLLCEGE2GQ9fcIOJlRk8PC45MqbqEnNG6TwcUlL5aUkRIQSc779VeBxyQIL1y7g8gkf6MDlSfYF8fYcg7QuT6M-GDMDgQqmXH9iqiMv66CGPj1qPhMGBQFKemVIMwtEPEOWebmkpqu6l6O/s1600/raining+lake+new.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLLCEGE2GQ9fcIOJlRk8PC45MqbqEnNG6TwcUlL5aUkRIQSc779VeBxyQIL1y7g8gkf6MDlSfYF8fYcg7QuT6M-GDMDgQqmXH9iqiMv66CGPj1qPhMGBQFKemVIMwtEPEOWebmkpqu6l6O/s320/raining+lake+new.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We made the top of Rainy Pass
in great time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The descent down into
Dalzell Gorge was a total blast. Down, down, down we went, flying past and
between big blue icefalls and tight canyon walls. Lindsay, it seemed to me,
never touched his brakes. As he quickly pulled away from me, I would catch
glimpses of him taking corners wide-open, leaning hard one way then and
counter-weighting his bike the other way as if he had been an Olympic
road-cyclist at one point in his long life. It was a great morning…I felt
alive, doing simply what I was meant to do…I hope I never lose my love of
adventure, too be honest, I guess I am not worried about that. What I am
worried about is that one-day I’ll be too old…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We made Rohn around noon, thus
completing the route from Puntilla Lake to Rohn in something like eleven
hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember Lindsay telling me
that in 2012, that segment of the trail had taken him twenty-eight hours,
walking in deep snow almost the whole way in 20 below with high head
winds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were in good spirits, but we
were dog-tired, fatigued at the cellular level, and thus hoping for a good
three-hour nap, but it was not to be as it was Happy Hour when we arrived in
busy, bustling, downtown Rohn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCirLCeZdqsHuHZ35RAkNiEZn9Ftu24hu9G9PuIyYISyiYkXl5jyn9c559OHKnMnANp-bL-CmdMcOLy3-jR84yd4vHBvGSLlCzy5J_B9H2kip5wMjGtVM1r-aylNw839N0tXNBwHq3a2Lp/s1600/new+posed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCirLCeZdqsHuHZ35RAkNiEZn9Ftu24hu9G9PuIyYISyiYkXl5jyn9c559OHKnMnANp-bL-CmdMcOLy3-jR84yd4vHBvGSLlCzy5J_B9H2kip5wMjGtVM1r-aylNw839N0tXNBwHq3a2Lp/s320/new+posed.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Rohn is comprised on one cabin.
The cabin is maintained by the BLM in conjunction with the Iditarod Race
organization. Apart for the small, but very cool cabin, there is a nice “fully
equipped” outhouse, and a packed down landing strip for ski-equipped small
airplanes (Note to self: I’d love to somewhat get my family up there to stay
for a week as it truly is a wonderful spot). Yet the place was rockin’ with
airplanes landing and taking off, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dropping
off massive supplies for the big upcoming dog race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cabin was occupied by a number of
Iditarod volunteers, all scurrying around getting the mountain of supplies of
straw, dog, food, fuel, etc., ready for the mushers and dogs to arrive in a few
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the volunteers were from
northern Minnesota and northern Wisconsin; all presumably eager to speak with
folks different from whom they had been talking with since they had flown in a
couple dayz prior to our arrival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-E2T1wQUxy63k5MNLE_kcuU6sOtNp0fFKpb6Ze0FL4tqvwX4dIR4EvrKi6c6JtxfWCJI1pX4M10v1zGX_JkWyhA3mg1SaC8273NLXHjdkCpZq11QWwcCGYx7251mU6F5tfWA6La6Sa0_/s1600/Rohn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-E2T1wQUxy63k5MNLE_kcuU6sOtNp0fFKpb6Ze0FL4tqvwX4dIR4EvrKi6c6JtxfWCJI1pX4M10v1zGX_JkWyhA3mg1SaC8273NLXHjdkCpZq11QWwcCGYx7251mU6F5tfWA6La6Sa0_/s320/Rohn.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Downtown Rohn, Alaska...Dog supplies in the forefront...<br />
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</div>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">First and foremost, I was
hell-bent on getting to the outhouse, and then getting some sleep (or at least
to lie down) on the pine boughs that lined the cramped canvas wall-tent that
had been constructed for the Alaskan Ultra racers, but once Craig Medred
entered the tent to interview Lindsay for the Alaskan Dispatch (Read Craig’s
interview with Lindsay, itz a classic, </span><a href="http://www.alaskadispatch.com/article/after-nasty-frostbite-last-year-canadian-cyclist-returns-iditarod-invitational"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">http://www.alaskadispatch.com/article/after-nasty-frostbite-last-year-canadian-cyclist-returns-iditarod-invitational</span></a><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> ), I
knew it was not in the cards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In any event, on sleeping or
even staying in repose, I gave up and thus, with cheerful resignation, went out
into the warm sunshine and engaged in fun, lively conversations with several of
the volunteers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I doubt we stayed in Rohn for
more than two, maybe three hours. As stated above, we were tired, actually we
were more than just tired, we were getting really really fatigued as we had
been on the go for well over three dayz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In Lindsay’s much more accurate account of the race, he states, “I would
estimate that we had laid down for about ten hours and I had slept for maybe
five.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consequently, we knew it would
take a mammoth effort to get to Nikolai which was ninety more miles down the
trail, but there stands a BLM cabin approximately fifty miles from Rohn and so
that would be our goal. The idea was to push it to get to the cabin, get a good
three hours of sleep, and then push it onward to Nikolai (for a quick resupply
of water) and then to the finish line in McGrath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was looking like, given our pace, the good
weather, and relatively solid track that we would be able to make McGrath in
less than 4.5 dayz. Our weary but encouraged hearts soared as we left Rohn…As
it turned out we did not make the goal of 4 dayz and twelve hours, but we were
not that far off as we ultimately arrived in McGrath just two hours and some
change beyond the goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that we
did come so close to achieving this goal was due in part to the good trail
conditions, but is also indicative of Lindsay’s ability to bring to fruition a
well conceived plan-of-action. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Immediately upon leaving Rohn,
it became obvious to us that we were entering into a distinct geographical
region that receives drastically less snow than on the other side of the
pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose the moist air from the Pacific
deposits the all the precipitation on eastern side of the mountain range. On
the eastern side the snow was many meters deep, so deep that we saw little if
any signs of wild life. On this side, the interior, we crossed lakes and rivers
that were completely devoid of snow and then crossed what the locals call,
Farewell Burn, which is a huge swath of charred forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here we saw evidence of abundant wildlife,
with lots of moose, wolf, lynx, and an assortment of other critter tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also saw evidence of trapping, right next
to the trail (presumably so the brave trapper would not have to take more than
a step from his snowmachine to check his traps), which made my blood boil, but
I won’t get into that here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As stated
above, there was little snow and on long sections there was no snow at all, only
dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember thinking, “How in the
hell do the dogs pull musher and sled across this part of the trail?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We also came upon a section of
thirty-degree ice of which we were prepared to negotiate as we had each brought
step-in ice grippers. But as luck was on our side, a path lay in such a manner
that we did not have to employ the ice-grippers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA7z-7dlU4mBXpQ5ai54FF8FWQxxhLyNQUcmWKUhUDgMCfNNIdB4J5o8_1JjKOdx8pFjJ_CIebp8H3KAduz2Fj7Xp_l1leqOzOG_NHsu7v5ww6_3TwyY4yncWwhV6htZZNRUteDBjSEo35/s1600/climbing+ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA7z-7dlU4mBXpQ5ai54FF8FWQxxhLyNQUcmWKUhUDgMCfNNIdB4J5o8_1JjKOdx8pFjJ_CIebp8H3KAduz2Fj7Xp_l1leqOzOG_NHsu7v5ww6_3TwyY4yncWwhV6htZZNRUteDBjSEo35/s320/climbing+ice.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
....a steep ascent, but luckily no ice to contend with...Picture a dog team heading up this????</div>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, as we followed a
sinking, anemic sun, we moved into a less bumpy and rough section that allowed
us to make some relatively good time. We had a good tailwind, solid tracks, and
yet we were getting increasing sleepy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By nightfall we had been traveling for something like seventeen hours
since leaving Puntilla Lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By ten o’clock
we had been riding for 21 hours straight with no real rests, and while we were
making forward progress we were still at least fifteen miles from the
cabin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were stopping often with each
of us taking turns at leading, so as to allow the follower the luxury of
turning off one’s brain and to just instinctually follow the reflective
clothing of the leader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point
probably around midnight, with Lindsay in the lead, I turned around to notice
bright lights heading our way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
Bob Ostrom, Ken Zylstra., and Mike Criego.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They had caught us even though we had left an hour or so ahead of them
from Rohn and several hours ahead of them from Rainy Pass Lodge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While it was great to see them, it drove home
the point that we were fading fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After exchanging pleasantries, they moved on at a much quicker
pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As their red rear blinking lights
disappeared from our view, we felt exceedingly inadequate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A pair of old men playing a young man’s game,
so sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay was grimly stoic while I
was a mental mess, so sleepy that I was crashing the bike endless times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him that when I write about this I am
going to use the line, “their spirit broken, they decided that they had no
choice but to bivy.” I was just sorta joking because I figured that he would
want to stay on schedule and thus push on to the cabin, so I was surprised when
he said that perhaps it would be a wise move to bivy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Lindsay is a calculating,
analytical, smart guy that sees the big picture when it comes to races like the
Iditarod Invitational.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guyz like me
start fast and flare out, whereas guyz like Lindsay play it smart and finish
strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me to start looking for
a good sport to bed down for a few hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He threw me a bone by saying, “Charlie, you are the pro when it comes to
forced bivouacs, let me know when you find a good spot. We’ll sack out for a few
hours and then continue on. I’ll bet those guyz will sleep in at the cabin,”
(He was right on all counts.). I immediately started scoping for a good bivy
site; itz best to find a site that is on higher ground and of course relatively
flat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not long before we were
both comfortably ensconced in your warm sleeping bags—just before I turned off
my headlight, I looked at my trusty wristwatch; it read 1:45 a.m. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, after the initial warming
period, I always take a short high intensity run before I jump into a cold
sleeping bag, I ended up rather chilled (it read 5 below on Lindsay’s
thermometer but there was no wind) for the three to four hour duration as I had
foolishly passed on putting on my down sweater (it lay packed in my handlebar
set-up), but at least I was able to rest my tired legs a bit and to close my tortured
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay faired better claiming in
his report that he had the best sleep of the whole race period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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Good bivy site....</div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We were on the road again by 6
a.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was sometime during these early
pre-dawn hours that I first realized that my head was retaining fluids, that I
had become a water-head. As alluded to above, my eyes had been feeling weird
earlier as I had laid in my bivy. I had heard of endurance competitors having
problems with swollen feet and ankles, but my head was swelling!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feigning tranquilly, I nonchalantly asked
Lindsay how my head looked and he confirmed that my face and forehead were quite
swollen!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like <b>Elephant Man.</b> The
swelling had progressed to the point that it even started to affect my range of
sight as my eye lids were even affected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I felt hideous, unloved, and my eyes and cheeks were itchy, but Lindsay
assured me that he had seen such swelling in braver men than me on such long
endeavors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said in a confronting
voice, “Lotz of guyz swell up like that just before the end.” Of course I was
near my breaking point both physically and mentally so I took “the end” to me
at the end of one’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt sure
that I was near the end…Yet, he reassured me that he had meant “at the end of a
long race.” Thankfully the swelling abated not long after I made the finish
line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lesson 10: I’ll never make fun of
Elephant Man again as long as I live!</i></b></span></div>
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My head was not unlike that of Elephant Man</div>
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</div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">After several hours and the
ascent of a full bodied sun, the trail got better and we started to make time.
We had passed the BLM cabin and noted that Lindsay had been correct in his
prediction that Ken, Bob, and Mike would sleep in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t like we were racing them, at my age
I am so beyond worrying about where I stack up in these kinds of events,
(everybody in this race is tough and talented) but it did help us
psychologically to know that at least we were keeping pace with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By and by we came upon a running Dave
Johnston.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was on a mission to break
the foot-category record.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was so
strong and so competent that I do believe his accomplishment ranks right up there
with the top three riders. He told me at the finish that he slept less than
three hours during the whole race! Plus he is an incredibly amicable fellow, always
upbeat and genuinely friendly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay
and I found him to be most impressive. I do hope that I shall have the
opportunity to meet him again someday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
expressed interest in trying to come down some winter for the Arrowhead 135. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Together the three of us talked
and joked and felt like “free men” for a few minutes, whilst we took turns
filling our water bottles from a small bridge spanning a fast running stream
known as Sullivan’s Creek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here the
trail was flat and fast, so we took off and left Dave to his miraculous
footwork. Perhaps an hour or so after meeting Dave, Ken came up on us at a good
pace passing us with the quick message that he would see us in Nikolai. Hot in
pursuit of Ken Zylstra, next came Bob Ostrom, and then Mike Criego.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gave me a sense of state pride to see two
Minnesotans doing such a fine job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both
Lindsay and I felt pretty good at this point, but neither of us felt the
inclination to up our steady pace, so we watched them as they eventually
disappeared from our view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must say
that Lindsay sets a remarkably steady and even cadence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kind of pace that is very efficient for
the long haul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the last hours of
our battle to finish the route, I was so thankful that he took the leadership
position allowing me to just try and mimic his speed. I have no doubt that had
I been alone, I would have faltered and bivied one more time out somewhere
between Nikolai and McGrath and thus finished six or so hours later than we did
together. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally at approximately 4 p.m.
on that Thursday, we arrived at the last checkpoint located at a local
resident’s home in Nikolai and just fifty miles from the finish. At Nikolai we
met the race director briefly as he was en route on a snowmachine, heading back
along the trail with his immediate goal to make Rohn that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadly we did not get a chance to really speak
with him, but it is clear that Bill Merchant is a Man’s Man; The kind of man
that would have your back and yet expect you to hold your own as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I plan to return in five or six years to have
a go at Nome, so on that occasion I plan to buy Bill Merchant a beer or seven
and a couple shots of whiskey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bill and
Kathi Merchant assemble the group and provide the canvas, but it is largely
up to the artists to create their own personal collages…I like that….itz my kind of race!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We left the last checkpoint in
short order staying only an hour, beating Ken and da Boyz out of the house, but
it was not long until they passed us on the river; all of them looked strong,
especially Ken. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I am not gonna pull any
punches—Once the sun went down, our effort from Nikolai to McGrath turned into
a real sufferfest for Lindsay and me, taking nearly twelve hours to go less
than 50 miles on relatively flat terrain. But in our highly disheveled minds we
both had the distinct feeling that the river we were following was angled upward,
against us at a significant incline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was so surreal and so frustrating, I clearly remember stopping at one point and
asking, “Lindsay are we riding uphill? Can that be possible?” Nodding his head
in agreement, he replied that it did seem like we were indeed riding up a long,
long, forever long hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both of us knew,
logically and rationally, that we were on a flat slow moving river and yet it
seemed as if we were constantly climbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I remember agonizing about being able to only push my granny gear on a
flat river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reasoned, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It must be a climb otherwise I would not
have to stay in my granny gear!” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
seemed undeniably real and yet so harsh that we would have to ride up and up and
up a flat river. I wondered out loud if our headlights were causing some kind
of optical illusion, but the enormous weight of my worn out legs was no
illusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It finally got to the point
where we had to continually stop, form a solid foundation with both our boots
firmly on the ground, and then put our heads on the handlebars, each time
nodding off for a few seconds (or minutes).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On one occasion, “being lazy,” I failed to plant both feet on the ground
(or ice) and instead left one boot locked into the pedal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As God is my witness, when I put my head down
and then immediately dosed off, I fell over into the snow as a dead man would,
when I went to try and get up I realized that my boot was still attached to the
pedal...<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<br />
.....we would ride for 30 minutes or so and then one of us would simply fall off the bike....</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span> ...I aint gonna lie things got ugly</div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We were still lucid enough to
find humor in our situation, setting a couple little ground rules that included
two primary stipulations from which one could not deviate from: 1.When dosing
one could only think “happy thoughts,” and 2. Most importantly, under no
circumstances could one dream about either finishing the race or one’s life
after arriving in McGrath. Without getting too Freudian, perhaps the second
provision was instigated to allow us to not consider how much farther we had to
go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But try as I might I just could
conceive of making the distance. I became obsessed with wanting to bivy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I rode slowly mile after mile, my mind was
fixated in finding a place to bivouac. Then abruptly we came to the end of the
TRAIL! Just like that the trail ended as it ran directly, in a T-bone fashion,
onto a road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The Iditarod trail heads mostly
in a west by north direction, whereas this road ran basically south to
north.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strangeness or juxtaposition
of the trail ending and the road beginning jump-started me back to
reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How does this work, where is
the town? Lindsay’s accurate odometer maintained that we were just five
kilometers from the town of McGrath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
made no sense to us that a road would be here…Do the mushers take the road into
town? Thatz weird…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The problem was we had no clue
which way to go on the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We carefully
searched for any telltale signs of bike tracks but could find no evidence. It
was pitch black out and yet we could not make out any kind of glow which would
indicate a cluster of houses. We quickly launched a plan…We would ride for
fifteen minutes to the north carefully looking for any indication that a town
lay ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hit the 15 minute mark with
no success, so we turned, and headed back to the start of our troubles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we went fifteen minutes to the south and
again found nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The initial excitement of
finding the road had, at this point, worn off and so we were once again
desperately sleepy, almost groggy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had
spied some kind of a radar tower to the north, so we headed back to the north in
the hope that maybe someone would be manning the tower. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took the short driveway off the main road to
the radar installation and found no one about. I was ready to throw down my bag
and sleep next to the tower, but Lindsay convinced me to try one last time further
up the road. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Salvation was ours as we gradually
began to see dwellings. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we found a sign
indicating that the finish was one mile away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had made it…all fatigue and cloudy thoughts
fell away as we laughingly relished the last few “clicks” of our time on the famed
Iditarod Trail…</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Part VII: McGrath and beyond…Our
stay in McGrath was a highlight! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">To be continued…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><w:sdt docpart="B8654F0464214994B7CD4EDE5D76A309" id="365872734"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">From my
application for admission into the 2013 Iditarod Invitational: “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">To earn the respect of my fellow racers,
race directors, and race volunteers as I attempt to complete the 350-mile
Alaskan Iditarod Invitational. Upon returning to my duties as a high school
teacher in northern Minnesota I plan to develop a curriculum based on my
experience including references to the history of the race, interesting
characters, and the physical and psychological preparation needed to complete
the event.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS ゴシック"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span></b></w:sdt><b></b><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS ゴシック"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-45968944296573893052013-03-15T22:32:00.000-05:002013-03-18T13:37:56.937-05:00A man's search for meaning on the iditarod Trail
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Segment 2: The author’s reprieve from moral
decay is short-lived…<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Part V: From Finger Lake Lodge to Rainy Lake Lodge, located on the
Puntilla Lake (Mile 165) and beyond...<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As alluded to above, hills start to play a more prominent role in ones
quest to make McGrath as one leaves Shell Lake, but the REAL hills come as the
racer leaves Winterlake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay and I
departed Finger Lake Lodge around 9:45 a.m. in perfect conditions, sunny, a
firm path, and spirits were high, even though neither of us had enjoyed any
real sleep. We had only stayed a little over three hours and yet I was more
than ready to leave.</span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDhVEa_NZ9ZHDcY08PQGTOH8mxe3kGv0GefMDonnJlQZvm52Ft5TMtxjXJMbZyJHuEtXhpK2hTnXcJ6iNzCJNfxjkQcbx8EVe0dOpJj5Fj7zYSg0Vn8Wut_RIax2y82pqzIercVvHhPaP/s1600/big+burn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDhVEa_NZ9ZHDcY08PQGTOH8mxe3kGv0GefMDonnJlQZvm52Ft5TMtxjXJMbZyJHuEtXhpK2hTnXcJ6iNzCJNfxjkQcbx8EVe0dOpJj5Fj7zYSg0Vn8Wut_RIax2y82pqzIercVvHhPaP/s320/big+burn.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
the big burn....note absence of camelbak<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Immediately upon leaving the checkpoint, one has to push his or her
bike up a long hill and then descend a long way down, down, down to another
lake or river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The descent was steep
enough that even Lindsay, who is simply amazing at riding steep, scary
descents, elected to walk the bike down to the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose we were riding on a solid track for
forty or so minutes when Lindsay realized that he had left his damned camelbak
back at the lodge. <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I think I have already established that Mr. Lindsay Gauld is a
gentleman of the highest order, while my irrational actions at the Fingerlake
Lodge speak to the level at which my moral or ethical code was operating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay handled the oversight with grace and
candor, exclaiming with honorable resignation, “Itz my fault, but I must go
back and get it as I will surely need it when we cross Rainy Pass.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My initial response to this predicament was to
curse his camelbak and to begin in earnest to try and convince him to leave the
damned thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I told you at Irene’s
that camelbaks are tools of the devil! I absolutely loath camelbaks, I hate
camelbaks, camelbaks are unreliable, camelbaks leak, camelbaks make a guy sweat
and chap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leave the dam camelbak! You
can have a couple of my waterbottles! Forsake the camlebak! I know for certain
that you have had major problems with camelbaks in the past because I have
witnessed them with my own eyes!! Admit it…Admit that the camelbak has betrayed
you in the past!!! Renounce your camelback!!!!” <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Note: I really do hate camelbaks, and finally on this trip, for the
first time, as a Man should, I acted on my conviction and went without the
camelbak and it was great, no regrets—more on this in the gear segment…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lesson
#8: Tell Lindsay to leave his left-leaning, immoral, unreliable camelbak at
home next time he tries the Iditarod Trail w/me. </i></span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGJ2eL1qAAK7ZZK1prDsYqjIB7N-OGJ7gmZ-w1FN6eADRfbTpbfvq18uIKFjj9QdH61fS5heT89QOMSQC-gg9dIh_UDS_IfZm-ROldS1LndAZ9A1L1dbaO7IR3j2s8PmWSVpoof86F5Ho/s1600/broken+man.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGJ2eL1qAAK7ZZK1prDsYqjIB7N-OGJ7gmZ-w1FN6eADRfbTpbfvq18uIKFjj9QdH61fS5heT89QOMSQC-gg9dIh_UDS_IfZm-ROldS1LndAZ9A1L1dbaO7IR3j2s8PmWSVpoof86F5Ho/s320/broken+man.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><o:p> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> ...is this man weeping? No...just a stick in the eye</span></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The stoic and peace-loving former Canadian Olympian and all-around
good guy calmly listened to my little tirade and then in a tranquil voice instructed
me to continue onward whilst he would return for the camelbak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I followed my instructions, but sheepishly, perhaps
because I was feeling a hint of guilt—before we parted, I promised to walk a
lot and ride slow, so as to allow him to catch back up in good time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must be pointed out that while I am not
above treachery, I had no intentions of trying to ditch Mr. Gauld for he a
solid plan and the plan was working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even by my “fuzzy” math calculations, we were well ahead of schedule. We
had even begun to openly speak of finishing the course in less than four and
one half dayz. Plus it was a great sense of comfort to travel with a competent
guy that had been on the trail just twelve months before…</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Actually it was a good section of the trail for a guy like Lindsay to
catch back up to me in reasonable time as he was much more able to descend the
many steep, even “bobsled” like descents, than I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he did catch back up to me, in something
like three hours, I marveled at the daring speeds he would gather as he flew
down the many very steep narrow ramps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet
on one such speedy descent, he missed a tight corner and went flying off the
trail and into about six feet of fluffy snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Having witnessed the crash, I was sure that he would be injured. He was full
of snow, totally stuck, and would still be there today had I not pulled him
out, but thankfully his little body was unharmed. <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In my world, the world of a pure Cyclist, the trail segment from the
Happy Steps to the Rainy Lake Lodge on Puntilla Lake was the most appealing of
the course to McGrath. It was beautifully remote with huge mountains in the
distance, tightly lined with gigantic, majestic evergreens, very hilly, the
trail was hard and smooth, and thus the riding was a blast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember thinking, “Wow this is truly awesome,
but how in the hell do the mushers get their dogs to run up and down these
tight curvy climbs and drops?” Riding the first 350 miles of the Iditarod
forced me to concede beyond a doubt that the guyz and galz that run dogs the
full 1000 miles to Nome are truly special people…and the dogs are über-special athletes…I
thought of my beloved Hondo (and Loki too) and I smiled…<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As stated above we had perfect riding conditions, some of the best
snow-biking I have ever experienced, and thus rode into the checkpoint cabin at
Rainy Lake Lodge in good physical condition and high spirits. I’d guess that we
arrived to the checkpoint around dusk, I remember that it was still light out,
but it was fading fast (Christmas lights were festooned across the entrance to
the little cabin and it looked wonderfully inviting). So maybe it was perhaps 6:30
p.m. when we made Puntilla Lake and subsequently, we left the following morning
at 1:00 a.m. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am pretty sure about the
departure time-frame as it has strangely remained stuck in my limited,
dysfunctional brain. The idea surrounding the 1:00 a.m. departure timeframe
being to get up and over the notoriously cold Rainy Pass during daylight, so as
minimize the time spent out in the open as well as decreasing the changes of
getting lost.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Lindsay had suffered severe frostbite crossing this high alpine pass
last year, so he had some demons to deal with, which worked in my favor as he
was highly motivated to get an early start…which meant that he would not
oversleep our departure time of 1:00 a.m. (as I surely would).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As far as all the checkpoints go, my six+
hours at that little, cozy cabin on the shores of Puntilla Lake were by far the
most restful [by comparison Buffington stayed three hours]. The old log cabin
was not too hot, nor too cold, but just right. Just as the bed, in which I
slept soundly, was equipped with not too clean, but not too dirty sheets and
blankets, but instead with just the right amount of dirt on the sheets and blankets.
I was in heaven! The little tribes of mice scurrying around my head were not
too big nor too…You get my drift…I was about as close to heaven as I guy like
me can hope for, once he leaves this world…<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At Puntilla, the unsupported “serve yourself” race protocol regarding
the food and drink was provided for in the form of an assorted box of Sam’s
Club “bargain basement priced” canned soups, chilis, and the like situated
under an old table, a tub of semi-used, slightly moistened orange-flavored Tang,
next to two big jugs of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was
a big metal bowl on top of a 50 gallon oil-drum stove with six or seven of the cans
bobbing, axillary labels floating alongside willy-nilly, in the tepid water. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stove was warm, but not hot, thanks to
Dave Johnston, the only other resident at our arrival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was sleeping on a near by bunk, so we
spoke in whispers. Given the arrangement, momentarily, I was confused until
Lindsay grabbed a can, broke it open and downed the contents, chasing it with a
gulp of old-school Tang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never one to
worry too much about table etiquette, I enthusiastically followed his actions,
grabbing what I surmised to be a can of low-rent chili. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My problem was that, as is often the case in
my life, I was not content to stop with knocking down just one can of “the
affordable” chili.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay ate a can and
then went to prepare for a good sleep. But, the way I figured it was that if
this was the meal that I was being given in conjunction with my entry fee, I
was gonna dam well get my fair share! So I sat there and knocked down three
more cans of various pastas, noodles, and beans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Shortly thereafter, I climbed into a very comfortable bottom bunk and
passed out, enjoying the first and really only solidly refreshing sleep of the
whole trip from start to finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we
woke up, Dave was gone…what an amazing person. <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">When Lindsay roused me up from my sweet slumber around 12:45 a.m., I
felt refreshed and motivated to tackle Rainy Pass and head for the beautiful
Emerald City of Rohn, Alaska.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay
had taken pity on me and thus waited to the last fifteen minutes of departure
time to wake me. He was packed and ready to go, so not wanting to let him down,
I packed up as fast as I could and was ready to leave right at 1:00 a.m. The
problem was that while my heart and soul were both ready and able to tackle
Rainy Pass, to do my part to being honor to our noble effort, my intestinal
tract was still very much asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At home, I awaken my hard to awaken intestinal tract each and every
morning in the same manner, every day it’s the same routine, I am very regular,
which the doctors tell me is a good thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Basically, every morning during the work week, the alarms goes off
around 5;20 a.m., I ignore it, and then my wife kicks my sorry butt out of bed.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then obediently stumble to the shower.
Once out of the revitalizing shower, my heart and soul are up and ready to go,
but my intestinal tract is still fast asleep, but that’s okay. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I descend our stairs to the family room and
head for my chair, where the dog has taken up residence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I kick the dog out of my chair, he half-heartedly
snarls at me, and I grab him, leash him, and then we head out the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He does his business in due time and then we
head back inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By that time the
coffee is ready, so I grab a big cup of coffee and knock it back in fast order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The coffee immediately wakes up my intestinal
tract and so I move back upstairs to do my morning business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I head off to work. Been doing it this
way for nearly twenty-five years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got
me a routine… Men are instinctual creatures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 22px; line-height: 25px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">So here’s the root of the problem…At our very early a.m. departure time from
Puntilla Lake, me mind and me soul were good to go, but in the excitement I had
forgot that the third rail was still fast asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had been warned at the pre-race meeting
that this alpine passage would more than likely be coldest on the route and
thus to dress accordingly at the cabin, because there was nowhere to get out of
the constant winds that fly through the mountain pass. Last year, Lindsay had
made the mistake of not dressing warm enough before leaving the cabin and once
on the move, had waited too long to add clothing, the result was that he got
bit bad by the frost…</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">So as a precaution, we both added layers of clothing to our ensembles
prior to leaving our shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I donned
my ninja suit complete with built-in ninja facemask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it ultimately played out, luck was on our
side, and so while the crossing was moderately cold and windy, it represented
nothing beyond our capacity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact
things progressed very well as the trail was mostly ride-able and we were also
treated to a beautiful lunar glow that spread a magical milky hue across the
alpine landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love mountains, they
are without a doubt my favorite geographical feature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In any event, perhaps three or four hours
into the ascent, working our way towards the divide or the apex of the pyramid
that separated point A from point B, my digestive system began to stretch and
yawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At the initial rumblings deep within my digestive system, I reacted to
the forthcoming crisis with a concerted cognitive effort at denial and then
suppression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You must remember,
judgmental reader, that we were exceedingly exposed to the Alaskan elements.
There were no trees and if there were some trees they were pathetic little
loathsome scrub trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe there were
some trees but they were wimpy trees, good-for-nothing trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The effort at denial was foolhardy and worked
for at best thirty minutes, the subsequent effort at suppression worked for
maybe ten minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then began to panic
in short-order for I had to go “Number Two” in the worst way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pedaling hard to catch up to my inspirational
leader, upon catching him, I called out in as calm a voice I could muster given
my circumstance and the winds, “Lindsay, pedal on ahead, I’ll catch back up. I
need to go the bathroom.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
sensing the potential for a grave act of dishonor, he quickly complied, but
only after thoughtfully taking a second to turn on his red rear blinker so as
to allow me to not get lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">For the present, I was warm as I was wearing plenty of warm clothes,
but I was incredible exposed to a significant wind and an air temperature, that
while not below zero, was somewhere in the single digits and so I began to try
and work through a plan that would somehow allow me private parts minimal
exposure to the cutting wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I
attempted to conjure a plan of action I realized that the biggest problem facing
me was that I was wearing those damnable bibs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This meant that in order to get everything into the “go position” I
would have to completely strip down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
major problem of being completely naked from my thighs upward was complicated
or exacerbated by two other very significant and related issues. Namely, 1. A
lack of any stout trees from which I could steady myself and; 2. The fact that
I had packed no toilet paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did have
a package of “handi-wraps” given to me by Woody, but it was of no use to me in
this crisis as I have foolishly packed them inside of my sleeping bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There simply was not time to access my
sleeping bag for it was stoutly packed deep within my rear stuff sack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Quickly exhausting any and all options (my DBD revolver was also
deeply packed away and thus inaccessible). So, with grim resignation, I
undressed as quickly as I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within
seconds I was completely exposed except for the lower aspects of my legs and
feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did the deed as best I could and
yet even before I was half-way finished I had become so chilled that I was uncontrollably
shivering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such was my position in this
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Desperate to warm myself, devoid
of any semblance of humanity, I pulled up the bibs and ran off down the trail
hoping that by getting my blood pumping the shivering would cease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After but a minute or two I began to fill the
warm blood coursing through my veins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After perhaps ten minutes, I was lucid enough to consider my
situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Snow was all that was
available to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man does what a man
has to do. Numb to any emotions or thoughts associated with or inherit within a
fine gentlemen, I added a healthy glob of Brave Soldier anti-chapping salve to
the mix and mounted my bicycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rode
away towards the distant red blinking light. I remember hoping that those that
would surely pass the massive dung heap left squarely in the middle of the
historic Iditarod trail would mistakenly attribute it size and improper
location to that of the workings of a rabid, malcontented Bull Moose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May God have mercy on my Soul. <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">To be continued….</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-70123126421855828282013-03-13T13:57:00.000-05:002013-03-13T13:57:04.701-05:00The first of several entries: Devolution on the Iditarod Trail
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">For
immediate public release <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">To whom
it may concern: </span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The secretive and exclusive DBD Adventure Society has broken
from itz recent tradition of offering membership to worthy candidates only </span><span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">posthumously
and instead has inducted the still alive, albeit sufficiently aged, Lindsay
Gauld into the Club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Note: Dr. Andrew Lockery
was also inducted so as to be able to continue in his role as Mr. Gauld’s
Man-servant. </span></span><br />
<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Mr. Gauld’s induction into the DBD was finalized
upon his honorable completion of this year’s Alaskan Iditarod Invitational
Race. A race that involves presenting both cyclists and man-haulers with the
worthy challenge of negotiating the first 350 miles of the remote and historic
Iditarod Trail from Knik to McGrath [Note: Nine of the registered fifty participants
plan on continuing onward to Nome, which involves yet another 650 miles of
wilderness travel]. Immediately following Mr. Gauld inception in the DBD, along
with his trusty Man Servant, Dr. Andrew Lockery, both men received the full
benefits of DBD membership including a locker at the exclusive DBD Club House
located on the third floor of the Kitchee Gammi Club located in old Duluth, a
DBD smoking jacket, and a re<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>quisition form for obtaining
a fully detailed 1917 </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Webley
Mk VI Revolver to be used by Dr. Lockery on Mr. Gauld in the event of an act of
potential dishonor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Due to his forced abandonment of last year’s race, in
which Mr. Gauld’s nose went missing due to severe frostbite, this recent competition
acted as the final DBD opportunity for assessment of Mr. Gauld’s mettle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Initially, both Buffington and Farrow were
charged with conducting the assessment/fact –finding process , but due to
Buffington’s real potential for a high finish even amongst a very talented
field of cyclists, Farrow was tasked with the role of primary assessor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Essentially, Mallory and his people felt that
Buffington’s quest for Honor trumped his role as Assessor, whilst Farrow, with
his recent record of dishonorable acts, was generously given the dual role of Gauld’s
official chronicler (and photographer) and also the chance to reconcile his own
tainted image by completing the race without resorting to any dubious acts or
unsavory tactics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Therefore the final plan called for Buffington to be
sent ahead to Anchorage to co-mingle during the pre-race phase with the most
talented of the hardy Alaskans, whilst Farrow was assigned to reside at the
Alaskan European Bed & Breakfast (B&B); the chosen lodge for several
participants, all of whom were clearly a few steps below what could be called
super athletes, with the exception of the young Italians, who were heading for
Nome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In others words, due to advanced age
or average skill sets or lack of experience with arctic cycling or all these
factors combined, the residence of the Alaskan European Bed & Breakfast
were mostly not vying for high finishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The collective goal amongst these brave, but mortal souls was to simply
survive the 350 miles in good time and in noble style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These were men that knew such an ordeal would
test their psychological resolve and physical capabilities to the maximum….<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">For a full briefing on Buffington’s amazing effort
in which he finished in 7<sup>th</sup> place in a stunning time of 3 dayz and 5
hours go to </span></span><a href="http://thebuffingtonpost.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;">http://thebuffingtonpost.blogspot.com/</span></span></a><span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The following is Farrow’s report.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A simple recollection of an aged man well
past his prime and yet still chasing a wanderlust and zest for life that will
hopefully remain with him until he draws his last breath…In short Buffington
went to Alaska in search of glorious deeds and victory amongst Men; Farrow went
to Alaska because he had to…before the onset of age renders him homeward bound.
A condition of which is almost too difficult for to bear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a sense of urgency to his adventures
now; an urgency that anyone over the age of 50 can relate to…Too many
adventures, but too little time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such is
the inspiration of characters such as Lindsay Gauld, nearly 65 years old and
still planning the next great challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mallory wept quietly the tears of honor, when he heard of Gauld’s
triumphant effort. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Submitted by E. Shackleton on March 7, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span class="st1"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></span></div>
</div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">To: DBD Honor Board<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">From: CPF<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Concerning: The completion of the Alaskan Iditarod
Invitational and the subsequent awarding of DBD status to both Mr. Lindsay
Gauld and his trustyworthy Man-servant, Dr. Andrew Lockery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">2013 Iditarod Invitational Race Report<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Part I: The Pre-race <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">After a hectic Friday at school, I left Esko and
arrived in Minneapolis around 5:15 or two hours before my departure for
Seattle. Several hours later, due to problems with the plane’s navigational
system, I arrived two and a half hours late into Anchorage, at 3:00 a.m. (via
Alaskan Airlines) on the Saturday before the start of the big dance, which
would commence at 2:00 p.m. on that Sunday. By the time I got to the B&B it
was past 4:00 a.m. thus beginning an eight day stretch defined by a systemic
lack of any semblance of quality slumber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Note: if you are serious about a top finish in this
race or any kind of multi-day race, you need to be able to go without sleep. Sleep
is the great decider, folks that can stay on the bike for dayz on end without
sleep win these races, whereas people like me, that need at least a few hours of
sleep every twenty-four period will not contest for a top finish. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was to
share a room with two compelling characters, Klaus Pusl (a cyclist) from
Germany and Marco Berni (a man-hauler) of Italy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both men are veteran endurance racers,
committed snorers, nice guyz, and both had already completed the route to
McGrath, with Berni (a snorer in possession of a staccato-type snore ensemble),
having also been twice before to Nome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pusl (57 years old), whose snore repertoire including a kind of
desperate choking sound that reminded me of the last grasps of man hanging from
the gallows, had made McGrath and then, in an impressive effort, continued
onward for Nome in 1997, but was force to abandon his effort in Shaktooluk (a
small village on Norton Sound) due to serious frost bite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adjacent to our comfortable room, Lindsay
Gauld, the iconic Olympian Canadian stalwart and James Hodges of Virginia, a
remarkably fit looking guy and a two time finisher of the Tour Divide, took up
residence. Farther down the hall, the stoutly built Donald Wood of Michigan
bunked alone as the other bed belonged to the Brit, Allan Tillis, who had, at
the last minute, been forced to delay his arrival due to a family
emergency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a testament to Irene’s
compassion (she owns the B&B) she held the bed on the off chance that the
Brit would make it (and he did, although he had to start nearly a four and a
half dayz late; Irene drove him to the start line).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two upstairs bedrooms were occupied by
Irene and a young charismatic Italian couple, Ausillia Vistarini and Sebastiano
Favaro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This dynamic duo had completed
the route to McGrath in 2012 (on single-speeds) and were back this year to make
an attempt on Nome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have
beautifully Italian hand crafted titanium frames, this time equipped with
gears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were delightful young people,
always happy and cheerful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The B&B had a heated garage for our use and so
with the help of Woody, I was able to build up my bike in short order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Woody is a very capable bike mechanic and
since I am worthless at anything mechanical, I was very lucky to have him
willing to assist me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Woody is built
like a nose-guard, not like an endurance athlete, but he finished the race in
an impressive effort, an effort that should act as a source of inspiration for
all larger men out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bravo Mr.
Donald Wood, by far the largest man in the field! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeaMr2yDVIdVa1lmhilqBEZtGYIQopVXJSZ-JtSd80ndumKmtX0HkIDaYC_lgQr0NvRoUP6UolCd8yq39pdEVkyzkAGEj86PeNk-4ifG3rrhyHg5net5KypclggMkybpDium6-p79L9EF/s1600/P1000881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeaMr2yDVIdVa1lmhilqBEZtGYIQopVXJSZ-JtSd80ndumKmtX0HkIDaYC_lgQr0NvRoUP6UolCd8yq39pdEVkyzkAGEj86PeNk-4ifG3rrhyHg5net5KypclggMkybpDium6-p79L9EF/s320/P1000881.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I highly recommend staying at the Alaskan European
Bed & Breakfast if you plan to do this race. Irene is an amazing host and
the whole ambiance of the place is geared for the adventurer on a budget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rates are very reasonable and the meals
were very good, plus it is centrally located… It cost me $16 cab fare from the
airport and it is only a short walk away from the race meeting place and a nice
bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I plan on staying there again as
soon as I get a chance to head back up to Alaska.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">We wiled away that Saturday, visiting Speedway
Cycles (home of the FatBack, the bike of choice for most of the fastest
Alaskans) and REI.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had forgotten to
bring straps to attach my various packs to my bike frame and so I went in
search for this item at REI.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once at
REI, in a rather spur of the moment rationalization, based on solely on pricing,
I made the decision to forgo the straps in favor of the cheaper bungee
cords.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turns out that it was a
mistake as the bungees did not work as well as straps to hold the gear in place
on the often very bumpy Iditarod Trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On more than several occasions I came to curse the bungees as they were
difficult to deal with when clad in gloves and they also tended to skew the
rear stuff sack, which was an ongoing source of irritation for me as I was
constantly “punching” that rear stuff sack back into itz proper alignment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lesson
#1: Use stout straps to affix gear to one’s frame, bungees don’t work nearly as
well. </i></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">In the late afternoon, all the racers were required
to meet at a motel that was very near to our B&B so we all walked over
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The meeting was short &
sweet and essentially drove home the simply message that the event was
unsupported and that in order to do well, one would have to be smart and not
cavalier about protecting oneself from the elements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found the lack of a long drawn out lecture
on safety to be quite refreshing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
prevailing attitude was that if you are signed up for this race, you should be
ready to do it on your own with no outside help. I liked the idea conveyed, that
one was responsible for his or her well-being. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too me, the less support the better, I
embraced the minimalist dogma years ago and so I tend to be attracted to races
that fit with the old idiom, “</span></span><span class="hw1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">You've made your bed (and you'll have to lie in it).”</span></span><span class="hw1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Thatz why I
find races like the Trans-Iowa, the Colorado Trail Race, and the Tour Divide to
be such special races. Case-in-point, there is a Man-hauler, Tim Hewitt of
Pennsylvania (a legendary veteran of this race) that is hauling a fully
self-contained sled, weighing 100+ lbs., all the way to Nome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His plan is to travel the whole route with no
outside aid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BRAVO TIM HEWITT!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Another thing I really appreciated about this event
was the genuine and sincere willingness of the veterans to offer important tips
and advice to the rookies on how to do the race in an efficacious manner. Jay
Perevary and Jeff Oakley, top racers and amazing endurance aficionados were
especially helpful to me personally and I would like to publically thank
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Salsa’s sponsorship is well spent
on Jay Petervary as he is truly a grand ambassador of adventure racing (he won
the race in an outstanding time of two days, nineteen hours, and fifty
minutes!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a record breaking
effort!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jeff Oakley is a major legend
of this epic event, having been at the top for many years, and he is also a
very amicable and unpretentious man. When Lindsay and I finished the race at
something like 3:45 a.m. on that Friday morning, Jeff Oakley got up from his
slumber and shook each of our hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was incredible act of gracious and sincere benevolence and nearly brought me to
tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although Jason Buffington was a
rookie in this race, he rode with the top racers (7<sup>th</sup> place) and finished
the event in just over three dayz and five hours!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is a very good friend to me and he was the
first person to rise from his berth and offer Lindsay and me a heartfelt
“congratulations” upon our finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
also procured a victory beer for me which was like drinking nectar from
heaven…given the context of our situation having been on the go for nearly
thirty six hours with no sleep and just two hours or so of non-movement. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">After the short pre-race meeting, a group of us
including Lindsay, Woody, Dan Jansen, and Jay Petervary headed over to a close-by
drinking establishment for a few good homemade beers and pizza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We retired early; presumably Lindsay, Woody,
Dan and JP for a good night’s sleep in anticipation of the great dance; whilst
I took a position of agitated repose to listen to a symphony of grunts, snorts,
chokes, coughs, and accentuated with frequents act of flatulence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>Lesson
#2: Ya meet some really cool guyz at these things, but most of them snore and
they snore with gusto…. <o:p></o:p></u></i></b></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="st1"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Lesson #3: Bring earplugs and strong
sleeping pills when you do things like this…</span></u></i></b></span><span class="st1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The Alaskan Iditarod Invitational Race did not disappoint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a scenic bus ride from Anchorage to
Knik, we all gathered in or near a bar to nervously await the start, which was
to commence at 2:00 p.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoyed the
hour or so of the pre-race time for it allowed me to re-connect with Jason and
to visit with several other folks that I have met over the years, including
Jill Valerius, who was a friend to my wife back before she moved to Wasilla to
begin as a family physician some six years ago. It also allowed me to meet and
exchange pleasantries with several of the top riders including the young and
speedy Kevin Breitenbach and the indomitable Tim Berntson, who has direct ties
to Duluth having graduated from the College of Saint Scholastica; they finished
third and second respectably (Kevin rode in with Jeff Oatley for a third place
tie). The fact of the matter is that apart from Jason and me, several of the
competitors have direct ties to Duluth including Matt Long, a man-hauler and
super nice guy and John Storkamp, another great guy and Minnesota stalwart in
the man-hauling division.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Storkamp
and Long would be attached to sledges designed and manufactured by Chris
Evavold of Black River Sleds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chris
works right down the hall from me at Lincoln High School in Esko,
Minnesota.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other Minnesotans included super
fit, Dan Dittmer, (who had a great race finishing in 11<sup>th</sup> place),
Ken Zylstra and Mike Criego (both super nice guyz that made my race even more
enjoyable by allowing Lindsay and I to share in their camaraderie during
several encounters during and after the race).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lindsay and I had the pleasure yo-yoing back and forth with Ken and Mike
and Bob Ostrom (who is going on to Nome) for most of the race; a better bunch
of guyz would be hard to find, as they were funny, generous, and totally
competent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Part II: The first 57 miles or from Knik to Yentna
Station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Like I alwayz do— I started off way too fast given my
ability, living the illusion that I’d be able to, by some divine miracle, ride
with the top guyz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I nestled in behind
the speedy, Eszter Horanyi (who would go on to break the women’s record in
three dayz and sixteen hours). Clearly, Eszter Horanyi is an amazing cyclist with
many great achievements but I also found her to be a most delightful and bright
young woman that hopes to one day become a full time writer within the genre of
travel literature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She also has a great
sense of humor and more than held her own in McGrath when surrounded by a bunch
of unruly and boisterous men finishers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In short, I found Ms. Horanyi to be a most impressive young woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We took off at a fast pace and initially had to labor
through some soft snow that took us along a tight narrow, tree lined track that
eventually turned into a wider trail that followed a power-line which quickly
dumped us out on to an asphalt road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was in the lead group of fifteen or sixteen. We motored at good speed on the
asphalt for at least an hour, maybe more, as my memory is not clear, but I do remember
thinking that it was weird to travel all the way to Alaska just to race on the
tarmac... Yet, it was fun as I was able to hang with the fast guyz and even
enjoyed pleasant conversations with several interesting characters, including
Jay Cable of Fairbanks and perennial winner Pete Basinger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus I knew that things would dramatically
change once we got on the Susitna River. As expected due to the warm
temperatures and recent snowfall, once on the Susitna, the trail turned very
soft and thus difficult to ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In a forlorn effort I attempted to follow the lead pack, but
in short order, my heart rate skyrocketing, I stopped, let some air out of my
tires, and watched them, with sincere admiration and goodwill, ride away from
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would not speak with any of them
again until McGrath. In dramatic fashion, I called out to them, “Godspeed,
Brave ones!” and smiled the smile of a contented man, comfortable in the
subservient role that he would play in this unfolding drama across the Alaskan
wilderness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Truly the evolutionary tenet of survival of fittest was at
play here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The disproportional talent between
the top five to eight guyz and their abilities to ride the straight line in
such tenuous conditions and the rest of us was stark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A perusal of the results depicts a clear and
definitive performance gap that existed between the top twelve or so riders and
the rest of the cyclists (the gap between the runners is perhaps as definitive
and significant, but I did not take the time to calculate it). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The top seven finishers broke the old record,
Buffington is included in this special group. Jay Petervary (JP) won the race
in a record time of sixty-seven hours and sixteen minutes; Tim Berntson was
only thirty four minutes back; and then Kevn Breitenback and Jeff Oakley were
approximately an hour back from JP.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John
Lackey was very close behind Team Oatley. These five to seven <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>guyz represent the cream of the crop and were
clearly a cut above the next group. These guyz essentially rode through without
any real substantial stops or rest-periods and when the rest of us pushed our
bikes, they rode them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The pursuit group composed of the next nine riders was lead
by Nome resident Phil Hofstetter and Duluthian, Jason Buffington (seventy-seven
hours or ten hours back from JP), Mid-pack rider, Dan Dittmer at three dayz and
eighteen hours and with Jay Cable and Eric Warkentin, who both finished in the
thirteenth and fourteenth positions; bringing up the end of the second chase
group, doing the route together in about ninety-two hours or about twenty five
hours behind JP.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These guyz represent a
strong committed chase group that rode very fast, but had to stop a few times
and/or were perhaps not able to ride as many lines up the hills and/or the soft
snow as the amazing top five. Then there exists a significant gap of fourteen
hours before the other cyclists start to arrive. These are the guyz that formed
the third tier; the rookies, the citizen enduro-racers, and/or the aged; collectively
a group that worked incredibly hard, but simply could not continually go go go
without a couple significant rests along the route or if rests were denied to
them, many were reduced to walking after long periods of stressful movement.
This was the group that I was a part of and included Ken Zylstra, Bob Ostrom,
Mike Criego, Lindsay, and Mike Beiergrohslein, Steve Wilkinson, Dan Jansen,
etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During our last effort from Nikolai
to McGrath, Lindsay and I were so overcome with the extreme, unrelenting, and
essential desire to sleep that we were forced into taking little mini-naps in
the form of resting our heads on the handlebars (more on this later in the
report). Both of us, on several occasions, this was a first for me, fell asleep
while riding our bikes, lost control, and then pitched head long into the
snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point, I watched from
behind as Lindsay started nodding off while leading out, I watched him fall
asleep (his head going limp, then slumping over), and then watched as he lost
control of the bike, and then watched the subsequent crash into the snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember laughing and then taking a few
pictures of him digging out of the snow bank. Such is the twisted humor of the
Iditarod racer…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Many of this group may well move up the hierarchy of talent
if they choose to return to the event in 2014 as the learning curve is steep; A
race which requires a myriad of logistical considerations. A person like Dan
Jansen comes to my mind. A guy that has the talent and now with a finish under
his belt, he will return to looking to finish in the top ten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a related point, I would not at all be
surprised to see Buffington return in 2014 sans bike, equipped instead with a
sledge and/or maybe even skis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In my case, I made some mistakes that cost me some time and
wasted energy such as relying on less than optimal footwear, nevertheless I
doubt that I would be able to ever move up in the standings for I raced this
event as hard as I possibly could. I used every trick I have ever learned in
terms of pushing the mojo to the limit, plus at 53 years of age I doubt I will
get any faster, but to be a part of this motivated group is highly satisfying
to me. In other words finishing with Lindsay Gauld, a hero of mine, in the 18<sup>th</sup>
position, given the talent pool, was personally most gratifying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved every minute of it and I will
definitely go back for an attempt to make Nome. Although, due to my career as a
high school teacher I will have to wait for six years (when I can retire), so
the plan is to go back to the Iditarod in 2019.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the mean time, the plan is stay hungry and to thus continue to do
what<span style="color: black;"> climbing legend Mo Anthoine calls,</span> “feeding
the rat.” Immediate plans include the Trans-Iowa in April and a long adventure
ride in Canada this summer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Truly the evolutionary tenet of specialization within the survival
of fittest principle was at play on the Iditarod trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fastest riders started out the fastest
and they ended the fastest…there were no surprises, no catastrophic bonks, no
slow tortoises jumping forward near the end to stunningly grab the victory from
the hares. …A quick digression—two thoughts occur to me as I write; #1. This
race attracts confident people that know what they can do both physically and
mentally, and #2. This particular year, given the state of the trail, allowed
the pure cyclist to truly exhibit his or her skills, whereas the all-around
hard-guy was not able to influence the race as much by overcoming very
difficult trail conditions. Regarding point #1: The top echelon knows from
experience how hard they can push it. Especially, the top riders, while they
may not admit it, don’t race this event with the mindset that they are going to
try and finish the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They enter the
race with the goal of pushing their bodies and minds as hard as they can in an
effort to win the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Theirs is a
struggle of man versus man with the Iditarod as the backdrop. I find such a
mindset to be exceedingly impressive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Case-in-point:
Jason Buffington knew he would be able to ride the 350 miles, but that was not
what he was after, he wanted to try and win it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is a big discrepancy from what I was trying to do. For me, the plan
was to get to McGrath with Man-appendages intact and in a timeframe that would
allow me to get back to work on that following Monday. I was competing against
the trail and a self-imposed time frame. As they quickly pulled away from me, Jason
was right in the mix and I remember feeling a sense of pride that my buddy was
right up there with the big boyz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During
the course of the race, when we read the check-in and check-out times of those
ahead of us, I was not surprised to read that Buffington was not taking any
significant breaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked the good-natured
owner of the </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Skwentna Roadhouse</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> to describe her encounter with
Jason Buffington and she laughingly replied that, “he seemed to be in a big
hurry to get going, one would never guess that he was riding to McGrath.” Concerning
point #2: Given that the top guyz were able to ride the vast majority of the
trail, this year’s race favored pure cyclists. Guyz like Buffington (and
perhaps Peter Basinger and Phil Hofstetter, from my limited knowledge of their
careers) who are equally at home man-hauling as cycling would presumably earn
higher finishes in years that involve a high percentage of hike-a-bike terrain.
For me, I was very happy to finish in a year that by Alaskan standards, the
trail “very good.” Walking with my bike for hour after hour is not something
that I enjoy doing. Looking back on it now, I realize how naïve I was to think
that I would be able to do the race in five days no matter the conditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had we gotten even as little as six inches of
snow and a little wind to set up some big drifts, it would have taken me at
least six dayz. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In the wider expanses of the Susitna River the track was
just too soft for me to ride. Yet, I was heartened to see the foot tracks of many
of those ahead of me which helped to ease my frustration with having to push
the bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the narrower sections and
on the infrequent terra-firma sections that transected dynamic oxbows, one
could ride, but only slowly and on nearly flat tires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In researching the route I had taken heed of
the warning that “Some racers in the past have made the mistake of turning
right up a slough shortly after getting on the Yentna River.” But, of course, I
made that mistake as I have absolutely no sense of direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily it was dark and so I could see from
the headlights of others, NOT following me that I had made the wrong turn, so I
was able to right the wrong before going very far awry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lesson #4: Just cuz you aint gonna get any
faster and there aint no way you gonna win the race, it don’t mean you cannot
enjoy tremendous personal satisfaction from finishing a truly challenging bike
race.</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I made the first checkpoint at Yentna Station just as two of
the faster guyz were leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not long
after I entered the warmth of a classic log lodge, Mike Beiergrohslein entered
followed by Ken Zylstra, Bob Ostrom, and Mike Criego.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in pretty good shape, in high spirits, feeling
good, and so I did not linger long, staying about forty minutes (by comparison
Buffington stayed 17 minutes and he was already nearly three hours ahead of me,
while he was twenty minutes behind the top five).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Part III: From Yentna Station to Skwentna Road House: from
Mile 57 to Mile 90.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Riding under a
beautiful moon, the trail had hardened with the cooler night temperature and I
was pumped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As is my usual practice on
events like this I did take two wrong turns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The first and most significant one cost me probably an hour or so and
involved absentmindedly following a detour off the main trail that was (on
reflection) most certainly part of the Junior Iditarod Dog Sled event (it is a
big loop that starts on the Iditarod Trail but quickly leaves the historic trail
and loops back to itz starting point in Wasilla (or maybe Willow, AK).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rode along it for quite some time until the
thought occurred to me that I was no longer following any bike tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to convince myself that the reason
for no bike tracks was because dog teams had erased them all, for clearly I was
on a dog sled trail. Of course this kind of thinking was incredibly flawed as
we have not seen nor heard of any evidence of dog sleds traveling on the race
course. Finally I stopped and checked my compass and realized that I was
heading predominately in an easterly direction instead of the west-by-north
leaning Iditarod trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having learned
an important, albeit basic lesson in last year’s Trans-Iowa; namely that really
really hoping, hoping with all of one’s hoping ability that one is NOT going in
the wrong direction is not a good remedy for going in the wrong direction, I
stopped and headed back the way I came, finding the right way thirty minutes or
so later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My second wrong turn came just
as the sun was rising and I encountered a fork in the trail, I elected to
follow the trail following the right handed side of the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rode this for some time until it became
obvious that I was following only one other bike track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I turned to go back to find the proper
trail which I was sure followed the left side of the river shore, I spied the
bright dual headlights of a bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the
cyclist advanced I was happy to ascertain that it was Lindsay Gauld.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lesson #5: If you cannot find your way out
of a city park and you are looking at trying to finish a 350 mile race through
the Alaskan wilderness, you are probably gonna do better if you ride with
someone else and Lindsay Gauld is about as good a partner as a man could wish
for.<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As Lindsay and I rode along the river the sun rose providing
a beautiful orange hue to a truly wilderness setting, life was incredible good,
I couldn’t think of a place I’d rather be…as we rode along loving the whole
experience, it reminded me of a quote by Red from the classic film, Shawshenk
Redemption, “</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We sat and drank with the sun on
our shoulders and felt like free men. Hell, we could have been tarring the roof
of one of our own houses. We were the lords of all creation. As for Andy - he
spent that break hunkered in the shade, a strange little smile on his face,
watching us drink his beer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We rode into the Skwentna
Roadhouse committed to riding together for the duration and I resolved to
follow Lindsay’s plan to conserve energy by following a steady pace and taking a
few three or four hours rests to regain our strength at four of
checkpoints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay is the master of energy
conservation and practitioner of the steady enduro-pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lindsay had a plan and it was a good solid,
well thought out plan and when he offered to include me into his plans, I knew
it was a good bet that if I rode with him, we would make it to McGrath with
time to spare. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We were pretty played-out as we
entered the cozy lodge for we had been on the go for twenty-one hours with no
sleep and just an hour or so of non-movement. The time of our arrival was
approximately 11:00 a.m. and we stayed until 4:00 p.m. or five hours (by
comparison JP stayed an hour and Buffington was in and out of the Skwentna
Roadhouse in 30 minutes! Simply Amazing!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The folks running the lodge were delightful and very accommodating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They fed us delicious plates of lasagna, after
which we each took showers and then rested on bunk-beds for a few hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we got up to leave, our gear was dry,
and we dressed while enjoying speaking with blogger, author and highly
motivated adventurer, Jill Homer, and </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Craig Medred, the tireless
journalist that has covered several of these race events over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both are very impressive people, Medred
ultimately followed us to Rohn via snowmobile and interviewed Lindsay whilst we
rested on the pine boughs within a old trapper’s canvas tent and Jill continued
on to follow her boyfriend Beat Jagertehner (who is bound for Nome via
Man-hauling) in conjunction with several of her own adventures into the Alaskan
bush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lesson # 6: You meet the coolest
people up here…</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Part IV From Skwentna to Finger-Lake Lodge on Winter-Lake (Mile
130) with a brief stop at Shell Lake Lodge to visit Zoe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The section from Skwentna to Shell Lake is highlighted by
the Shell Lake hills. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not long after
leaving the roadhouse, one begins to climb up into the foot hills of the
majestic Alaskan Range, home to Denali National Park and Mt. McKinley, the
highest mountain in North America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mount
McKinley was the object of my obsessions and fears during the early 1990s, a
period in my life when I participated in five expeditions to this amazing
mountain range (three climbs on the various routes up southern flanks of
McKinley, one effort on Mount Hunter and one effort from the Muldrow Glacier to
attempt an ascent to the northern, albeit slightly lower summit of McKinley…I
was to stand only once on the summit of McKinley and we failed miserably on
Hunter, but the times spent upon these slopes represent some of the best times
of my life). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That feeling of intense joy
that I had felt on these climbing expeditions had become a distant, but
cherished memory to me, but as we began to get glimpses of the majestic
mountain range, my heart soared with all the fond memories of those adventures came
rushing back into my psyche. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We rode into Shell Lake Lodge in good time and took an hour
or so to converse with two retired BLM surveyors that were enjoying a few beers
saddled up to Zoe’s bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had
snow-machined in from Knik and were very enthusiastic fans of the race having
passed up many of the racers en route to their cabin located near Zoe’s bar.
Lindsay also took time to apologize to Zoe for stealing a snickers bar from
behind the bar during last year’s race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had arrived to this very place in the wee hours of the morning a year
ago and had taken the candy bar, subsequently forgetting to leave
compensation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ninety-nine percent of the
human race would have forgotten such a snub within a few hours of the offense.
But Lindsay had remembered and thus upon returning to Winnipeg, amid severe
frostbite, took time to mail a five dollar check to Zoe along with a letter of
apology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thatz the kind of guy I was
riding my bike with through the interior of Alaska! I desperately wanted a
beer, but I worried that a “cold one” would put me down for the count. Had a
been alone I would have downed one, probably even two or three, but in the
company of such a gentlemen, I exercised restraint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Shell Lake Lodge is a great place, an old,
1900’s styled beautifully crafted log structure right out of a Jack London
novel or Robert Service poem, perhaps (along with the super cool cabins at
Rainy Lake Lodge and at Rohn) this would be the place that I would strongly
recommend staying for an extended vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Taking twelve hours from the last official checkpoint @
Skwentna, we arrived into Finger Lake Lodge at 3:35 a.m. and left at 9:35 a.m.
for about a six hour break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
comparison, JP and team took less than nine hours to get to Finger Lake and
stayed 90 minutes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buff stayed @ Finger
Lake for 50 Minutes! Simply amazing! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We ate quickly constructed burritos supplied by a sleepy,
but dedicated race volunteer and then headed for a ramshackle building in which
we found a hodgepodge of drop bags scattered along the two rooms. After some
digging we each found our drop bags and took on the extra supplies that we felt
we would need; I basically grabbed eight extra batteries and a little food, but
did not feel too guilty about leaving the excess food as I had not sent much in
my drop bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must say that I was surprised
by how much some of the racers had packed up for this first drop, which was
only 130 miles from the start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
made this comment to Lindsay, he reminded me that in a bad year, one could take
double or even triple the time to get to these drops as in a good year. I also
rifled through Buffington’s and Oatley’s drop-bags just ‘cuz I was curious as
to what they had left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did grab
a seam-sealed package of cooked bacon and a small bag of jelly beans, but other
than these minor items, I felt like I was good to go… the idea being that a
second drop bag was only eighty miles away. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lesson # 7: Most of the time
people pack way too much stuff. </i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The sleeping cabin @ Finger Lake Lodge was hotter than a
Finnish sauna and all the bunks were occupied except a high bunk that required
technical climbing moves to gain itz berth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I made the difficult climb, then quickly, but with great effort stripped
down to my birthday suit leaving my clothing, including my bibs (the only
fabric separating me tender nether region from the burly woolies I was wearing
as manly slacks), hanging on nails up in the rafters. I felt like one of
Dante’s eternal sufferer, sweat draining off me, so very quickly, perhaps
within only a few minutes, I realized that it was simply too hot to stay up
there in the rafters, so I climbed down, remembering to grab all the clothes,
except of course I overlooked the bibs that were hanging in the rear corner of
the bunk… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As stated above, I climbed down and then tried to force my
ravaged body onto a four foot tattered love-seat that looked to be right out of
some trailer park “down by the </span><span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Cahulawassee </span>River.”</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> During
my sweaty languishing-time spent on that shortened stinky old couch, a truly
astonishing thing happened—the first runner, Dave Johnston arrived. I greeted
him with all the gusto I could muster given a severe case of cotton mouth and
then further conveyed to him that I thought that there may be a high bunk
available, I warned him that “it was hot up there.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He responded in his gregarious, upbeat, and
charismatic manner by saying to the effect, “no worries, I am only going to
rest for an hour.” He was true to his word, for by the time Lindsay and I left
around 9:45 a.m. he had been gone down the trail for over four hours! Dave is
an extraordinary person. Thus with our initial meeting @ Finger Lake, began a
series of several encounters along the trail with Dave, leading us to greatly
enjoy his upbeat, highly contagious, wonderfully optimistic persona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His effort in this race may well be as
impressive as that of the top three cyclists; he barely missed breaking the
foot record.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I can honestly say that I never came close to sleeping while
at Finger Lake Lodge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps as a
fitting conclusion to my wretched stay there, I nearly lost my brand new Black
Diamond headlight while I was scoping out the bottom of the nasty outhouse that
I used in the morning just before Lindsay and I departed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After completing my daily constitution sans
cup of coffee and sports page from the Duluth News Tribune, I (like all honest
men) turned to look down the hole to assess my handiwork.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as I bent down over the hole and went to
turn on my head light, I abruptly slipped on the icy floor causing my head to
jerk forward and my light to go flying into the vile abyss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stunned, the light shown upward from the foul
abyss and into my face, causing me to shield my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As luck would have it, the strap had caught
on a turd-icicle within my reach, so I was able to fish it out…As I placed the
soiled headlight back onto my head…I had now officially reached that point in
the event where I had been reduced intellectually and morally to the level of a
immature, prepubescent gastropod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those
of you that have witnessed this devolutionary descent know that it is not a
pretty sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was well on my way to
complete lunacy and idiocy. Thank God Lindsay was there to keep me ambulatory. All
my ties to human decency had been severed when I put that head light back on…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Immediately upon my return from the outhouse, Lindsay was
ready to go and thus was on me to get dressed and moving, but of course I could
not locate my cycling bibs. Lindsay, probably frustrated but too polite to let
on, left to get a quick breakfast from the Lodge-keepers while I randomly and
in high anxiety, tore the place apart looking for the bibs. In short order, I
came to the conclusion that either Kevin Easley or Eric Warkentin (two fast
guyz) or more likely both of them had participated in a most loathsome and
diabolical conspiracy to steal my cycling shorts from me during the wee hours
of the morning, as I had rested on the couch-of-despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew from the race record book that they
had left at 5:35 a.m. At the time, in my state of mind, it made perfect sense
to me that they would steal my cycling bibs especially given the fact that I
knew for certain that Warkentin was from California! I even entertained the
notion that Dave, the runner, had stolen the bibs, but quickly erased that
concept from my troubled mind as irrational; why would an under-nourished
runner want my XL cycling bibs. To my credit, I never considered that Lindsay
could do such a thing, thus is the level of esteem I hold for this iconic
Canadian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, emotional drained, I
collapsed on the floor, lying on back, eyes on the ceiling of the cabin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Catatonic, defeated, and yet resolved to
riding the rest of the 220 miles with no chamois, I worked through a future of
living the life of man in possession of a destroyed manhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew the old-school woolies I was sporting,
sans cycling bib with enduro-chamois would rub me raw, rub me raw to the point
of excruciating torture, and yet to my credit I resolved to buck up and take
the hit. Just as I was about to turn over and stand back up, I spied the bibs
hanging on the nail high above my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Salvation
was at hand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly dressed and met
Lindsay as he was putting the last touches on packing up his bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we pulled out of Finger Lake we felt “</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">the sun on our shoulders and felt like free men.”
Little did we suspect that Lindsay’s full camelback was sitting on a chair
inside the Lodge. </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Part V From Finger Lake Lodge to Rainy Lake Lodge, located
on the Puntilla Lake (Mile 165)…to be continued…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-82658152217961250722013-03-04T13:54:00.000-06:002013-03-04T13:55:16.935-06:00The Mallory Trail was AMAZING in itz Grandeur<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>The Iditarod Invitation did not disappoint….I am home,
returning late Sunday night, but my heart remains in the far northern
wilderness. You can all now rest assured that <span style="color: #660000;">Mallory’s Bike Trail</span> (formerly
known as the Iditarod Trail) is indeed as beautiful and remote as advertised.
Yet it was the profoundly rewarding personal interactions developed with many
of my fellow racers that will perhaps form the basis for my most cherished
memory from this truly Epic event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
fully embellished race report to follow in the near future…</strong></span></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-18965488582332215672013-02-18T12:21:00.001-06:002013-02-18T12:21:12.289-06:00Sleep is only a memory to me now...I stare at the ceiling as my mind plays "What if it snows like it did last year?"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b>The Robert Service poem that I plan to call upon in my memory should things start to go very wrong for me as I navigate the southern aspects of the famed Iditarod Trail...</b></span></span><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></b>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">“When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">And Death looks you bang in the eye,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">And you're sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">To cock your revolver and . . . die.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">And self-dissolution is barred.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . .</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"You're sick of the game!" Well, now that’s a shame.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">You're young and you're brave and you're bright.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">It’s the plugging away that will win you the day</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">So don't be a piker, old pard!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Just draw on your grit, it’s so easy to quit.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It’s the keeping-your chin-up that’s hard.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It’s easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight —</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Why that’s the best game of them all!</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">And though you come out of each gruelling bout,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">All broken and battered and scarred,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">―</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/65528.Robert_W_Service" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Robert W. Service</a></span></span></b>Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-80212591940587579002013-02-10T11:36:00.000-06:002013-02-10T11:36:07.113-06:00I do not sleep anymore...I lay awake and think of THE LAST FRONTIER<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 27px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Whilst many of my contemporaries fret about calorie parameters, lithium batteries, and the pro/cons of compression socks...In contrast, As I prepare for the true EPIC that is the Alaskan Iditarod Trail Invitational, I find great comfort in re-reading Jack London short stories</b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 27px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 27px;"><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', sans-serif;"><i>"He did not complain. It was the way of life, and it was just. He had been born close to the earth, close to the earth had he lived, and the law thereof was not new to him. It was the law of all flesh. Nature was not kindly to the flesh. She had no concern for that concrete thing called the individual. Her interest lay in the species, the race. This was the deepest abstraction old Koskoosh's barbaric mind was capable of, but he grasped it firmly. He saw it exemplified in all life. The rise of the sap, the bursting greenness of the willow bud, the fall of the yellow leaf -- in this alone was told the whole history."</i></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> From a short story by Jack London </span></span>Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-778476500559933270.post-9800357173377577802013-02-08T14:22:00.003-06:002013-02-08T14:22:46.727-06:00Help me........
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMNvcYY7Lc7NOAlEcwOqCjd4q3zAwHmRhAN_uWIZ-xv9uaCyNQOPYnz1gsvJbgo67BxFf-jbndWOkXMp2qPJZK5Uh3omcNBOVq0rcEj1NOFv2V9slKNdCSk5j8tXHZ0EvR-7DH02EnwIPh/s1600/Fear--Loathing-cover-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMNvcYY7Lc7NOAlEcwOqCjd4q3zAwHmRhAN_uWIZ-xv9uaCyNQOPYnz1gsvJbgo67BxFf-jbndWOkXMp2qPJZK5Uh3omcNBOVq0rcEj1NOFv2V9slKNdCSk5j8tXHZ0EvR-7DH02EnwIPh/s320/Fear--Loathing-cover-007.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Self-loathing
intensifies as a Mountain of Fear approaches…A retrospective piece on the
precipitous decline of a once proud man…and the epic Iditarod trail that
impassively lays in wait for his arrival…Pray for this man’s wretched soul. <o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Part I: My Year
of Discontent…a contextual addendum to get the reader up to speed on my lack of
progress<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">2012 was not a
good year for me in terms of athletic performances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love a good old fashioned physical
challenge, so like all of my many years, the cycling season began with great
expectations, high hopes for deeds of valor and honor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I day dreamed, as I often do, of remarkable
feats of athleticism, kisses from beautiful podium girls, and huge hits off of
huge bottles of champagne that awaited me… I drank a toast to the New Year
whilst comfortably ensconced next to a roaring fire in a small cabin in the
Northwoods near Ironwood, Michigan. The future looked good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reasoned that 2012 would be my break out
year, the year the pundits would come to regret their years of silence and
neglect when it came to the telling (and retelling) of my ascension into
cycling lore…My application to that rarefied membership within the pantheon of
the cycling legends would now finally earn the scrutiny it so deserved…<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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</span></strong><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">January ushered
in the classic Arrowhead 135, but instead of turning in a respectable effort, I
went out way too fast, (thinking I could ride with the likes of Jay Petervary
and the Alaskans) and subsequently lost a brief, weak-willed battle with a
troupe of motivated sleep demons not far out from leaving the half-way
point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon the proverbial white flag
went up and I went down into the warm embrace of my sleeping bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swaddled in luxurious goose-down, I was out
for the count, I awoke some eight hours later, packed up, and then sheepishly
rode the rest of the way to the finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My pathetic effort allowed me to finish way way way back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strike One. </span></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span><br />
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</span></strong><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My next big
effort at securing honor came with the classic Tran-Iowa that commences in late
April.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having already survived a couple
of these manly tests and thus fully aware of the pain and suffering involved with
finishing, even when the conditions are good, I was completely overwhelmed by
the terrible rains and incessant winds leading up to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ardent in my quest to not suffer from the
spears and arrows of the tempestuous weather, I packed heavy and thus paid a
heavy price for my unwieldy load. As usual, caught up in the moment, I started
off too fast and then soon began to falter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Small groups of functionally integrated riders came and went, but I was
never able to find my rhythm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not long
after a group of four or five had finally dropped me, in late afternoon, some
ten hours into it, I made a fatal mistake in route finding and become hopelessly
lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was dark by the time I made the
last Check Point, within mere minutes of the cut-off time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forged onward, but I knew it was
folly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was going through the motions,
I had to walk every hill, I had nothing in the tank, nothing...<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple hours later, in a merciful act, a
friend of mine and under the direction of the fabled race-director (G-Ted)
picked me up and drove me back to Grinnell. When I got back to my car I was too
depleted to drink a Kalamazoo Stout; thatz how wasted I was! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strike Two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">During the late
Spring and Summer seasons I raced a respectable number of long distance events
and did Okay, but noting to warrant Honor or adoration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, I rode my Pugsley (as a
single-speed) down at the 24 Hours @ Red Wing and finished in the top ten but
in terms of laps completed I was way way way back when compared to Charles
Parsons and a couple of the other top performers. <o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">By early fall,
my ego was clearly shaken as a man without honor or glory is a forsaken man
with no real friends or direction. In desperation, I launched a plan that would
involve racing a series of trail running events that are conducted each autumn
on several of the picturesque trails in and around Duluth. I am not much of a
runner, I find the endeavor somewhat cowardly (a man should not run away, he
should “stand his ground”), but my kid likes to run, so I figured that in order
for the plan to work, I’d have to feign a desire to compete as a foot-runner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The scheme ultimately
involved a bet with my twelve year daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Details included that the both of us had to compete in five of the
Wednesday night races.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I won the
majority of the races, my daughter would act as my loyal servant for the whole
month of November as well as conceding to contently sit and watch my favorite
PBS shows without complaint or negative commentary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Duties would involve her having to respond
immediately to my every whim or wish at night from 7:00 to 9:00 p.m. For
instance, if I wanted a beer from the fridge or a bowl of ice cream whilst
viewing my favorite show (Antiques Road-Show) all I would have to do would be
to make my commands know to her and she would have to fulfill my directive. If
she won the majority of the races I would have to pay her $100.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The first race
was a 10K held on the Lester River ski trails (with a small portion of the
GOGGS single-track added in).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a
warm day so my comprehensive plan involved a three pronged strategy: 1.) I
would discourage off-spring from drinking any fluids before and during the race
by feigning to forget to bring adequate hydration; 2.) en-route to the race I
would begin a series of verbal assaults, albeit subtly delivered in a manner
that would give the impression that I was concerned for her well-being. The
oration would be designed to weaken her resolve and to get her thinking that
the distance was simply too far for a “pre-teen” girl to achieve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One line went like this, “Dear child of mine,
this is the longest and most difficult race in the series and it is also very
hot out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Combined with the fact that I
forgot to bring us any fluids, please do not feel bad if you feel the need to
quit the race, for no matter what the outcome we shall always love you:” 3.) I
would tactically start behind her and closely track her efforts, towards the
end of the race, (which for us would take nearly an hour) I would blow past her
on a hill and then turn and give her “The Look.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would be psychologically crushed and I
would fly to an easy victory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In hindsight, I
felt overly optimistic waiting for the gun to go off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
only glitch was that the race organizers had brought water and even though I
conveyed to her the age-old wisdom of my high school football coaches that one
should never swallow water before the big game, instead only “swirl the water
around and then spit out lest one want severe leg cramps,” she eagerly drank
down the forbidden fluid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gun went
off and the hundred or so runners took off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She fell in with a good group of older women runners which allowed me to
follow at the tail in and yet keep an eye on the progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pace was hard for me as I am not a
runner, my only experience with running is from the cops, I feel running is
un-American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon I was getting gapped,
the distance between me and my daughter’s group was expanding before my very
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know the feeling—you’re
working as hard as you can just to hold on to the peloton. All the other
pack-riders are laughing and telling jokes, but you are gasping for air…I make
a concerted effort at a surge forward to catch back up…<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Suddenly some
kind of mischievous wood gnome stabbed a dagger deep into my left calf
muscle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pain was unbelievable. I
attempted to soldier onward, but I could only muster a kind of tottering
motion…Old old women and men caught up and passed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Toward the very end of the throng of runners,
one dear old lady that was “power-walking” stopped and offered to call the race
official (she was married to him) so that he could come retrieve me on his
four-wheeler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I humbly declined and yet
as if to rub salt into my wounds, she called out,” I tell them that you dropped
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t feel bad you will get better.
I didn’t start working out ‘til I was sixty”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I dragged my
useless leg back to the start/finish line to find my daughter in very high
spirits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strike three.<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Postscript: I
was out for the whole series with a torn calf muscle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if to further hurt me, My kid used her
$100 to buy two pairs of those super tight jeans that all the girls are now
wearing….<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">To be
continued………<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
Charlie Farrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18088177414554441110noreply@blogger.com8