Charlie Farrow's Amateur Bike Racing Website

Rolling Out the Red Carpet in International Falls, Minnesota

2012-01-27T14:36:00.003-06:00

I am nearly too excited to put ink to paper….the Grand Winter Gala is but a few dayz hence. I can’t wait to see all the other fabulous attendees, the bright shiny new bikes and velo techno-gizmos, coupled with all the pre-race fanfare…

The anticipation is killing me!!!! Lance will arrive upon the red carpet with his carbon festooned titanium super ride, whilst a confident Charly Tri shall arrive—leading his entourage amid the throngs of envious on-lookers. The fabled veteran Lindsay Gauld shall arrive in royal grandeur assisted by his trusty man-servant Sir Andy Lockery. The noteworthy and favored interlopers from Wyoming and Alaska shall cause the fans and media alike to momentarily stop and stare in admiration.

Even several of the malcontented marginalized runners will elicit some interest (apart from their own kind) as the charismatic and brave Buffington has opted to beat them at their own game….Oh the expectancy is unrivaled, unbearable, I’m like a little school girl prepping for her first high school dance!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

See you all in International Falls…I’ll be the older and rather stooped gent with the boyish good looks :)

Why I AM the one to watch at the upcoming BIG Winter DANCE in I-Falls

2012-01-19T12:25:00.003-06:00

RACING Weight: A quick start guide...A 10 day weight-loss plan for the over-the-hill bike racing community

For inquiring minds only: Mallory weighs in...

2012-01-12T07:59:00.001-06:00

Sir Mallory repudiates friend of runner’s call for legitimacy...
See http://www.almanzo.com/

New Year's Resolutions

2012-01-05T14:09:00.008-06:00

New Year’s Resolutions:
1. I need to really work on being nicer to them weird runners. Even though they are weird and all…I need to really try and be nicer to them, especially now that Buffington is part of that community.

2. I really like how Mitt Romney alwayz sez, “My Goodness,” when he is upset instead of swearing an’ all…so I am gonna really work on sayin’ “My Goodness,” when people do really stupid stuff to me. Like when I’m in a gravel road race and some out-of-control guy takes me out on a tight descending turn and puts me on the floor and I’m layin’ there all bleeding and stuff…instead of sezing, “What the %$^#@!!!” I am gonna work on sayin’ “My Goodness!”

3. Like Rick Santorum, Rick Perry, Michelle Bachman, Tim Tebow, and half of the NBA, I really need to publicly and overtly thank God more for all kinds of good stuff that happens to me….like finding really nice gear in the lost & found and/or winning a sweet cycling cap at a post-race drawing...

4. I need to accept my fate that Loki the Man-dog will eventually kill me.

5. Oh yeah and finally...I also need to fully commit to being either a full-on Super Conservative or a dyed-in-the-wool Radical Liberal; regarding my emerging political ideology. Being a Moderate, a Centrist, or embracing the antiquated notion of consensus building and thus approaching problem-solving from a stance of interdependence is soooo Old School...

Old Large Marge versus New wider rims...

2011-12-22T09:56:00.001-06:00

Sometimes size does matter :)

From Tuscobia...so it goes.

Intrigued by this question of sleep (or lack thereof)...

2011-12-21T12:55:00.004-06:00

Sleep. Here are some thought provoking quotes I found that relate to this most basic of bodily needs--

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost

I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know? Ernest Hemingway

Some people talk in their sleep. Lecturers talk while other people sleep. Albert Camus

The lion and the calf shall lie down together but the calf won't get much sleep. Woody Allen

Life is something to do when you can't get to sleep. Fran Lebowitz

That we are not much sicker and much madder than we are is due exclusively to that most blessed and blessing of all natural graces, sleep. Aldous Huxley

Each day is a little life: every waking and rising a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, every going to rest and sleep a little death. Arthur Schopenhauer

The serpent, the king, the tiger, the stinging wasp, the small child, the dog owned by other people, and the fool: these seven ought not to be awakened from sleep. Chanakya

Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian. Herman Melville

A renewed Tuscobia does not disappoint!!!!

2011-12-20T13:55:00.006-06:00

Wicked Witch of the West: “And now, my beauties, something with poison in it, I think. With poison in it, but attractive to the eye, and soothing to the smell.” [cackles]

Wicked Witch of the West: “Poppies... Poppies. Poppies will put them to sleep. Sleeeeep. Now they'll sleeeeep!”

I think; therefore I keep moving forward…Tuscobia race recap…that is as best as I can remember…so sleepy…

As best as I can remember…Here’s what I was thinking about as I headed over to Park Falls, WI on Thursday evening whilst searching for a good radio station and instead kept landing on these hard-core evangelists calling Obama, “the Son of Satan,”—“Too bad those righteous Christian fellas weren’t born a few centuries earlier ‘cuz they would have loved to have been in on them witch burnings and the like.”

As best as I can remember…Here’s what I was thinking about as I walked into the warm glow of the Chequamegon Canoe Club— “This is my kinda place!!! These are my people. I made the right decision to come here. There’s Tim Roe over there in the corner…if there’s beer here—he’ll know where to get it! There’s Nick and Mad-Max, I love those guyz! Yeah sure runners are weird...but these runners are also super nice!”

As best as I can remember…Here’s what I was thinking about as Jason, Charly, and I bedded down in the darkness of the Edge-O-Town—“Novak, Tree, and me….I’m so excited and full of glee…that rhymes!”

As best as I can remember…Here’s what I was thinking about around fifteen miles into it as I broke my chain, then right away broke it again, then just a mile or two later broke my seatpost clamp and then thankfully had the always amicable Nick Wethington available to help me get the whole thing moving again—“What the *&%^! Holy $#@&! What else can go wrong!!! Oh NO my seatpost is slipping…thatz what can go wrong!!!!”

As best as I can remember…Here’s what I was thinking about as I was forced to plow through long sections of crusty snow as Charly Tri floated over—“Life is not fair, but itz not my fault that life’s not fair. Itz Obama’s fault that life’s not fair.”

As best as I can remember…Here’s what I was thinking about as I rode then walked then rode then walked my bike along the Tuscobia trail from around 3:00 a.m. ‘til around 7:00 a.m. this last Saturday morning—“In cycling, anywayz, I am of the belief that a normal fella really can’t physically train for an event that takes longer than about thirteen to fifteen hours. After that time constraint is surpassed, nothing really matters in terms of making onward progress except for maybe possessing what the Finns call ‘Sisu.’ The brand or make of your fancy-pants bike don’t matter. The logo on your hi-tech jacket don’t matter, what your ‘coach’ told ya is irrelevant, the kinda sport’s drink ya got on board is a moot point…nothing really matters except that deeply personal little voice in your head that is calling out to you, itz sayin’ ‘Keep going’ then itz sayin’ ‘You’re done.’”

“Before this point, letz call it the Point of Forlorn Hope (or PFH), the racers are rightly and logically concerned with managing important physiological parameters such as monitoring adequate calorie and fluid intakes, spinning the pedals efficiently, and other stuff like that; essentially trying to keep the bike moving reasonably fast all the while trying to hold on to some reserves for when things go past the PFH.”

“Early on—some guyz are contendin’, some guyz, like me, are pretendin’…but itz all good…spirits are high…guyz are trash talking, guyz are laughing, and guyz are thinkin’ ‘can’t think of a better place to be right now than racin’ my snowbike on Tuscobia…’”

“Later on down the trail, some guyz might even still be realistic in their beliefs that winning the race is within their realm; while others, like me, are content to dream of how good that first beer is gonna taste at the finish line….all the guyz are now fatigued, everybody’s tired…but optimism remains…’”

“But once the amateur reaches the PFH it becomes simply an objective battle between the attentions of those two competing, compelling, and irresistible internal voices: ‘Keep going’ or ‘You’re done.’ No longer do the fast guyz dreams of victorious kisses from beautiful podium girls or big sponsorship opportunities. No longer do the average guyz dream of ice cold beers. Itz hard to put into words but after the PFH is breached the experience becomes incredibly myopic. Post PFH, itz all about suppressing that “You’re done” voice in favor of “Keep going.” “You’re done” “You’re done” “You’re done” “You’re done” “Keep going” “Keep going” “Keep going“ “Keep going” “Keep going” “You’re done” “No!!! Keep going!!!” And so it goes for hours…so it goes”

“For me it was basically a battle between succumbing to a strong, almost overwhelming desire to stop and bivy or to keep moving. After leaving the last checkpoint in Winter…I became incredibly, exceedingly, astonishingly, sleepy…I am talking about the kind of sleepiness that Dorothy, Toto and the boyz battled as they crossed the poppy fields en route to the Emerald City. Really the only other time that I can remember being that besieged by the need to sleep was a few summers’ back when Kershaw and I were near to the end of the eighty-eight hour Trans-Wisconsin [But then, I had Kershaw to keep me moving].”

“What had begun as a bike race, after nineteen hours on the move, had devolved into a very simple straightforward contest to stay awake, nothing else mattered. I wasn’t thinking about anything ‘cept stayin’ awake. I was thinking that if I think; I should therefore keep moving forward…In other words…”

“I guess I knew at some elemental level that the fact that I was moving (either biking or walking) was just a corollary or consequence of my wakefulness. I found that to really make a concerted, singular effort to focus on thinking about the fact that I was desperately trying to stay awake helped me to stay moving. I knew from experience that these periods of intense drowsiness don’t last more than a few hours and so by and by I began to come back around…Life once again became more engaging…gradually I became cognizant of my surroundings, the skies above started to indicate a transition from darkness to dawn….and my desire to relish the taste of a cold hand-crafted stout once again came back to me…I was back in the game!!!! I could taste the finish line…” Yep...Thatz what I was thinking….

As best as I can remember…Here’s what I am thinking about RIGHT NOW— “A sincere Thank you to Chris and Helen for putting on a great race. And also thank you to the super nice folks that manned the checkpoints. The volunteers were super generous and kind. I was a hurtin’ cowboy comin’ into Winter around 1:30 a.m. on Saturday night and I was greeted and really helped out by two amazingly good-natured young women. I am thinking on travelin’ to Argentina someday….Meeting the people at these events is why I keep coming back…I highly recommend this event. The Chequamegon Canoe Club (the official start and finish line) was a highlight for many of the participants.” Yep thatz what I be thinking...

Excerpt from a newly released Wikileaks: DBD in total disarray...? "I am utterly alone..."

2011-12-13T12:28:00.008-06:00

“To a man utterly without a sense of belonging, mere life is all that matters. It is the only reality in an eternity of nothingness, and he clings to it with shameless despair.” Eric Hoffer

Dear Sir Mallory:
When it became public record that they, the four former members of the Northern DBD Colony, would not be going with to Tuscobia, I felt nothing. Maybe there was a momentary sense of loss, an inexplicable yet distant awareness of sadness but really it was nothing. I am alone. I have always been alone. For me there is only the road and my Pugsley...
....Give Sir Shackleton all my best…I leave for Park Falls on Thursday. Of course, I require no support, will do my best, but expect no recognition upon my return. Should I not return, know that I fought the good fight and leave my corpse to the lofty wolves...
By the way, thank you very much for the new revolver and the portable amputation kit.
Obsequiously,
Your humble servant,
Charlie

Who ARE THESE PEOPLE??????

2011-11-27T13:54:00.003-06:00

From Velo-News:
Michael Diamond, a 63-year-old racer from St. Augustine, Florida, has accepted a two-year doping suspension after refusing to submit a sample during an out of competition test.
The U.S. Anti-Doping Agency announced the suspension Friday.
USADA said Diamond refused to submit a sample on October 8. According to the USA Cycling website, Diamond, racing unattached, finished fifth that day in the Florida time trial championships.
In addition to the suspension from competition, Diamond is also disqualified from all competitive results obtained on and subsequent to that date....
First comes the carbon bike, then the carbon components, then the carbon wheelset, then the carbon aero-helmet, then....
Of concern: Lance Andre lives partly in Florida? Also Lance Andre and Mr. Diamond have never been photographed together? Just sayin'.... cpf.

"The last place finisher won this race, same as the first place finisher, we all won."

2011-11-17T07:52:00.003-06:00

For your eyes only. Gleaned from the nimble, albeit secretive mind of the DBD Maestro. The heir apparent to the Great Mallory. Sir Eki submits his 11 Lessons!

Eki’s 11—
1. Equipment Does Matter. It doesn’t have to be the best, but it can’t be some beater from the 70’s if you’re planning on jumping into the deep end. I’m a firm believer in meticulous care of the machine. I often think about the bike from top to bottom, front to back before the big dance. I continually ask myself, “What could go wrong?” Solve all little issues that annoy you about the bike before the event. I go into races knowing that I can BEAT on my bike with reckless abandon and it will perform for me. In races where your life could potentially be on the line, the equipment becomes a means to an end, if it survives, it’s a bonus!

2. Picture it...All in your Mind...Sounds cliché, but it isn’t. I think about the most important races daily. I try to visualize myself “doing it”. I try to see myself getting through the tough stuff, like fixing the bike in the night, getting myself “unlost”. I plan how I will calm myself in adverse situations, possibly dangerous ones. I picture WINNING (winning is defined by you).

3. Believe. This one should be right after #2. Aint no one out there gonna believe in you, but you! Don’t be afraid to talk to yourself, be your biggest fan and cheer leader. I have literally said these words to myself out loud, “Nice Job!”. Leave no room for doubt. Quitting is never an option. Plans for worse case scenarios involve a lot of walking, not phone calls. Of course there are circumstances that do involve quitting, but I rarely talk about them, so I won’t here. There is never any thing wrong with last place. After finishing the Trans Iowa I told my wife on the way to the hotel, “The last place finisher won this race, same as the first place finisher, we all won.”

4. Embrace the Pain. Accept that it will get harder than you ever imagined. I try to think of the pain as an old friend who’s come back to visit. I’m talking about the kind of pain and hardship that shakes you to your core, scares you! This is the kind of pain that one needs a plan for. When it comes, stay calm, slow down and KEEP MOVING. And, most importantly know that it WILL PASS, it always does. You will feel good again.

5. Keep your Head Up. One tends to sink physically and emotionally as the hours wear on. Remember, you do this because you love it and because you can. Pick your head up, look around, take it all in, and be present. We only go around this crazy merry go round once and it may be a race, but it’s also the minutes of your life. Find your “horses” out on the prairie, you’ll know when you see them and no one will ever be able to really understand, but you.

6. Find a Friend. Hey, you’re never alone. Well, sometimes you are, but if you’re around others don’t take yourself or your situation so seriously. These are some pretty good athletes around you and 99% of the time some pretty cool people too. Get to know them, share the load, and take an interest in their life, you just might learn something. Some of the best memories of the things I’ve done on a bike come from people I’ve met along the way (i.e. Dave Pramann, Troy Krause – both Trans Iowa vets with whom I “shared the load”).

7. Stay Humble. We’re all human beings. We’re not just racers, be respectful, polite, and appreciative. No one likes cocky or conceited people. Everyone is struggling out there; some are just going faster than others. Take the time to listen to their stories; they’re just as important as yours. I’ll bet you had trouble with the same sections of the race as they did.

8. Be Afraid, Very Afraid. Respect the event. If I’m not nervous I know I’m doomed. There’s a big difference between confident and cocky. I try to be confident in all races, but realize that I am not bigger than the race. I must respect the course and its enormity, therefore I must be careful in regard to effort, safety, and the overall decisions that I make throughout.

9. Prepare. Think it through. Start with categories like food, safety, tools, hydration, and clothing. Then move through each area over the course of weeks working off of lists. I often start a list at work and at home. I add to these lists every time something pops into my head and then organize it all later. Plan for every scenario like, “what if I crash?”

10. Take Something from It. Leave the event a richer person. I try to ask myself what I’ve learned about myself while I was out there, did I like what I found. What kind of person are you? The event will tell you. They’re gifts given to us by race directors who often don’t really know what they’ve given you – only you know and that’s what makes it so special. I’ve been reduced to tears after finishing big races before. Some may think the emotion comes from the release of being done with such an intense experience and that may be true, but I think it comes from going inside to a place one rarely gets to visit and being o.k. with what’s in there.

11. Say Thank You. You don’t have to make it a big deal, but make sure they know that you walked away better for what they gave you. Sometimes a hand shake and a look into the eye is all it takes. This goes for your closest one too. “Thanks for letting me chase after these things …and thanks for letting me catch them”.

Thank you, Mr Ek!!!!!!!

From the famed Architech of the Fall Classic Heck of the North...Jeremy Kershaw's 11 Lessons

2011-11-16T09:20:00.002-06:00

Dear Mr Farrow
Through my brief career in endurance racing, this is what I have learned so far (thanks to successes and failures):

1. Time Part One: In the grand scheme of one's life, 6 hours ain't long, or 12, 24, or even 50 hours. Put the event in context. The Arrowhead Ultra is many hours long, so is the Trans Iowa. But when you are in the thick of it, just remember that you are doing something amazing. You are fortunate to HAVE that time to pursue your passion (even if it is crazy).

2. Time Part Two: Break down long distances or time frames into workable chunks. There are times that the best plan is to simply make it to the next checkpoint, food station, or bend in the trail. When starting a multi hour or day event, do not fixate on the finish yet. Focus on making it to the next workable rest spot...then reassess.

3. Always be eating and drinking.

4. Always start a race comfortably cool. You will warm up soon enough.

5. Dream big. Tour Divide? Try to wrap your head around that for a few days. Be warned, though! The term "endurance junkie" is not that far off base. After a while, the local 5k won't cut it.

6. Know your machine. You will have to maintain it alone, in the dark when it's 25 below.

7. Know when to say when. Ya, it's easy to talk big and say you will never quit. But it might be the reasonable thing to do. Come prepared to think about what you are willing to go through to finish.

8. Before quitting, stop, eat and even do something else for a few minutes. Wait at least an hour (if you can afford that time). Then reassess.

9. If you are crawling into the pain cave, eat, drink and work through it. Over the duration of a multi hour/day event, you are going to have big highs and maybe some really low lows. With time, you will feel differently. Hopefully better. Sometimes worse...

10. Try to always remember that you are blessed to have the time, money and physical ability to even attempt this monster of an event. Be thankful for working legs, heart and mind. Thank your family for giving you the time away from them, too.

11. Thank the event creator with sincere acknowledgement. Chances are, they sacrificed a lot of time, money and sweat to put the event on.

Sage Lessons from everyone's favorite Luddite...Mad Max

2011-11-15T13:51:00.008-06:00

11 Utra-Lessons [Click on the blue underlined letters, especially Lesson 8!]

Ultracycling legend and probationary DBD member Charlie Farrow has given us bloggers an assignment. Write eleven lessons you've learned from cycling with personal commentary. Well, I'm going to flaunt that assignment and write eleven lessons I've learned from cycling AND running AND skiing.

Lesson 1: Train I used to think that commuting to work and doing the occasional gravel road century was enough. I finished my first Arrowhead 135 with basically no training. I finished the Dirty Kansa 200 with basically no training. Heck, I ran my first marathon with absolutely no training. Skiing the Triple D shocked me out of my complacency. I barely made it through the 18 or so miles of flat terrain. Needless to say, I didn't finish the Arrowhead that year...or the next. The third year I put together a training program. Nothing special, just a guide to what I would do day by day to get myself ready. It worked. Last year I used a slightly modified plan to finish the Arrowhead on foot.

Lesson 2: Sell your rollers. Go outside. Ride in rain, sleet, snow, wind, and darkness. Ride on gravel, mud, snow, and ice. Run through mud and creeks, and over roots and rocks. Ski in the rain and on ice. Your races will be like this. When everybody else stays home or bails at the halfway point you will laugh and know that you've been through worse.

Lesson 3: Eat food, drink water. There are lots of expensive gels, bars, and powders out there. You don't need them. Sure, they probably work, but there are tastier, cheaper options. Fig bars, peanut butter sandwiches, trail mix, pizza, cheese and sausage. Energy drink? Ensure, Carnation Instant Breakfast, and soy milk. Chocolate covered espresso beans can save a race. Eat! Drink! Use them! It is better to stop and pee than stop and pass out.

Lesson 4: You can go farther than you think. In 2009 I skied the Tuscobia trail ultra. 67 miles into this 75 mile race I was suffering from horrible blisters, poorly waxed skis, and weird hallucinations. I had given up on skiing and was walking slowly down the trail. There was no way I was going to finish. I reached a road and powered up my cell phone; no signal. The race director rolled up a few minutes later and I told him I was done and needed a ride in. He said "no." Walking the next eight miles is the toughest thing I've ever done. I made it.

Lesson 5: Know the meaning of "quit." When you are pushing your boundaries and trying new things sometimes you get in over your head. When you feel like there is no choice but to quit ask yourself this: How will I feel in a week about having quit today? If the answer is, "terrible," then keep going. If the answer is, "like I did all I could," then quit. Be honest. You'll know if you're not being honest. Sometimes getting the Myrtle the Turtle award is a step in the right direction.

Lesson 6: The hardest part is getting out the door. Feeling sorry for yourself? Didn't finish that gravel race again? Seriously underestimated a 100 mile run? Ride across town to the coffee shop, run one lap around the park, get up and do something! Chances are you'll end up doing a 30 mile ride or a ten mile run and feel better.

Lesson 7: Savor it. In 2006, at my first Arrowhead, I was exhausted, cold, alone, and riding through a flat boring swamp. I knew I was going to finish, it was just a matter of time. So I stopped got out some food and water and just looked around. I said to myself, "This is why I came here. This is what I want to be doing." I felt great.

Lesson 8: Look out for old guys on crusty mountain bikes. It's not the young guy on the custom titanium rig who is going to win. That old guy (aka Praman, the Master) is going to beat all the fatbikes to the finish line and set a record doing it.

Lesson 9: Commute. Ride to work every day. Walk if you have a trip to make that's less than a mile. You'll never be out of shape and you'll learn how to dress for the weather. Just remember: commuting miles don't count towards training (see #1).

Lesson 10: Be afraid.
Luke: "I won't fail you. I'm not afraid."
Yoda: "You will be. You will be." If you're not afraid of the big race then you're overconfident. You will fail. Fear makes you prepare. It makes you train. It makes you learn everything you can. If you are managing your fear then you are on the right track.

Lesson 11: Call me a Sissi. You're not normal. You are doing things nearly everyone considers dumb. You wear tight pants. You will get made fun of when you're out there running in the rain. That's okay. When someone calls you a Sissi smile and tell them, "No, they're tougher than I am."

This is a great list of lessons....amazing insight!!!! cpf

2011-11-15T13:47:00.001-06:00

More Most Excellent Eleven Lesson from Jay of the highly secretive, but effective Slender Fungus Cycling Society

1) Don't let your meat loaf! - Get out and put some miles in. It doesn't matter what kind of bike you have, if you are decked out in Assos or Castelli....just get out and ride!
2) Ride your own race - There are some extremely strong riders out there, don't let them set the tempo for your ride. Especially on endurance rides know your pace and what you are comfortable with doing. Don't go balls out and bonk and then be screwed the rest of the ride.
3) Have FUN on the bike - We ride bikes because we enjoy doing it, if you aren't having fun then you need to rethink why you are riding. The fun might not come until after the ride or race but thats ok... races are hard. You trained and trained for this race, enjoy every minute of it, before, during, and after.
4) Chin up/Zipper Down - Have a mentally tough attitude. You need to tell yourself you are capable of anything you put your mind to.... if you don't you are setting yourself up for failure. Stay strong and work past those dark spots.
5) Keep Moving - When enough is enough and you are ready to throw in the towel...DON'T. Take a break, have an energy bar, clear your mind for a little bit.... but keep going and don't give up.
6) Don't over-pack - Know what you absolutely NEED to bring on the bike. Tubes, chain links, tools, etc. Know what nutrition works for you, but also rely on gas stations and other stops in order to keep the weight down on the bike.
7) Train with a partner - Riding with someone else allows you to go farther, share ideas, ride harder
8) Take your turn - In a race make sure that you are doing your part at the front taking pulls and sharing the responsibility. Also, take turns hosting rides, having get togethers, buying a round of beer.
9) Stay humble - No one likes a showboater. Stay down to earth...even if you are the fastest guy out there you never know what the race course is going to throw at you or what challenges you are going to encounter. Everyone has good days and everyone has bad days. Don't make excuses...its just the way of the world.
10) Be patient - In the race, don't get jumpy, don't get antsy....wait for the moves to come, if you can counter them then go for it. If you get dropped...hang tough, ride hard and catch up. In the endurance races you never know if Gorilla is going to get 7 flats off of the front, be patient and stay calm....races are won this way.
11) Be supportive - Support your fellow riders. Encourage them, help them if they need it. Support your local bike shop...give them some business and tell them about your races, maybe they will sponsor you. Support the races and organizers, even if these are free races see how you can help out...bring a six pack for the race organizer and thank them for most likely putting on a free event that ate up a lot of their time.

Bravo Jay....Ari must be soooo proud :) cpf

Keep 'em coming---Here are 11 top notch lessons!

2011-11-14T16:05:00.000-06:00

galaxysearchlights said...
love the blog.
here are mine.
1. use your friends wisely ,,, they plan to do the same.
2. thank the race director and buy the sponsors stuff.
3. you can't win unless you lead at some point.
4. the best way to get beat is to lead at some point.
5. selling your raffle winnings or finishing prize on ebay is in bad taste..
they want you to use it.
6. taking everyone off their plan is a good plan.
7. the endurance racing/mullet analogy always holds true ,,,
all business up front and a party in the back.
8. winning an endurance race is like wetting your pants in a dark suit ..
it gives you a warm feeling but few will notice.
9. you can't plan for the unknown but that is what will get you.
10. use the competition wisely ,,, they may become your friends
11. it's good to be the guy who needs to stop and pee.

Two sets of Eleven Lessons to contemplate...

2011-11-10T15:04:00.010-06:00

R.S. McNamara's eleven lessons of war
1. Empathize with your enemy
2. Rationality will not save us
3. There's something beyond one's self
4. Maximize efficiency
5. Proportionality as a guideline in war
6. Get the data
7. Belief and seeing are often both wrong
8. Be prepared to re-examine your reasoning
9. In order to do good, you may have to engage in evil
10. Never say never
11. You can't change human nature

Your assignment is to develop your own eleven lessons of bike racing...the assignments is a two-part project.

Part I: Personally develop and list eleven lessons that apply to you and your experiences in bike racing (send to the author)...these lessons should comprise what you have learned during your personal cycling experiences to date or they can be expanded to include lessons that apply to your understanding of the topic at a macro-level. For example one lesson that I have learned in this facet of my so-called “life”: When in doubt take a nap.

Part II: To supplement and further define your eleven lessons, you are required to add commentary to each lesson so as to explain your lesson(s) within the context of your personal cycling history. For example:

C.P. Farrow’s eleven lessons of endurance bike racing (no particular order):

Lesson 1: When in doubt take a nap. I learned this lesson as a climber, but have applied it several times in long distance bike racing as well....It is often the case that small groups of racers/climbers are faced with unexpected circumstances such as the onset of bad weather, sudden illness, or the like and thus talk themselves into quitting the effort in an immediate reactionary response to the unplanned development. Lesson one maintains that one should never quit until he or she has taking at least one hour (more is better if you can spare the time) to lie down and completely relax...then and only then should one consider quitting.

Lesson 2: You are not special, but go for it anywayz. There are lotz of guyz out there that are way faster, way stronger, and more talented than you are or will ever be, so lose the ego. Still race like you are a pro! Never avoid racing with the best even though they will beat you up bad. The chance to race with top guyz is a beautiful thing; seize the opportunity...Don't buy into the age group category trap...You will get slower as you get older...but so what, as long as you are out there doing it--thatz what matters. Race with the fast guyz and do the longer races...But avoid overt, continual drafting unless you are over 50. See Lesson #7

Lesson 3: An expensive bicycle will not make you faster. Fast guyz are fast because of many many factors but the bikes they ride has very little to do with their speed. Get a good bike that will last you a long long time and then focus on the other stuff...

Lesson 4: The two most important components related to bike racing equipment are comfortable shoes and saddle. No explanation needed.

Lesson 5: A man needs a plan. Have a workable, realistic plan of action going into the race. Write it out, contemplate it, and rewrite it making changes. Share it will knowledgeable people to get good feedback, then rewrite it again. The plan should always include a goal. Be able to visualize yourself achieving your goal. Set the goal first and then work backwards to develop a strategy to achieve the goal. Once you have developed a strategy, work on developing tactics that will allow you to achieve the strategy. For example: My goal for the 2012 Arrowhead 2012 is to finish in the top three. If plan goes all horribly wrong? See Lesson #1

Lesson 6: Race in a state of wonderment and awe: Do not lose sight of the fact that during these races you are afforded the amazing opportunity to interact, in an intimate manner, with extraordinary people during extraordinary circumstances. Be polite and appreciative to all involved. Also thank your lucky stars that you are able to do these kinds of things. Never ever forget to thank the race directors.

Lesson 7: Take “calculated risks” plus don’t sit in the whole race and then sprint for the finish. For further explanation see Lesson #2 & Lesson #6.

Lesson 8: Be inclusive in your written race recaps. Readers do not want to learn solely about all the minute details of your sixteenth placing in a local gravel road race. Offer a more compelling and broad rendition including several of the personal dramas that played out during the event. Give credit to where credit is due. People like to see their names on your blog. Give the people what they want.

Lesson 9: Be self-sufficient. Be self-sufficient. Be self-sufficient. Note: Lap races that are designed to encourage massive pit crew efforts (giving obvious advantages to the select few that have such crews) clearly violate this lesson and thus should be avoided.

Lesson 10: Leave the cell phone home lest you be tempted to use it. Mallory, Shackleton, (and the like) never wanted for a cell phone. Leave phone home and follow Lesson #1 should you encounter major problems. Getting into a tough situation and then finding a way out on your own is a good thing... Being super safe is overrated.

Lesson 11: Re-Develop, refine, rethink your own lessons from time to time...thinking about the way you approach bike racing is a productive dynamic exercise. Einstein said (or at least he should have said), “one can never fully understand a complex principle unless he/she takes the time to write about it.”

So...Please free feel to submit any and all of your personal lessons to the author and he may publish in the near future or just put them in the "comments" section of this page

Freedom...just another word for "nothing left to..."

2011-11-07T09:36:00.005-06:00

A rambling muse on the term, Freedom (excerpts from a most interesting contextual political lesson that morphed into a discussion on the word, freedom)...I love my job as I am surrounded by brilliant youths!!!!

Freedom is a term that is so general that itz hard for me to conjure an image in my head. Freedom from something is really how I view the word…Because to be “free” seems too big of a concept to aspire to. In other words no one is truly free…the fact is that Dylan was right…in that everyone and anyone is “gonna have to serve” somebody or something, some fundamental concept, some protocol for living ones life...
In my life, I perhaps felt most free when I was deep in the mountains of southeast Alaska many many years ago; alone with no opportunity for distraction (free to pursue one's passion without distractions), climbing with a small group of like minded men...or more recently, when battling the long night in Iowa during last year's Trans-Iowa with Eki. So my freedom is not equated to notions of safety or comfort.

I guess to me... Freedom is essentially a state of mind or a dimension of consciousness... Thus only the individual himself or herself can control the degrees of freedom. I cannot take your freedom from you. I may be able to hold you and coerce you to do my will, but I cannot take your freedom from you…Freedom is therefore inherently a personal choice or a state of being....
Freedom is abstract and intangible….ever changing in context and meaning…perhaps I’d draw a river that is in a constant state of flux to represent this notion. Degrees of Self-determination is a good synonym for the word, freedom.
In my view, using the term "Freedom" in the context of war is often an empty word used by war-mongers to motivate the youth to do the dirty work of war...
Again in my view Freedom and War are words that are incongruent in most instances throughout history... Beware of those who promise you "freedom."

Less than 50 categories!!! There needs to be more categories in bike races....otherwise itz too hard to WIN

2011-11-06T17:09:00.012-06:00

Below are the rigorous race "categories" for the recent Iceman event held over in Traverse City, Michigan...Such a rip-off!!! The race directors should have had the age-group categories set up at 6 month intervals [or maybe three month intervals!!!]. Otherwise how is a regular guy ever gonna have a chance to win a medal (and thus feel good about himself)!!!! And another thing; they make these races WAY too hard...these mtb races are just too long--the length should be 90 minutes max and the courses should be safe for everyone!!! Otherwise no one has a chance to win except for just a few guyz...How can regular folk feel good about themselves if they cannot feel safe and also win. Regular folks from Texas get to be Presidents and Governors and such...so why can't regular folk get to win bike races. It ain't fair!!! Everyone should get to be a winner....Winning is important!!! We are destroying the collective self-esteem of all these people...Everyone should get to be a winner (and also be safe)...There for sure should be Ultra-Clydesdale and Extreme-Ultra Clydesdale categories for both men and women and tandems and unicycles (and kids as well). There should also be a category for aged men, over 52 but not yet 53, that drink too much beer, and have bad knees, and are cursed raising a crazy sled dog and a goofy "gifted & talented" kid (I would have a chance at winning that one!!!!)

1 Pro & Cat 1 Women

2 MYC Scholarship Women 12-18

3 Women 19-24

4 Women 25-29

5 Women 30-34

6 Women 35-39

7 Women 40-44

8 Women 45-49

9 Women 50-54

10 Women 55-59

11 Women 60+

12 Lady Clydesdales

13 Lady Singlespeeds

14 Pro & Cat 1 Men
15 MYC Scholarship Men 12-18
16 Men 19-24
17 Men 25-27
18 Men 28-29
19 Men 30-31
20 Men 32-33
21 Men 34
22 Men 35
23 Men 36
24 Men 37
25 Men 38
26 Men 39
27 Men 40
28 Men 41
29 Men 42
30 Men 43
31 Men 44
32 Men 45
33 Men 46
34 Men 47
35 Men 48
36 Men 49
37 Men 50
38 Men 51-52
39 Men 53-54
40 Men 55-57
41 Men 58-60
42 Men 61-64
43 Men 65-69
44 Men 70+
45 Tandems
46 Male Clydesdales 39 & Under
47 Male Clydesdales 40 +
48 Men Singlespeeds 39 & Under
49 Men Singlespeeds 40+

The Senior Report-Dirt Bag Gravel Race Recap....

2011-11-02T15:27:00.017-05:00

Thanking you Mr. Ben Doom!!!

A fairly talented and diverse contingency of Duluthian gravel road enthusiasts traveled southwesterly, across the windswept cornfields of middle Minnesota to partake in the Dirt Bag gravel road race. Comprised within this Northern troupe were several major players of whom carry great status amongst or within their respective fields of influence. Namely, the indefatigable world traveler, Rich Hendricks, who has done more for crushing rocks into gravel than any Alabamian chain gang; the bold and brave archaeological/journalism professor John Hatcher, who has put decades of both meticulous and dangerous work into finding the fabled lost bicycle of Erik the Red of Norse legend; the renaissance man, Jeremy Kershaw, one of just two or three that can claim to have skied, run, and biked the Arrowhead 135 (earning a DBD patch to boot); the unconquerable Mr. Ek, a throwback to a simpler time when a man was judged by his propensity to suffer under stress, under a load, doing work for days and days; and the odd-man out, a Mr. Farrow, a lowly unscrupulous aged man that spends the bulk of his idle dayz secretly planning the untimely demise of his daughter’s pet man-dog, Loki.

As dawn broke and they entered into Minnesota’s 6th District via three automobiles—the domain of presidential hopeful and darling of the Tea Party, Mrs. Michelle Bachman—there arose a collective sense of orderly patriotism, security, anti-immigration, and civic pride amongst the refined men, whilst the unprincipled one could only day dream of applying sorted Machiavellian tactics to the impending gravel race.

Upon arrival at the starting point the Northlanders set about individually to determine the proper ensemble to wear so as to complement their various physical attributes, given the relatively cool temperatures. For Ek , the sponsored one, the decision was simply a matter of selecting the appropriate Hi-tech Salsa-brand of stylish clothing that would afford just the right measure of both warmth and breathability, but for both Kershaw and Farrow it was a more complicated equation involving matching a hodge-podge of “lost&found” items, hand me downs, and duct-taped booties. Farrow is somewhat self-conscious of his weighty figure and yet has been told, more than once, that he looks “dashingly sporting’ in crimson, so he went with his predominately red outfit, including his red long underwear that he found abandoned near a local ski resort some years past. It is worth noting that to his chagrin, Farrow was completely upstaged by a strikingly good looking Flander’s roadie festooned in a brand new and brilliantly fire-truck red costume from head to toe to carbon bike. Those near to Farrow in the peloton recalled that the old curmudgeon was green with envy and jealousy as the large group of riders lined up to begin their battle. One participant remembers the old man complaining, “I wish we had a carbon-tax on these roadie guyz and their carbon machines…we could pay off the federal debt!”

Fast starts are always hard on old men as it takes considerable time from them to initiate their respective “mojos’ and so there was a collective sense of disapproval from the elders when the impetuous youth from Rochester, Drew Wilson took off like a flash of lighting down the first gravel road encountered. When eventually reeled back into the fold, an elder was heard scolding the unbridled youth in no uncertain terms, “Drew if you would just learn how to ride smart you’d be able to win these races!”

From the get-go, the pace was decidedly fast and then all hell broke loose when the locals invited their unsuspecting guests into a series of deadly sand traps. These barriers had the effect of causing several seniors to experience rapid heart palpations, thus prompting Farrow to exclaim to the nearby Kershaw, “Strike me tent! I am ready to meet my Maker!” As the locals seemingly floated through the quicksand, the rest groveled. Such is the state of gravel road racing!!!! Oh the shame of it all. No respect for the seniors of the sport.

Sensing weakness, the charge lead by the Revolution Cycle squad increased in ferocity... then suddenly as if they realized their insolence, their bad behavior, the pace slowed just enough to allow a few of the luckier stragglers to catch back up to the lead group. Yet the damage was done to poor ravaged Kershaw; a crippled shell of a once proud man weakened from a troublesome addiction to foot running. Left languishing alone against the persistent headwinds of farm country, he is said to have wept the tears of a rider that had forsaken his velo-craft for the lonely life of a long distance runner. He, too wept, one can surmise for the precipitous downfall of the once great Brave Buffington…a man endowed with unequaled potential in the cycling world, who then gives it all up to skip through the forests with other like-minded fleet-footed pedestrians only to suffer the physical and psychological declines associated with that lonely and inglorious pursuit. A tragedy of epic proportions!

The lead group, twenty or so strong was thus comprised of the survivors of the sand dunes and the strong Saint Cloud riders. The tempo slowed a bit as some of the riders took time to become reacquainted. Bell complained of the frustrations involved with peeling layers and layers of old wall-paper off of a recently acquired 1970s ranch-style home and was reminded that Hitler was once a wall paperer. Farrow grumbled incessantly on the topic of how hard it is to murder a family dog without being found out, whilst the Deathrider rightly castigated a youth that publically admitted to being ignorant as the peculiarities associated with the new extra-wide Surly fat-bike.

Once again, around ninety minutes into it, the locals lead their unsuspecting guests into another insidious trap. This time the ambush came in the form of a long and hilly section of severe washboard type terrain. The incessant rattling and shaking caused the elder men to lose control of their aged bladders…Among the victims, Farrow wept as he soiled his red shorts... Whilst the depraved opportunists took off leaving all but eleven racers, seven of whom were indigenous to the area. Oh the shame!

At the end of the bone rattling segment, only the two youths from Rochester and the intrepid Horkey, had been able to hang with these The Saint Cloud Seven. Upon a post race analysis, some noteworthy researchers contend that the outcome plays well to a kind of conspiracy theory that places the flatlanders from both Rochester and Saint Cloud in a collusive arrangement designed to thwart any outside threats that may have come from the more genteel and fair-minded Northerners. A plot was afoot? Of course there does not exist any definitive evidence to substantiate this conclusion…but there were rumblings from the cheap seats!

Horkey is off the back! Then there were but nine leaders including Beuning, Loosen, Muyres, Bell, Scad, Wilson, Ziemer, Staifenberg, and Gritman. They road well together for the better part of fifty miles and it came down to a last desperate sprint up a hill that put Wilson on top. Any student of the game could not be unimpressed by Wilson’s effort for on paper there were others that boast more winning credentials. Yet the youth perhaps listened to his elders, road the smart race, and made the right moves when it counted…so it goes.

Giving a courageous solo chase was a forlorn Mr. Ek, but the head wind was too much even for this hard and brave man and so he was eventually caught up by a well motivated chase group comprised of Skarphol, Nikodym, Hurl, Fry, and others including the floundering Farrow. J. Fry was the inspiration and thus the driving force behind a fast second group that was buoyed by Hurl and Skarphol, both of whom took turns with Fry in keeping the pace high and optimistic.

But alas it was not to be for the leaders finished a good fifteen minutes ahead of the chasers…such is the way of cycling in the modern age!

Thanking you Team Doom....The DBD had a blast

Riding the Fat Bikes as it should be w/ da Deathrider....

2011-10-20T10:22:00.003-05:00

http://deathrideradventure.blogspot.com/

Check it....link it above

Dog is NOT man's best friend...

2011-10-17T14:11:00.009-05:00

"Whoever said you can't buy happiness forgot little puppies."- Gene Hill

I am sooooo sick of reading about how people love their dogs! Yesterday I went to Barnes & Noble and was astonished to see that three of the top-ten bestsellers in the last few months have all portrayed positive accounts of living with dogs! I am here now to speak the truth—

So I was downstairs at the Ski Hut the other day chillin’ with my buddies. I was regaling the boyz about a recent, albeit common incident in which my entire family had taken part in beating up the man-dog; Loki…the following is a recounting:

We clandestinely entered the house after an evening-out dinning at a local eatery. Loki was obviously not happy when we left him home, so we fully expected that there would be some kind of retaliatory act on his part, thus the silent entrance... As stated above, post dining experience, we silently entered the house at the ready as we fully expected a fight.

As the downstairs lights came on, we noticed right way that Loki had eaten the tops off of Sophie’s expensive new sheep-skinned UGGS for straps of fleece lay haphazardly upon the floor. Further investigation revealed that he had used the UGGS as a mere appetizer for it soon became obvious that he too had seemingly ingested the whole of my wife’s new running shoe as the main course. Only a few bits of the expensive high-tech fabric remained. Then for desert he had eaten the top of off my new camelback bladder.

Repetitive training has enabled us to suppress our emotions and thus having done this before we immediately took to our battle stations and then waited for wily Loki to make the first move, for it is our belief that victory can only come when fighting a defensive battle (aka ambush). My wife, armed with a ski pole blocked the only exit to the outside world, the offspring blocked the entrance that led into the gear room—she was fortified with one of the mangled UGG boots. We immediately and collectively surmised that the UGG boots would be the perfect weapons as the dog would be hit with the very implement that he sought to destroy. We all quietly smiled at the thought as I took my crouched position near to the stairway . I whispered tensely, “Hey throw me that other boot…I’ll catch him in the back of the head as he descends the stairs.” My daughter covertly and silently tossed me the other boot.

When all was ready I made the call, “Loki treats! Loki Treats” Nothing from above—just a strained anticipatory silence. I tried again in a more amicable voice, “Come Loki Come, Treats!” Then I vigorously shook the treat bag knowing that the lure of a treat would be nearly impossible for him to resist.

Suddenly we heard him bounding across our once pristine wood floor (now it is scarred from both cat and dog claws) and then we were on him. Chaos ensued as every man, woman, and child fought the beast with every fiber of his or her humanity. Survival of the fittest in itz most stark manifestation. His agility and endurance is amazing to behold and yet we were able to hit our mark on a few of the swings. Seeing that he was out numbered he wisely retreated upstairs and it was our failing to recklessly follow him for once in the expansive living room he was able to out maneuver us and gain an advantage. Soon he was out the door and thus free to harry us at his will. As he dodged and ducked our efforts to strike him, we began exhausted and thus conceded the fight…

so it goes…a day in the life of living with Loki, the Man-dog….

Check this dude out....

2011-10-16T17:36:00.001-05:00

http://deathrideradventure.blogspot.com/

Josh Peterson....super nice guy and also the kind of guy you'd want watchin' your back in a bar full of Harley bikers....

"A quiet sense of manliness washed" over the author

2011-10-12T15:11:00.008-05:00

A true story of treacherous, cowardly, and premeditated snubbery…

Yesterday was a glorious fall day in Duluth. The trees are in full fiery color to the point that even my kid was moved enough to look up from her texting to declare, ”Wow the leaves are like so like brilliant in like a really like cool like really red like, weird neon-red way!” I raced home and jumped on me trusty Pugsley and headed for the trails up at Lester Park…a few miles up the road from me house.

The single-track is in pristine shape and I was loving life as I expertly craved-out the turns until I screwed up on shifting to an easier gear and snapped the chain. I wasn’t worried cuz I figured that a biker would be along any minute to loan me a chain tool. But alas no one showed and so I hiked-a-bike up to an exit path that puts one out midway up the Seven Bridges Road. Just as I pulled onto the asphalt I spied a group of six roadies heading up the hill coming towards me. “Sweet Salvation” was my first thought. I readied myself to look presentable and rehearsed a few salutations, settling on either, “You guyz are life savers,” or “Thanks a lot you guyz!” I even considered offering, “You guyz don’t need to wait, I’ll just get the chain fixed and then I’ll drop the chain tool off at your house,” but decided that that approach would seem to forward...

By this time they were nearly up to me, so I put on my happy face and sought sincere eye-contact with the lead rider. It was an impressively well dressed group of three males and three females, all festooned in beautiful ensembles covered in various brand names atop beautifully svelte carbon machines. Their leader was an amazing specimen that resembled a well-packed sausage as his skin suit was so tight it looked to be painted on…I remember thinking that he must at least be a Category 3 racer! My heart raced in anticipation of our meeting….They came closer still and yet their majestic leader had still NOT made eye contact me…I knew now for sure that he must see me…but still I moved more to the middle of the road so as to force the issue.

Suddenly, but as if choreographed, in unison that stood and pedaled hard past me as if I were an invisible ghost…Stunned… I was speechless. It was not until they were well past me that I was able to muster a lily-livered, “Thanks a lot!”

Hurting and forlorn, I decided to head down the road a bit and then cut back onto the trail in hopes of finding a mountain biker to assist me. I was heading down the ski trail when I saw two college-aged guyz heading up on mountain bikes. One was on a plastic throw-way G.F. but the other was on a steel single speed, so I felt that I had a chance with him. As they approach I noticed that they purposefully looked away from me. It was if they had encountered the hideous Elephant-man in their wake. Initially I hid my face in shame, but necessity will ultimately trump embarrassment, so I demanded (in the voice I usually reserve just for the man-dog), “Hey do you guyz have a chain tool?” They stopped and slowly looked at me…I repeated the demand as I approached them with willful steps. “No,” the single-speeder quietly uttered, eyes cast downward. Sensing my dominance, I told them in no uncertain terms, “alright then, you may continue on.” As they road away from me…A quiet sense of manliness washed over my psyche!

Dean G. of the Ski Hut saved me from a long walk home for I encountered him as I was walking home on the asphalt…When I told him of the snubs…he gravely shook his head and said, “triathletes…more than likely they were triathletes!”

The Heck of the North DID NOT DISAPPOINT, but it hurt my feelings!

2011-10-06T12:49:00.007-05:00

The saddest utterance a cyclist can ever declare in the heat of battle, when there is still a chance of success—“I have a flat.” Alone again, naturally…

Itz just not fair…Certainly life is not fair, if ya want justice, stay at home; I get that…but why at that moment when I felt great, me old legs were motoring, and with so much race left? Why a flat at that point in the Heck? I have been in many bike races, and so have you, where we have actually hoped for a flat so that we could end the pathetic effort with a semblance of honor or at least an ego-sheltering excuse. A flat can be an acceptable, societal means from which to escape the pain of being dropped and left alone. “Dude, I was right there, but I got a flat!” You know I am telling it the way it is…Admit it! But the last two races I have been in this season, I have flatted early in each race, when I was feeling really good, when I was hanging, even trading pulls with the top guyz. I really was “right there when I got a flat!”…My most recent flats have come at points where even an old guy, like me, still believes that he can be there at the end…So so sad. Life is so unfair. On Saturday morning during the third running of the Heck of the North, that now familiar, albeit wretchedly forlorn and awful sound of seventy-five pounds of air instantaneously escaping from underneath me, in a heartbeat, followed shortly thereafter by the silence of being left alone to consider all that is wrong with the world, nearly brought me to tears…so it goes…

As the leaders rode away from me, just forty-four miles into the hundred mile race, a classic melancholy 1970’s song popped into my head—“Alone again naturally, I truly am indeed Alone again, naturally…It seems to me that there are more hearts broken in the world that can’t be mended…Left unattended…What do we do? What do we do? Alone again, naturally.” …Misery loves company, so I was somewhat comforted by the fact that much better, talented men than me had similar fates on that recent Saturday morning (Buffington, Swank, Andrews, Gort, all flatted early and then much later, Ross Fraboni and Josh Tesch flatted on the Moose Mile).

But enough already…who wants to read the rambling philosophical lamentations of an old fool? People want to read vivid accounts of bold racers making courageous moves, they want to revel in the glory of high achievement, they want to celebrate champions…such is the culture of competition in this nation from youth soccer to collegiate athletics—NOT a bad thing, if kept pure and simple. By the way, a culture of competition that does not hinge on entry fees, licensing, or shiny age-group medals or the like. A great course, and bragging rights are about all that is needed to get a large group of highly motivated and talented riders together to race hard and fast; the success of these gravel road races is evidence of this simple, yet often ignored concept—The draw of pure competition is all that one needs. An ethos of intrinsic motivation, of comparing ones skill at riding a bike fast with others, as a calling card for participation clearly has always had merit. There is no need for anything else, ya don’t have to dress it up one bit, if you disagree, just look at the talent that showed up to race in this year’s Heck or any of the gravel road races. G.T. and Skogen, the two pioneers, have really tapped into something special (and fundamental) with these localized “free” albeit challenging, “no-support” bike races…Real racers want to be self-reliant, to compete on long, tough courses, AND they are much less concerned about being catered to…But I digress.

Thus giving the people what they want I now provide two perspectives on the drama that unfolded as the leaders vied for the glory of victory at the Heck of the North… The first one in which the author writes vicariously in an effort to capture the underlying thinking related to the bold break-away move exhibited by the veteran racer, Mr. Bell and the second, from notes obtained from the splendid endurance rider extraordinaire, Mr. Ek.

First, a recount of the now classic “Bell Move”—
So whilst the author and a host of others languished alone in their egocentric angst, dramatic events were unfolding up ahead where men sought both glory and kisses from beautiful podium girls. Rather than sit-in for ninety-nine miles and try to win it in the last few yards involving a desperate sprint up a steep climb, in a brilliantly bold move, Jim Bell of Saint Cloud went off the front of the fifteen plus lead group amid the spongy, mucky terrain along the North-shore Trail some sixty miles into it. It was a risky, all-or-nothing, move made by a savvy veteran and while in the end it cost him the win or even a top finish…this writer still thinks it was a brilliant move— Goethe got it right with, “Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.” Ya don’t have to be Johan Bruyneel to appreciate that the Heck, given the lay of the land, only presents essentially three opportunities to a seasoned cyclist (aka “old guy” like Bell) to break away and have a chance to win it outright—Namely 1.) The Brimson Connector, some 43 miles into it and so too early if you are both old and bold; 2.) The North-shore Trail segment which comes around mile sixty; and 3.) The Moose Mile which comes with less than ten miles from the finish (and is a place where the race can be lost, but not won), so it makes perfect sense that Bell would pick #2 to make his move. Don’t get me wrong, Bell is an amazing rider but he is an older guy, like me, and thus his ability to out-sprint a youngster is perhaps diminished (or with this year’s headwall finish, to win a sprint up a steep climb). Bell took off and rode out front like his life depended on it for nearly twenty miles before his stalwart legs began to fail him. Was it a foolhardy move? I submit that it was a masterful move! A move of a champion... Now I am not talking about a man intent on a podium finish for which most of us would be aiming for or dreaming about, Bell was singularly focused on winning the race—I find such a "Damn the torpedoes, Full speed ahead!” tactic to be very inspiring! As stated above his plan did not end in a big smooch from a buxom podium girl, yet in my book it was a GRAND EFFORT!

Second: Eki’s Time (in his own words…so compelling, I wept when I read this!)—
“I attacked going down Lester River Rd. I got about 200 yards up on the field and for a moment thought they were letting me go. Alas, it was not to be as they quickly gathered me up when they had enough of my folly. Thirteen of us (I counted) came into the bottom of Seven Bridges Road together. I lead up the hill, they obediently followed my wheel. I did not have enough energy to attack on the climb as I could sense how strong they were, it felt too early to attack given the strength of the group. I believe Matt Ryan got into Amity first, then me. I quickly took the lead back from him as I knew things were going to go off like fire-works very shortly. About 1/4 of the way up Amity I decided it was now or never. I looked over my shoulder to see the group of thirteen still intact. I stood up and deliberately attacked! I felt like I was tearing my bike apart, I was going as hard as I could. Four men came with me, Joe Meiser, Todd McFadden, Matt Ryan, Ted Loosen, the rest popped off as they could not match the surge. A split formed at this point. We had maybe 100 yards on the rest. McFadden immediately attacked me back, but I was spent from my surge. I could not respond to his effort. Meiser, Ryan, and Loosen went with McFadden while I hung between the groups now in "no man’s land". I tried with everything I had to close down on them and at times I thought I was, but whatever I gained would somehow get erased by the cycling gods. Somewhere up ahead Loosen must have attacked Todd and gained some time on him or he got his gap on Pleasant View (the last steep hill leading to the finish). When I hit Jean Duluth Road, I could see Ryan and Meiser working together and I knew that was the nail in my coffin as I was alone. There was no way I could close down on two guys working together. Matt Ryan even told me later that when he saw me alone he knew that if he and Meiser traded positions at least twice there'd be no hope of me catching them. Shawn Miller chased me hard, but we were too evenly matched and he gained no ground on me, but he was one of the strongest riders on the whole day. The top 6 guys were all on Pleasant View together, it must have been cool to watch. It was soooooo close!”

So there you have it…a glimpse into the excitement of the chase by a guy that should win it someday. An insider’s view of the last few miles of an event that while still in itz infancy is destined to be considered a “classic” gravel road event.

I do not use the term “classic” frivolously. Races must earn the title of “classic” (and/or “epic”) to be included into my cycling lexicon and the Heck of the North is destined to become a classic. A very compelling element of the Heck is the fact that it attracts a large contingency of very strong cross-country skiers that are just entering the season and thus collectively are very strong. Adam Swank, Shawn Miller, Phil Rogers, Matt Ryan, Rhett Bonner, Rod Raymond, Mike Dietzman, Joshua Tesch, and Tyler Kjorstad are all really good cyclists but they are even better skiers. Adding them to an already stacked field of riders like Joe Meiser, Todd McFadden, Fraboni, Eki, Buffington, Glisczinski, Deathrider, Norrie, Struchynski, Gort, Andrews, Bell, Loosen, etc. makes the Heck of the North a real celebration of local talent. These 100+ mile gravel road races are really starting to take off….If you have not done so, YOU need to try one!

Special Kudos to Jeremy Kershaw and his top-notch team of volunteers (including Team Kershaw& ND Team Family Mangan) for pulling it all together and great thanks to the good family Buffington for hosting a most entertaining post-race party. The hand crafted IPA brought this man to tears of joy. Finally a special note to Ari, the inspirational leader of the secretive Slender Fungus Adventure Society—“Thanking you for the Irish whiskey (The DBD shall drink to your health come first snow) and the stirring photo of Sir Mallory, we all wept tears of pride! Also kudos on the work you have done in grooming the youthful Jay Barre…A young man for which there can be nothing but GREAT EXPECTATIONS!

Onward to Victory...Onward to the Heck of the North...

2011-09-29T13:42:00.007-05:00

Dear Brave Men of the DBD:

I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our DBD motto, to ride out the storm of the interlopers, and to outlive the menace of the tri-athletes, duo-athletes, marathoners, the roadies, the skiers and the like. At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of our fearless leader, Sir Mallory. We must NOT let him down. That is the will of our local chapter and the Club-at-large. The DBD members, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native gravel roads, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength. Even though large tracts of Duluth and many old and famous trails have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Lake Superior Trail hikers and runners and all the odious apparatus of United States Cycling Federation rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight Bell and Raymond, we shall fight the McFaddens, the Teschs and Meisers, we shall fight all comers, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength on the tar, we shall defend our gravel, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the flats, we shall fight on the hills, we shall fight on the Brimson Connector and on the Northshore Trail, we shall fight in Amity; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this local club or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our members beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the DBD, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

Godspeed,
Sir Winston Churchill

Disclaimer:
On June 4, 1939 Churchill spoke before the House of Commons, giving a report which celebrated the “miraculous deliverance” at Dunkirk, while also seeking to temper a too rosy of view of what was on the whole a “colossal military disaster.” Any semblance to that earlier speech and the one recently presented above is pure coincidence.

I have made a life-changing decision...

2011-09-27T09:19:00.002-05:00

After doing the research, crunching the numbers, and weighing the costs against the benefits I have decided that I will from now on only purchase cycling equipment that is labeled "elite," "ultra," "extreme," "mega," or some combination of the aforementioned.

http://thebuffingtonpost.blogspot.com/

2011-09-15T14:13:00.003-05:00

Buffington is BACK!!!!! His blog is back up and running.....BRAVO BRAVE BUFFINGTON!!!!!

If you are NOT reading this you are so UNcool

2011-09-13T19:44:00.000-05:00

http://www.almanzo.com/

"If a man says he is not afraid of dying, he is either lying or is a Gurkha." G.M.

2011-09-12T14:16:00.006-05:00

ask Mallory.....

Dear Mr. Mallory:

I'd like to inquire as to your thoughts on the best speed work for sprint triathlons. Lifetime Fitness, B.P., Exxon, Haliburton, and Wal-Mart are sponsoring a big-time triathlon in my town and the entry fee is only $478, so I really want to go for it. Plus, some of the proceeds of the race will go to Greg Mortenson. Someday I want to be a real Iron Man and go to Hawaii and be on TV!

Do you suggest doing track work with short repeat intervals, or longer speed work such as Fartleks and Tempo runs? Should I hire a life-coach? I have a carbon set-up but its last year’s model, what kind of carbon bike/wheel-set should I ask my parent’s for?

Also, what are your thoughts regarding using heart rates vs the Relative Perceived Exertion scale for maximum efforts? Or should I get the new Garmin that does all of it? Would it help me to have my VO2 max measured? What about EPO?
Thanks so much,  
Chip

Ps: Do those carbon fiber pants work, cost is no issue?
-------------------------------------------------------

Dear Friends and Loyal Followers of Sir Mallory:

As many of you may know, as I pen this letter, our esteemed leader languishes, albeit with steadfast conviction, in a common jail sharing stale bread and the like with common street criminals. Old Mallory is being charged for disorderly conduct stemming from an incident at a citizen’s triathlon sponsored by Lifetime Fitness and Wal Mart, involving several hundred participants, race officials, and a young malcontent known as “Chip.”

To begin, upon receiving the above letter of inquiry from this Chip fellow, regarding participating in a triathlon, Sir Mallory, (who has never fully recovered from his untimely death on Everest) essentially snapped! Armed with his trusty ice ax and bolstered by a platoon of loyal and fearsome Gurkhas, Mallory attacked a local triathlon proceeding. Luckily Mallory had given the order to refrain from exercising extreme prejudice to the Sherpas and thus none of the frail triathletes were seriously injured. Once the Law appeared, the Gurkhas were rightly allowed to leave the scene, provided that they agree to attend an anger-management course, but Mallory was arrested, yet not before engaging in fisticuffs with a legion of policemen many of whom received bloody noses and split lips for their efforts. Finally a brigade of National Guard soldiers was able to subdue the “game-as-ever” elder DBD statesman.

Having spoken to him recently, two dayz past, via passenger pigeon, he assures me that he is well, that in due time he shall be proven innocent, and that he has found favor with the warden due to a shared interest in fine brandies. Nevertheless when you hit your knees tonight to thank Your Maker, please include Mallory in your thoughts, wishing him “Godspeed.”

But enough about Mallory, he is a big boy, can fend for himself, and a little quiet time maybe just what he needs to settle his nerves down a bit.

A cautionary tale follows—concerning running as a Gateway Drug to far more sinister and self-destructive behaviors. The main purpose of this letter is to use Chip’s letter as a platform from which to warn the people of the threats associated with running. Running is a gateway drug to triathlons. Chip’s decline is a perfect example. Chip began with a local 5k race where he ponied up $25 to run around the city park for twenty-plus minutes. When he finished the race in the middle of the pack, they gave him a brightly colored T-Shirt that proclaimed, “I survived the _____ race,” along with a shiny medal and they told him how great he was… When he got to his car on the windshield was a flyer that advertised another race. Chip ponied up for that race as well. In that race he did the 10K (all these races have multiple events and infinite categories of runners),they charged him $40, which his parents willingly paid, and he won his age group (37 to 38 age category; Clydesdale division, Category 3.5B). He was happy and self-assured and his parents were happy too because he wasn’t doing drugs or in a gang or both and he began to even talk about looking for a job.

The trap was set. Chip began to train, he began hanging out at the local Lifetime fitness center, located in a strip-mall on the edge-o-town near the Interstate (by the Wal-Mart Super Store). But in order to improve and to fit in with this crowd, he needed more expensive gear. Soon the running was not enough, he needed to swim, but to swim well, he needed a special wet-suit. You know where this is leading…running, then swimming, then… Soon Chip was obsessed with obtaining everything CARBON. Last spring, he stole his Dad’s credit card and bought a $9000 Triathlon bike, but the bike did not have carbon wheels, so he spent another $3000 to get the carbon wheel set. His Dad was furious, but his Mom reminded the dad that at least Chip was not on drugs.

Several dayz later they found Chip in the alley behind the new Trek store (where you can only buy Trek stuff). He was fighting for his life; having fallen victim to a massive carbon overdose. Such is a story that is being repeated over and over again across the country. Mallory had the courage to do something about it….do you?

Obsequiously,
Ernest Shackleton

I have been told that I have real talent as a photographer in a special, hard to describe sort of way...

2011-09-07T15:18:00.002-05:00

Kid's funny depiction of the Old Man dreaming. Note beer in hand, "Dogsbody" cap, "dawg fude" in pack, Man-dog doing the work...The perfect dream!

2011-09-07T09:45:00.003-05:00

Been Busy...what with work and all....plus training is the easy way out. Real men race off the couch!

2011-09-01T16:00:00.004-05:00

As a nuclear family we did get up to the BWCA for a few dayz last week. I built the offspring a raft in honor of Mark Twain...but skoolz startin' now so I have to get me thinking cap back on...I have not been racing nor training in a few weeks, but have remained loyal to staying hydrated with a magical, recuperative elixir of fermented grains, barleys, and hops... Look for the author to show up at the next race well rested...

Lindsay Gauld reports from the Breck Epic...

2011-08-23T07:13:00.002-05:00

The following is a race report submitted by the venerable Lindsay Gauld, the indomitable Cannuck from Winnipeg. Like a fine wine, he only gets better with age:

Breck Epic 2011
Marty Halprin and I just completed the 2011 Breck Epic with a good ride on Stage 6 and I thought I'd take the time to write a little about the event before we head off to the infamous Stage 7 which is the name for the post race awards banquet and party. Today's stage was 60 kms with 6200 ft of climbing. It included 2 climbs over Boreus Pass ( 11,500) from the north and then a return pass from the south. After yesterdays death march over 12,500 ft this seemed easy.
Anyone looking for a fun well run event would be well to consider this race for a number of reasons:
The day had some of the nicest singletrack we'v e experienced all week and was a perfect way to end a terrific week. We saw a number of the same riders we've seen all week but were actually a number of places further up in the field than most days. All in all it was a great way to end. We remained 4 ^th in the 100+ category but at last night's awards race organizer Mike acknowledged us as being far ahead in the 120+ category. In a funny twist, we would have finished 2 of the last 3 days in third in the 80+ category and were ahead of the third place Italians yesterday as well until my tire problems.
Central start each day - I guess at 63 the allure of racing all day and then trying to sleep on rocky ground in a tent is lost on me. We stayed in a really comfortable time- share that was a 5 minute glide to the start line each day. We could literally be lying down resting till 20 minutes until the start. We signed on for the dinner plan and the food was well planned and as much as you wanted every night. For those younger than myself, they do offer a tenting option with breakfast and dinner as part of the package.
Courses- we did find ourselves on the same trails several times including two days with a early morning wakeup climb up the aptly named "heinous hill" but the trails are de3signed to be ridden in either direction so we often found ourselves descending some trail we'd climbed previously. All in all the variety and quality of the trails was outstanding. A huge amount of time and effort has gone into developing this trail network and as one who has spent a lot of time on trail work myself, I really appreciate the level of commitment.
3 or 6 days - we did the 6 day race but there is also the option of doing 3 days, those being days 2 through 4. Those are the 3 toughest days, so it's certainly not taking the easy way out but it might fit some people's time commitments better.
Scenery - this seems like a strange one to mention but it truly was spectacular. I've really got to get a better setup for my camera ( I had it in the back pocket of my jersey which was awkward ) as there were so many picture moments out there. Day 5's ride over the continental divide at 12,460 feet made us feel like we were on top of the world with glorious vista's in every direction.
People-People-People - I wrote that 3 times as that was far and away the best part of this race. From Mike and his crew and the wonderful volunteers at the aid stations we saw nothing but smiling faces full of encouragement. The race is big enough yet small enough that it felt like you were friends with all the other racers by the end. Marty and I met and spent time with the Dead Goat Racing crew from Calgary and they are all terrific. Another group from Minnesota included an Arrowhead Acquaintance as well as Molly who is an mother of three and was planning her ten year old's birthday party for when she got home. The guys from Italy were about the same speed as us and we spent many hours near each other on the trail. We also had a lot of ride time with Boomer from Mississippi and he was a pleasure to be around. There were so many other friendly riders that I can't say I've ever felt a better vibe at a race.
That about sums it up. I do want to say that it was a pleasure to share this experience with my friend Marty. We' ve been racing in Manitoba together for well over forty years and this is the first time we've hooked up on something like this.
Now we're off to the Stage 7 event. I want my wife Lynne to know that it is walking distance so she needn't worry.

Check this out...if it works.

2011-08-20T15:47:00.002-05:00

testing...see photos from my recent trip up nord...

https://picasaweb.google.com/100317558265399409221

Went South to the diftless area of Wisconsin fer a long bike race or was it a ride?

2011-08-17T22:11:00.012-05:00

“We are calling the race due to severe weather. We can have you picked up here right away and then have your bike delivered once we get a full load,” Conveyed the polite head-volunteer manning the second to the last checkpoint of the Dairy land Dare 190 mile race.

“I am NOT quitting the race!” exclaimed the old fool from the North. “What is it about you guyz in Wisconsin…whenever it rains you wanna call the race…I aint quitting the race because of a little weather, which way do I go?”

The Dairyland Dare did not disappoint, but at the same time it did not inspire the writer to loftier goals or act as a cathartic exercise in philosophical experimentation. However, the free beer-tickets combined with the post race beer truck did arouse deep primordial urges with respect to the author’s fragile psyche. Indeed it was well worth the money and time. In fact I'd say it is perhaps the best organized event I have ever participated in.

Perhaps it is just a sign of the times— for we are living in an “embellished” society where words like “heroic,” and “extreme,” and “ultra-extreme,” are routinely used to describe what just a few decades ago would have been labeled “solid effort,” ”good showing,” or “impressive effort”; yet, while the promoters of the Dairyland Dare are certainly a bit precocious with their assertion that their race is the, “Toughest One Day Challenge Ride in the Midwest,” it does indeed require a concerted and focused effort to complete the approximately 188 miles in a respectable time-frame. Note: In terms of sheer difficulty and/or needless suffering (in my little myopic world), in the Midwest, the Dairyland Dare ranks well below the Royal 162, all the WEMS 12 hour events, all 24 hour mtb events, both the winter races, Tuscobia 150 and Arrowhead 135, and it is about 33.3% as tough as the Trans-Iowa. I will say that given the many hills and the distance, this race is comparable to the Ragnarok 105 gravel road classic, held every spring in the coulees surrounding the Mississippi River Valley near Red Wing. In fact the scenery is remarkably similar.

The route is simply picturesque in an upstate New York or Vermont kind of way. Rolling forested hills, quaint little hamlets, and neat working family farms that harbor back to a more simple time in this country when many folks made their living from an intimate relationship with the land. It was perhaps the most varied and interesting racecourse that I have ever done. It seemed that every turn revealed another glimpse of an old farmstead, or a trout stream, or a deeply silent forested hollow. But I digress…

The once proud Kershaw and I rode aspects of the “driftless area” (where the bull-dosing glaciers did not go) of Wisconsin last summer during the “stimulating” Trans-Wisconsin; the hilly, flowing terrain is perfect for cycling. So I knew that the course would be most excellent.

Part I of the Plan: The operational plan was to do the event Team Six Navy Seal style. A blueprint involving a painstakingly planned “couch-to-car-to-race-to-car-to-bed strategy.” Having all my ducks in a row I earnestly began the couch part of the operation. The time was approximately 5:00 p.m. on Friday, August 12^th. Offspring was off doing her thing; the dog was napping, as I positioned myself upon the couch with the plan being to relax for two hours before my wife got home. Upon her arrival, I would begin the six to seven hour segment of the car part of the operation. Just as I closed my eyes, the phone rang. “Did you get a chance to plant that tree? Like you promised?” At once wide-awake, I replied with feigned sincerity, “Yes of course!” Immediately I was up, out the door, and digging a hole and planting the tree. The digging and planting aroused the physical needs of the dog. The digging and panting also aroused the humor inherent in the offspring, “I’m gonna tell Mom about this!” Just after guiding the Man-dog, Loki, on a final stroll up the nearby trail to relieve himself, my wife pulled up. The time was 7:30 p.m. I jumped in my Chevy Prism and hurriedly backed out of our newly finished garage. In my haste I clipped the driver side mirror, ripping it off and damaging the garage door rails as well. Sheepishly, I assured both wife and dog that I shall make it all “look like new on Sunday.” My offspring silently giggled.

Part 2 of the Plan: On the road, racing down Highway 53, free at last, my heart soared! It took me a while to adjust to driving sans driver-side mirror, but the traffic flow was minimal and the radio was filled with captivating topics, including the fundamentalist stations that are always so up lifting. One such station featured an interview with a highly motivated “born again” that was just back from China on a mission to convert (and save) all them Chinese people to his Hell-fire brand of Christianity. It is nice for guyz like that to try and fix all of them China folks. Given my status, I am often afforded top-notch accommodations at these venues and the Dairyland Dare was no different. I pulled into the huge parking lot of Lands Ends (a big clothing maker located in Dodgeville) around 3:00 a.m. and made for a nearby picnic table (of the type used by workers on their lunch breaks) armed with my blankie and pillow. I asked the security guard that came and checked on me (he was a really nice guyz) if they still make any clothes here in Dodgeville. He said, “Naw…they make it all in China.” I thought again about how nice it was of that born again fella to go over to China to save the Chinese. Then I had the thought that maybe in the not so distant future born-again Chinese people from China will come over here to the U.S. and save me. So it goes…

Part 3 of the Plan: The parking lot began to fill in earnest around 5:00 a.m. The volunteers arrived en masse and then vans loaded with bikes and mechanics were the second to arrive in my immediate area. The vanguard of Team Vision Quest (VQ) from Chicago began to set up shop, while the volunteers began to put set up tents and the like. VQ is the enterprise set up by Robbie Ventura of USPS fame. Google “Vision Quest” and read about it for it really is a well thought out venture that has tapped into a thriving niche market in cycling. I must say that I very much was impressed with him and his group of riders. During the event (and post-party) I had the pleasure of pack riding (and sharing a few cold-ones) with a few of the large VQ contingency and immensely enjoyed their company. During the line-up for the start (6:00 a.m.) I found Drew Wilson and Jason Novak, two friends of mine from Rochester. Drew Wilson distinguished himself at the Royal 162 earlier this spring and has the potential to be a great endurance racer, yet he has of late caught the “roadie-bug” and may be in need of an intensive re-education protocol. The DBD leadership has made no secret of their interest in Novak for he has all the tools to be a “Leader of Men.”

The start was uneventful and it was not long before a large group of perhaps fifty settled in for a good pace line. By mile fifty or so the group had been whittled down to about twenty-five, or may be thirty riders. The descents were the only sketchy part, as we would regularly hit 40 mph and not being use to these kinds of speeds I purposefully allowed myself to always be on the tail-end of the peloton. The dreaded pile up came as the group bottomed out on a long curving slope. One guy misjudged the corner, abruptly and recklessly and foolishly tried to reconfigure his line and essentially flew into a pack of six to eight riders causing a colossal crash. Imagine the crunching sound of hundreds of plastic milk cartons being stamped on by a herd of fat people stampeding to get into a Wal-Mart at Midnight on the day after Thanksgiving. The whole group stopped, as it was obvious that people were hurt. Jason, who is a medical professional and humanitarian of the highest order, stayed with the fallen ones in accordance with the Hippocratic oath. Bravo Novak. The rest of us soldiered on.

The pace (mostly 17 to 19 mph) was fast by my standards (gravel roads, single track, snow, etc.), but the asphalt roads were perfect, zero wind, and with the skinny tires combined with a big pack of riders it was easy to keep up and even take a few pulls at the front. Then suddenly my whole world drastically changed. My front tire went flat! In a nanosecond I was all-alone, off the bike frantically trying to change the tube. I made the change in good time and took off going as hard as I could go hoping that somehow I could catch the group. I figured that we were early into it and that maybe I could catch them especially if they decided as a group to take a few minutes at the next rest stop. Then not more than a couple of miles down the road the front tire when flat again. My heart sank and I knew that I was done in terms of riding with the lead group. This time I thoroughly checked the tire and found a shard of glass. I used my second (and last) spare tube, inflated the tire and was about to take off when Jason came riding by. I jump in with him and he filled me in on the specifics regarding the crash. Together we rode into the rest stop. These were full-service rest areas like no other. They were stocked full with every kind of beverage and foodstuff an endurance biker would ever wish for including ham and cheese sandwiches. I grabbed one and a bunch of gels, a coke, filled my bottles and was just about to take off when I remembered that I was completely out of tubes. I asked the volunteers about any tubes and they quickly ascertained that they had forgot to grab the box of tubes. Instead that assured me that two tubes would be waiting for me at the next checkpoint fifteen miles down the line (and there were indeed two tubes waiting for me when I got there!).

Jason lingered at the stop whilst I took off “like a bat out of hell” as I felt great and still optimistic. I rode hard for nearly fifty-five or sixty miles alone giving it all I had. I would only stop if I were near the end of my water supply; otherwise I was cranking it out. I really did feel good. I remember as I climbed a particularly long and steep hill thinking they my training buddy, Tim Ek was probably doing the same thing over in Afton. As I was descending a long straightway hill I spied a group of five heading up towards me. As they grew near I realized that it was a fragment of the leaders. They had missed a turn, gone several miles in the wrong direction, and were now heading back to regain the route. I, too, had missed the same turn and thankfully (and luckily) seeing them allowed me to only add a few miles to the total mileage. I jumped in with them, but they were too strong for me to hold on for very long and I had to let them go. I do remember asking one of the guyz what his odometer read and he said, “122 Miles,” while mine read 117 miles. Based on my ending total of 192 miles, I figure I went about five miles the wrong way and so they must have gone twice that far in the wrong direction. Yet, I still felt pretty good and I have done enough of these things to know that “things fall apart” and that if a guy can hang in there, good things can present themselves as the drama unfolds.

With about forty miles to go I came upon a rest-stop and was delighted to see not only the five guyz that had passed me earlier but three others as well. They were obviously taking an extended break, so I blew through the stop hoping that maybe I could gap them. Yet it was not long before they caught me and yet I did notice that only three looked unfazed, while the others looked decidedly mortal. I don’t know why, but since I had no way of knowing the truth, I decided that these guyz were the leaders and so my heart soared because my best hope was to make it in the top ten. To date I am still not sure how it all played out in terms of placing. I guess I’d like to see them just come out and either call it a race or call it a ride. I consider myself a bike racer and when I am riding against a bunch of other guyz, I be racing!

In any event, I hooked up with a really nice guy from Wausau that is an eye surgeon by day. We rode well together and it was reassuring to ride with another during the heavy rainfalls that we were getting hammered with from time to time. Near the end, maybe with 25 miles to go I came upon a rest-stop where a volunteered informed me that they were encouraging everyone to quit the race. I was in no mood so I just rode on. I finished it up in a little over 11 hours and I felt really pretty good. At the time of this writing I am not sure as to my finish, but I am confident that I was in the top 15, maybe better? Next year I hope they have it as a full-on race as it could be a classic.

Part 4 of the plan: After enjoying a few free beers and brats with several of the VQ boyz, I jumped in the car and headed north. The radio was filled with captivating topics, including the fundamentalist stations that are always so up lifting. One such station featured an interview with a highly motivated “born again” that was just back from Ghana on a mission to convert all the Africans to his Hell-fire brand of Christianity. It is nice for guyz like that to try and fix all of them folks from Ghana. The BBC was on and it was of great interest to me to hear of the world cricket results and yet try as I might I couldn’t keep my eyes open, so I had to pull over at a rest stop and crash for a couple hours.

Part 5 of the plan: Snuck in at 4:30 a.m. jumped in bed. At 6:17 a.m. Loki welcomed me back to reality. So it goes…

Planning on embarking on a cold weather expedition...Mallory offers sage advice...

2011-08-12T14:07:00.006-05:00

Check out the online news magazine, The Almanzo ( http://www.almanzo.com/ )...Mallory weighs in on how to rectify problems associated with polar exploration. Plus Kershaw interviews an extraordinary woman that won this Spring's Trans-Iowa, and much more....

Few pics from UP Nord...

2011-08-09T08:42:00.002-05:00

We are so lucky to live in Northern, Minnesota. A Man needs to put together a Trans-Iowa like race that starts and ends in Grand Marais or Ely. The gravel up there is amazing, remote, hilly, breath-taking... A 300 mile loop race through beautifully hilly lake country.

I am in the middle of whatz been a great couple weeks of cycling...

2011-08-09T07:03:00.006-05:00

A week ago, I had a blast on my four day sojourn (in search of honor lost) and then on Sunday, I very much enjoyed the Great Hawk MN Series Race (held just 9 minutes from my house @ Lester Park) where I rode me trusty Gunnar. In just a few dayz time I will race the Grand Fondo to be commenced in Dodgville, WI. It is a 300 K road race that boasts 20,000+ ft of climbing!!!

I have already written of the sojourn in search of Honor (elusive honor was not found), so I shall now submit a few words on the recent mtb race held on the trails of Lester-- It is a wonderful venue complete with very fast, tight, and smooth lines through majestic pines. It was great seeing all my old racing buddies. Guyz that I don't see as much now that I have begun to pursue the longer, more obscure events. I now race in the kinds of races that are reserved for the forsaken and outcasts of society... In any event: Thanking COGGS and Ski Hut and all the other volunteers and contributors for a top-notch race experience. Gear wise, I went with what was on my bike (34X19), which turned out to be spot-on. I was able to climb all the hills and still felt like I could "give 'er" on the flats. There was a long down-hill that came at the end of each lap that was inclined to the degree as to cause the gearing to be overwhelmed and so I had to just sit back at let gravity to itz thang, but otherwise I felt like it was a fine set-up for that course. Yet just as I was getting in the groove, figuring out the fastest way around the course, and feeling good--The race was over!...Too short for an old guy that has lost any and all fast-twitch muscles (if I ever had any.)

Distance should not be an excuse at the Grand Fondo (Google: Dairyland Dare).

More to photos to come...

Just in from WikiLeaks

2011-08-05T07:31:00.004-05:00

Just in from WikiLeaks:

An Exclusive Interview with a Mr. Blood Lust, Commander of the Northern Minnesota Special-Operations Deer Fly Task Force, charged with patrolling the northern confines of various and strategically important trails throughout the northern aspect of the Superior National Forest and surrounding areas. Mr. Blood Lust (BL) agreed to meet with the interviewer (in secret) to discuss recent allegations by a Mr. Farrow (CF) that the “deer fly insurgency is out-of-control” and in clear violation of Article 27 of the Fourth Geneva Convention (1949). CF contends that the near constant (and "unprovoked") deer fly attacks upon his personhood during a recent bicycle excursion indeed qualify as “crimes against humanity” and that furthermore the leader (BL) should be tried at the World Court in the Hague. Farrow claims both physical and mental injures have resulted and the only way he can heal is to have justice.

Interviewer: Sir, how do you respond to CF’s allegations that your Special-Ops force acted outside the generally accepted “rules of engagement?”

BL: Give me a break. Are you kidding me! Itz hotter’ hell out, ya can cut the humidity with a knife, we got like 14 dayz left to live and this fat old guy shows up wearing skin type lycra, sitting his big butt on top of a clown bike and starts tearing down our trails in the middle of our brief life span. We are trying to live our lives, procreate, do some dining out, chill with our offspring, basically LIVE and he shows up and disrupts the whole ebb and flow of our life-cycle. We buzz him, giving him a few warnings and he responds by hitting us with DEET. How would you react?

Interviewer: CF claims that you unmercifully and continually attacked his backside and even his naughty bits. That such attacks were ordered by you and that you even participated in these most “inhumane” attacks.

BL: Garbage! We are so sick and tired of always being the bad guyz. The whipping boyz. Your boss hates you, your kid’s a jerk, your wife’s meaner than a junkyard dog- blame the deer flies. The country’s going to hell-blame the deer flies; Leroy can’t get a job- blame the deer flies; the planet’s heatin’up- blame the deer flies; deficit spending is out-of-control- blame the deer flies; little Susie’s a hundred pounds over weight and only wants to play computer games- blame the deer flies!!! Farrow gets his butt kicked on the Taconite Trail…so whatz he do? He blames the….Were sick of it!!!

Interviewer: CF also accuses you and your troops of never going to the front. That you guyz just sat back and let him do all the work. That you all flew in his slipstream the whole trip. How do you respond to that?

BL: Again more lies! He invades our home and now we are the bad guyz. I’m done! No more…but let your readers know that we are done being pushed around.

“Protected persons are entitled, in all circumstances, to respect for their persons, their honour,

their family rights, their religious convictions and practices, and their manners and customs.

They shall, at all times, be humanely treated, and shall be protected, especially against all acts of

violence or threats thereof and against insults and public curiosity. Cyclists shall be especially protected

against any attack on their honour….” Article 27, Fourth Geneva Convention (1949)

Trip Report of recent effort on the Pugsley...

2011-08-02T16:31:00.004-05:00

Across the Northland from West to East

Trip report—

Day 1: From Duluth to Thistledew Lake.

The plan was to leave Wednesday night as soon as my wife got home from a late shift at the hospital. She usually gets home around 11:00 p.m. on such nights, but sick and/or injured people rarely watch the time-clock, so it went long and she did not get home until well after 1:00 a.m. on Thursday. So I opted to sleep in and thus did not leave Duluth until 6:30 a.m. The initial 35 miles or so involved rolling asphalt following basically Hwy 9 to Hwy 7 to Alborn, but the roads leading northwest from Duluth are for the most part scenic and the weather was perfect.

My heart soared as I embarked on a four-day sojourn, to be free and on the road…I hope I never lose that feeling! At Alborn, I was able to access the Alborn to Pengilly State Trail which is an old railroad grade that runs right through a series of rather amazing swamps and bogs that are home to large stands of cedar and tamarack and a plethora of wildlife including large dorky-looking cranes. Indeed, I must say that I was pleasantly surprised at how interesting this 40+-mile trail turned out to be with many and varied sights and sounds including zillions of frogs croaking, birds chirping, and a quadzillion bugs buzzing. There were aspects of the trail that provided fast going on hard packed dirt and yet on other parts the going was tough and slow, as I had to plow through deep unconsolidated gravel. I remember thinking that it would really be hard to ride this trail on a cyclocross set-up. An army of motivated deer flies, in the hundreds, (later it became much much worse) began to harass me nearly as soon as I left the asphalt, but as I could ride at a relatively steady pace of ten to twelve miles-an-hour, they seemed to be content to just fly along in my draft and yell insults at me. Not long after reaching the Meadowlands and continuing onward, two older local fellows passed me up on ATVs. They stopped at a picturesque bridge over looking the St. Louis River and we had a nice conversation. It turned out that they were counting cranes for a group of geeky ornithologists from the University of Minnesota. They would pass me and then I’d catch back up as they often stopped and armed with binoculars they would scan the bogs for the big cranes. Near Pengilly, I caught back up to them and in the course of our conversation they suggested an alternative route that was “better,” “much drier,” with “more ATV traffic,” than the snowmobile spur trail that I had planned to use to access the Taconite Trail (The Taconite Trail is 160 miles long and takes one right into Ely).

Following their suggestion was also good for me as it allowed for a more direct northern route to the Taconite Trail (TT) as well as putting me only five mile out from Nashwauk as opposed to twelve miles from Coleraine. (Originally I had planned to go a more north by northwestern path that would have led me to Coleraine and an access point to the TT). So I followed their advice and the going was good on solid double-track dirt and gravel all the way to Nashwauk. Once in Nashwauk, around 3:00 p.m., I stopped at a grocery store and loaded up on some various forms of sustenance including the tried-and-proven Cherry Pop-Tarts and Nut Goodie products. As I loaded up my mount, several of the locals commented on the size of the tires on the Pugsley, this became a theme. “Those are some big tires!” was the common salutation I received upon engaging the civilian population through out the journey. Leaving town on Hwy 65 (asphalt) in search of an access point to a spur trail to the TT, I spied a group of ruffians smoking cigs outside a motorcycle/ATV repair shop that was well past itz prime. Somewhat lost, taking a chance, I stopped in and asked for advice in terms of accessing the Taconite Trail. To garner acceptance amongst these wary, simple men, I passed myself off as a motorcycle aficionado, who’d been forced to ride a bicycle due to several run-ins with the Law. Feigning a passion for all things Harley Davidson, I even took the time to photograph one of the men’s newly painted “Hog” in an effort at building solidarity. When they inevitably commented on the size of the wheels and tires on the Pugs, I told them that they were motorcycle rims and immediately further increased my status within their cohort. I had won them over! They enthusiastically conveyed the best route to take, with good cheer, and I was off again with a plan in hand.

So from Nashwauk following an ATV trail, I was able to gain the TT proper about eight miles due west. The TT at that point had obviously seen recent ATV traffic and while the going was much rougher than the earlier trails, I was able to average about eight to nine miles an hour. The difficulty was in the ever-increasing numbers of deer flies giving chase and the intensity of their ruthless attacks upon my personhood. I stopped and dowsed myself in DEET, donned a bug net, and cursed them with great feeling all to no avail. It was madding but it did have the effect of forcing me to ride as hard as I could for to slow (or worse, to stop) meant a total over-run by the voracious little beasts. I was up against it and rather frantic, waving my arms around like a lunatic, completely harried, disheveled, ungentlemanly-like. It went on like this until approximately 6:00 p.m. (or an estimated three hours) when I crossed Hwy 65 again and salvation.

I’d like to write that choosing to leave the Taconite Trail was a difficult decision (the stated DBD mission was to forge through to Ely, so to leave the route meant, among my peer-group; “disqualification from the race”, “dishonor”, and even could be considered “traitorous conduct”), but the truth is that I never looked back. I was so desperate to get away from those little nasty hellions that the repercussions of my actions never entered my frenzied mind. So with nary a thought of the abandonment of Honor, I left the TT and took off, riding scared, heading north on Hwy 65. Even on the tar, the deer flies gave chase but it seemed that if a man could maintain twelve miles per hour or better, they at least had difficulty landing and giving their painful bites. I was too agitated to consult the map; I just rode northward in full retreat. By then it was getting well towards dusk and I began to consider stopping to bivy, but I did not want to just pull off on a regular tar road. As luck would have it, I came upon a sign indicating that a MN State-Forest Campground lay four miles down a gravel road. With little hesitation, even though it involved an eight-mile detour as the road headed northwest instead of northeast, I made the left turn and headed down a beautifully forested gravel road. That night I set up my little bug net shelter and rested/slept, bug-free next to Thistledew Lake. The same Thistledew Lake that is home to Thistledew Correctional Camp (where my good friend Guy Evans used to work as a trip coordinator).

Day 2: With respite came reflection and the onset of guilt. I knew that I must once again try the Taconite Trail (TT). Having purchased a detailed comprehensive map of all of the Superior National Forest in Nashwauk, I was able to discern a route that would afford me access to the TT and yet also allow me the option to still complete a northern loop to Ely and then back to Duluth following mostly gravel should the TT continue to be under the control of the deer fly insurgency. Early morn under a beautiful clear-blue sky, I rode tar and gravel roads in a southeastly direction to McCarthy Beach State Park where I again was able to get back on the Taconite Trail. I was not twenty feet into the trail, which was heavily overgrown with grass and showed no evidence of ATV travel, when I came under a vicious attack from my arch rivals, the Deer Flies. As I quickly dismounted and began to lather myself in DEET and fumble for my head-net, I heard their commander call out, “Take no prisoners, give no quarter, to the victor go the spoils!” And then, in an instant, they were on me! Several squads went for my face, as a platoon attacked my lycra-clad buttocks, a full brigade went for my ankles; one group of Special-Ops even bit my naughty-bits. Without orders, without a plan, in total disarray I turned and rode away in full flight. For me, the Taconite Trail clearly belonged to the enemy!

I backtracked nearly all the way back to Hwy 65 and turned northward. From Hwy 65, I turned east onto Cty Rd 22, which is a wonderful gravel road that takes one into remote country that looks to have been farmed many years ago for the landscape is dotted with old broken down barns, farm machinery, and the like. At one point I came upon an abandoned farmhouse that piqued my interest. So I went in and investigated. As I looked around I wondered about the place, the history, the people that lived there. I conjured a vision of a simple, but fruitful life with strong, lean, and tanned men and women and children doing chores by day and listening to the radio at night…there were still books and magazines laying about including an old copy of Little Women by Alcott and stacks of old 1930s and 40s National Geographic. The human condition…such an absurdity, but undeniably captivating!

The psyche of a cyclist on the move is easily mended and it was not long until the Deer Flies and the Taconite Trail were just fleeting memories. “Let them have the Trail for the time being”, I reasoned, taking solace in having read that the Deer Fly is lucky to live but four to five weeks and they are already at least three weeks into it! I relished in the thought of them dying en masse in a week’s time. Sitting on the steps of the old house, I pulled out the map and put together a new route. A route that would take me to Cook, then Buyck, and then across to Ely via Cty Rd 24 and the Echo Trail (Cty Rd 116). From Ely, I would check out the Tomahawk Trail.

I made good time as I was riding solid gravel and benefiting from a consistent tail wind. In Cook, I stopped for a solid portion of corn-beef hash, eggs, and life-giving coffee. In Buyck, I stopped at a quaint little bar and ordered a Grainbelt Premium beer from a well wore barkeep, then another one, and felt like the Lord of all My Dominion. A few miles up from Buyck (like in BIKE), I took a right onto the Echo Trail and was immediately impressed by the hills, the lakes, and depressed by the re-emergence of the deer flies. But, as stated earlier, if one can maintain a speed above about ten miles an hour, they don’t seemed to be able to physically attack. On a positive note, their constant efforts at biting acted as a catalyst for me to keep up a steady pace of about ten miles an hour. It became a kind of game as I’d attempt to drop them on the descents and then they would yoyo back up and catch up to me on the climbs. The little devils would actually fly in my slipstream, so I’d purposefully try to zigzag on the descents in an effort to throw them into the wind and force them off my draft.

Getting good water was not a problem on the Echo Trail as there were many campgrounds along the way, which were equipped with running water. I felt good and rode for a total of twelve hours that day, bivying about a half-mile off the road up on the Bass Lake Hiking Trail near Ely.

Day 3: The sun broke early as I dressed hurriedly for the deer flies had been replaced with a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. I was back on the rode riding for Ely by 7:00 a.m. but then only a few miles out from town, I got my sole flat tire. Luckily the gravel had changed over to asphalt and the bugs were gone. Also the flat was on the front, so changing the tube was not a problem, but it still took me some time. It was the Blueberry Festival in Ely and the place was packed with weighty and/or unwieldy tourons, the majority of whom were either talking on their phones or constantly checking their phones as they stumbled awkwardly along. I stopped, joined the throng, and walked the Pugs through the park with all the tent exhibits and took in the surreal ambiance. Middle-aged peddlers dressed awkwardly as French voyagers trying to sell the tourists everything from cheesy wildlife art scenes, extravagantly carved walking sticks, animal skin hats of the like seen in old Disney movies (think Grizzle Adams), and cheap jewelry purportedly made from genuine Lake Superior agate. Quickly bored, I went in search of a good breakfast. As I passed through the main section of Ely, I heard my name being shouted out, turned, and saw my old friend from high school and college (and longtime Ely resident) Bo Deremee. I was thrilled to see him and we enjoyed a delightful breakfast together in a café next to a popular gear store (the name escapes me). He looked great and he was fired up for the next day when his family was to embark on a long canoe trip starting way up North in Canada.

Prior to entering downtown Ely, I had stopped at a new fancy DNR-type headquarter and spoken with a knowledgeable guy about the Tomahawk Trail (the snowmobile trail that connects Ely with the Northshore Trail). He then generously called a friend that is charged with mowing the trail and the news was not good. Accordingly, the trail segment immediately south of Ely involved several miles of deep bog and would be near impossible to even hike through. He conveyed that when mowing they had to wait until mid-December and freeze up to prepare that section of trail. Although he did add that the trail became much better south of the little town of Isabella and that I’d be able to ride that section to points near Finland. Given that my route (heading south) passed right next to the access point of the Tomahawk trail, I did make the effort to check it out for myself and it was indeed basically indiscernible from the immense bogs that surrounds the south side of Ely on the east side of Hwy 1. My heart sank for I knew that I was defeated. Kershaw was right, I was wrong! The DBD membership would all have a good laugh at my expense.

As I left Ely on the rolling asphalt of Hwy 1, it was obvious that a big thunderstorm was brewing. Not far from the Kawishiwi River (spelling?) it started to rain hard and the wind picked up. Finally the intensity was such that I had to find shelter for the rain was so heavy that I was near blinded from the spray. Salvation came in a most extraordinary way. Once again running away from forces of which I had no control I took a hard left off of Hwy 1 onto a gravel road hoping against hope that Lady Luck would shine on me. Surprisingly, I came upon a picnic area complete with a majestic CCC-era log pavilion. I made for it and to my great satisfaction it was populated by a crew of older Duluthian ladies that were there in the vicinity for a picnic and had taken shelter in the old log building to wait out the storm. They had delicious chocolate chip cookies and heavily calorie-laden bars, which they generously shared with me whilst I regaled them with tales of great feats of DBD exploits from yesteryears when I was a MAN to be reckoned with. The time passed quickly amongst these kindly folk and before I knew it the sun shined through, and I was back on the road again.

To be honest I had begun to grow fatigued and the miles began to wear me down. My Manhood-area had become extremely raw and chapped, as I had foolishly elected to save the weight and carry but one pair of cycling shorts. Even the magical elixir, Brave Soldier Chamois Cream, had begun to lose itz rejuvenating effect. Especially now that I was drenched through and through the discomfort gave way to a mild degree of suffering, but such is the life of the long distance cyclist! At least the Deer Flies had moved on…or at least that was how I placated myself as my nether region became engulfed in flames. Finally I reached Isabella and left the asphalt for the beauty and intimacy of gravel, but not before I took an extended break at a small saloon where I enjoyed a pair of ice-cold Leinenkugels’ drafts and all was once again right with the world! The gravel road led me to the Tomahawk Trail and it was indeed in a lot better condition than up in Ely. I jumped on it and rode hard for a good ninety minutes before I crossed another gravel road. But alas the Deer Flies were back and I had no stomach for fighting the good fight, so I bailed and took refuge on the gravel where I could at least stay a little bit out front of their venomous bites. I had planned on camping at Nine-mile Lake, but I got there at 7:00 p.m., the weather was fine, I was out of food, and so I figured I’d might as well push for Finland, where the camp host (@ Nine-mile) assured me there would be camp sites available because of the fact that the bridge was out on the main thoroughfare. He also assured me that I’d be able to cross the river on an ATV/Snomo trail that was just a few hundred yards down from the main bridge. His advice turned out to be spot on, which unfortunately is rather a rare occurrence. I am always amazed at how little the majority of locals really know about where they have lived their entire lives! Of course, being a “camp-host” he probably was not a local.

In any event I arrived in Finland just at dusk. I was starving, but I made for the campground initially to ascertain if there were any sites available, and found that the place was empty except for a raging party of about twenty local losers that were already so drunk that many could hardly walk. “Hey come over here and let me ride that bike!” snarled one particularly obnoxious old drunk in farmer’s overalls that looked like the grandfather from the Walton’s. Another old fool screamed, “You must be from Canada!” which had the strange effect of causing all of them to break out in a cacophony of hooting, shrill laughter. Disconcerted, I made haste to the other side of the campground and found a discrete site, fairly hopeful to not be discovered. I quickly set up my modest little bug shelter, put on my pair of long pants and made for the bar via the other end of the tiny town.

Did I mention that I was starving, had no food left, and so had to go to the only bar that looked to be open. I was thinking that there was a gas station and even a general store in Finland and there are, but both were closed. Just a few (maybe four at the most), stoic and feeble old townies were ponied-up to the bar, otherwise the place was empty. So I sat at the end of the bar, like a gun-slinger would do. I ordered up a Budweiser (in an effort to fit in) and inquired as to a menu. The homely, albeit buxomed barkeep, a washed out blonde with a big hairy mole on her neck and her best years well behind her replied, “We stopped serving at 9:00…and itz past 9:00.” Forgetting my manners I beseeched her, “Surely there must be something? I am so hungry” In obvious disdain, she disappeared through a swinging door only to return moments later with the following deal, “There’s an extra large ‘hot and spicy” pizza in there that got ordered but nobody picked it up…you can have that if ya want it, but itz uncooked.” I patiently explained that I had no way to cook it and thus could they be so kind as to cook it for me. All the while the old men silently, expressionlessly, looked on. Again she disappeared through the swinging door and then reappeared within a millisecond. “Yeah, we can cook it but it’ll be awhile.” So I sat there alone for what seemed like an hour. The townies never looked up from their drinks, never spoke. Looking around I noticed that there was no TV, not even a radio or jukebox, and yet found that lack of amenity to be rather pleasant. But soon I noticed, even became obsessed with the fact that the room was so quiet, so quiet that it felt weird. The men sat statue-like and the woman, behind the bar, stared into nothingness. The only movement was her right forearm moving cig back and forth between lip and ashtray. By the time the pizza arrived I have downed four Buds and was ready to gorge myself, but to my dismay the pizza was nearly raw. The crust was obviously under cooked, even runny, like eating Elmer’s Glue and the ingredients were cold. But at that point I just went with it and ate it. I ate it in silence as the townies looked on it silence and the woman stared into nothingness. It was so strange, now it seems funny, but then it was so so strange. It was a big pizza, one of the biggest I have ever seen, so I decided to ask for a box along with the bill. I don’t know why I asked for the box, but it seemed like the right thing to do. The bill came and I nearly fell on the floor. They wanted $37.00 for four watery rice-brewed Budweisers and a barely warm pizza. I said nothing, remained silent, silently paid the bill, and limped out of the bar. I was a broken man devoid of any semblance of Honor. The men watched me as I walked out into the twilight. As I crossed the river via the ATV bridge, I opened up the Styrofoam box and threw the remaining pizza into the abyss below. I barely slept that night for I knew that I was not a man, not even close. The party raged late into the night, complete with fireworks, and instead of going over there and shutting it down, like a real man would have, I cowed in my little bivy all the while suffering from heart-burn, hiccups, and the like and wishing that I was home in my comforty bed with my blankey.

Day 4: I awoke with significant cotton-mouth, a messed up tummy, and a bruised ego. Luckily, I had Tums on board and it was not long before I had Finland in my rear-view mirror and I had that Pugsley chugging towards old Duluth. Homeward bound. The rest of the route was straightforward and uneventful. Just seventy miles of asphalt back to Duluth. I did stop for a good coffee at the Mocha Moose, which was nice. So it goes…my odometer read 398 miles. That Great Divide Race is gonna be a tough one…but every time I’m out in it, I make mistakes, but I also learn some things, I get a little bit better prepared….

Note: Look for pictures from this effort in a few dayz time, once I figure out how to load them on the computer.

Farrow disqualified for leaving route in first annual Sir Mallory Race! DBD promises an immediate and thorough investigation. Oh the Shame!!!

2011-08-01T12:18:00.003-05:00

“I rode nearly 400 miles in three and one-half dayz on a 60 lb. loaded Pugsley.... On terrain rarely seen by civilized gentlemen-cyclists… The Deer Flies drank the DEET mockingly as they attacked my MAN-bits with a blood-lust and fanaticism reminiscent of the Visigoth’s sacking of ancient Rome...” excerpt from the Trip Report
Dear Readership:

I know that there will be calls for my head. It is true that not unlike Shackleton, I was unable to complete the planned mission.... Unlike Shackleton, it was not the ice pack, nor was it the swampy trail conditions that ultimately defeated me, but the voracious deer flies that showed me no mercy, driving me nearly insane with constant harassment! I was able to ride the prescribed route for over 100 miles on the first day out. But after a brief, albeit reluctant and less-than-inspired effort on Day 2 (with the same pack of hardy “Hun-like” deer flies reinforced with thousands of fresh and equally blood-thirsty recruits attacking me from all fronts)...In shame (note: me “trusty” revolver misfired as I prepared to do my duty amid the raging, relentless Deer Fly attack), I opted to ride a series of gravel (and some asphalt) roads that took me across the scenic and remote Northland. Riding north from Nashwauk, then Cook, then essentially from Buyck to Ely following the amazing County Road #116 gravel road. From Ely, I partly rode down HWY 1 to the Tomahawk Road (not trail) and took a left which allowed for another 80+ miles of amazing remote gravel. Somehow I ended up in the tiny hamlet of Isabella...Eventually I arrived back at Finland after riding through some beautiful country via gravel roads. From Finland, I rode the 70 miles home via asphalt gaining Highway 61 just north of Silver Bay. The whole route was ~389 miles (according to my odometer which was hastily remounted on the Pugs on the Wednesday afternoon...but I am sure that I got at least 380 miles in and maybe even as many as 400 miles...It was tough riding the Pugs for that distance. Many cool encounters with interesting folk and funny ones as well. A full report to follow. In honesty, Kershaw was correct about leaving the Tomahawk from Ely...I even spoke with one of the DNR guyz that mows it. "We have to wait every year until late December and freeze up to mow that segment because of the bogs." However it did provide some good conditions for riding farther down the line and I did ride it for about two hours farther south as a connector between two gravel roads near Isabella....

Humbly,

Four tough dayz really wiped me out...makes me really appreciate how those guyz can go day after day on the Great Divide Tour.

Sir George Mallory advises a promising upstart on what it takes to win the TOUR...See the current new online ALMANZO News Magazine

2011-07-25T17:52:00.002-05:00

http://www.almanzo.com/2011/07/more-from-mallory.html

Sir Mallory weighs in on Chippy's future chances in terms of getting kisses from the beautiful podium girls @ the Tour...read the whole exchange on Skogen's Almanzo Online News Magazine!

The Sir Mallory Memorial Race for Honor & Discovery could attract huge field of talented riders, according to Velo-News

2011-07-20T11:41:00.011-05:00

The DBD proudly announces the first annual Sir George Mallory Race for Honor & Discovery.

Dear Readers:

In recognition of Mallory's contributions of late to the Club, we thought it a good idea to offer up a race in his honor. The following is an explanation.

This fully self-supported event shall commence from the DBD’s summer clubhouse, located on the spacious west-wing of the historic Kitchi Gammi Club, in Old Duluth, at the strike of midnight on Thursday, July 28^th and finish sometime before 6:00 a.m. on Monday, August 1^st [Note: once the clock strikes midnight— no assistance from one’s Man-servant(s) will be tolerated!]

~88% of the proposed ~380 to 400 mile route consists of rugged MN-DNR multi-use trails including most of the 160+ mile Taconite Trail, all of the Yukon Trail, all of the Tomahawk Trail, and about a forty mile span of the Northshore Trail.

The first segment of the racecourse involves riding the only asphalt on the route (~45 miles) to access the ALBORN-PENGILLY TRAIL. This ATV trail, is 42 miles long and follows an abandoned railroad grade through beautiful scenery from Alborn to Pengilly.

From Pengilly (near to Grand Rapids), one will access the Taconite Trail by way of a short snowmobile spur trail known as the Lawron Trail. The Taconite Trail takes one all the way to Ely, some 155 miles up the trail. It looks to be a reasonable stretch and promises to be most picturesque as well, if you are into that sort of thing. [Note: There appears to be intermittent shelters along the way, not unlike those found on the Arrowhead and Northshore trails.]

Once in Ely, the intrepid racer will access the mysterious Tomahawk Trail. This 86-mile segment looks to be the most remote and potentially most sporting of the course. To our knowledge, no civilized man has yet succeeded in forging through this segment of swamps and bogs in summer. Kershaw recently made an infamous attempt, but was quickly turned back in dishonor. He shall have to live with that shameful decision for the rest of his life! But I digress…

Finally after completing the Tomahawk, a whole man shall be treated to a 30+ mile passage upon the enigmatic Yukon Trail and then finally an ~ 40 mile segment of the Northshore Trail, which is doable but requires a stalwart steadfastness that is somewhat lacking in many of today’s modern men.

Equipment needs are up to you and your Man-servant(s) to contemplate. My man, Farrow, will be mounted upon his trusty Pugsley.

In sum: One should expect a fairly eventful multi-day challenge.

More specifics to be forthcoming in the near future including a listing of the participants.

Best regards,

Ernest Shackleton (DBD Member since 1908)

Addendum 7/21/2011: Note the addition of the Yukon Trail (which adds 40 miles to the effort); which is needed as it acts as a connecting spur betwixt the Tomahawk and the Northshore. By the way to my knowledge no one has ever done this whole thing before in summer in any form or mode of transport. Of course, a more impressive ride from an adventurous cyclist's perspective would involve tackling it in mid-Winter, but even in Summer one should find plenty to think about. Also of Note: The Northshore Trail has been ridden in the winter (with some outside support) by the Brothers John and Matt Evingson along with Pierre Ostor some five years past; whilst Farrow rode the Northshore route to Grand Marais in the summer of 2009.

Why these men belong in the DBD Adventure Society

2011-07-18T13:16:00.008-05:00

Some of you no doubt are aware of the obscure, yet compelling Trans-Wisconsin Race. Kershaw and I partook last season and did the 600+ miles in 88 hours. The effort greatly aged my colon plus lead me to contemplate taking up smoking hashish and even to vote for the Tea-Party favorite, Ms. Bachman. In any event this year's version was a bit different in both scope and direction and even more obscure. Thus, as best as I can figure it, only two stalwart brave fellows showed up at the commencement. Namely Jim Reed (of Duluth) and Lindsay Gauld (of Winnipeg); two courageous, yet amicable souls that I am lucky to call friends. I have spoken with Reed on his T.W. exploit and he assured me that a great insight into the nature of one's self was gained and that he too now oddly felt a pang deep within his innards, perhaps the colon? And that he now often thinks of smoking opium in the same manner as Sir Cannon-Doyle did. Also of interest is the ironically strange sense of rage he now feels for any kind of collective labor negotiations (he is a fire-fighter)...But I had not heard from Lindsay so I wrote his faithful Man-servant, the noted nautical archaeologist and all around good-guy, Dr. Andy Lockery, to ascertain the fate of old Lindsay. Below is the full correspondence. I hope you find it as delightfully entertaining as I did and furthermore it is my hope to continue to make the case for both Andy and Lindsay for induction into the DBD:

Hi Charlie,

Great to hear from you. !

The Trans -Wisconsin was interesting in that only Lindsay, and a photographer from Milwaukee showed up . Lindsay raced on his own and did very well . He was averaging about 2 kms an hour faster than last years much longer event, but hit a snag at the northern most point of the race. We think that Joe (the race director) must have used an out of date map to select the route as the trail just disappeared into a bog and despite searching for a way to continue for about an hour and a half the bush was so dense that there was no choice but to take the same trail as he had travelled north on. Lindsay's plan was to retrace his steps south until he crossed an east west trail and then see if he could refind the trail that Joe wanted to use in the race. That didn't happen as Lindsay crashed and the front tire came off the rim . Since it was a "Stans" tire there wasn't enough air in a hand pump to reseat the tire , Lindsay had to put a tube in the tire. This seemed like a good solution, apart from his new, award winning, Lezyne pump eating the core out of his Stans valve. he had other tubes but without a functioning pump he was out of luck. By this time he had wasted about 4 hours , it was the middle of the night , it had been pissing down for six hours with severe thunder and lightning, so he decided to walk about 10 miles to Ashland where he phoned his faithful manservant , who crawled out of bed and drove from Cable to Ashland , picked up a small soggy wizened Hobbit and drove him back to Cable where he arrived at about 3am.

He rode about 500kms and was about 150km from the finish when he quit. It was a good experience as it resulted in some revisions to his pump and also gave him a good feeling about his ability to ride long distances without sleep. Hopefully it will benefit his Iditabike effort next February.

He also had an interesting experience during the first night on the trail. He was planning to catch 2 hours sleep at 2 am but it was raining cats and dogs . He rode on to a place where the trail crossed a gravel road and he could see the reflection of a light about 2 or 3 kms down this road. It turned out to be a Biker bar, [ Harley type of bike] Any way, these large hairy gentlemen were captivated by this hobbit sized, lycra clad, wizened old character , who had been riding his bicycle in the bush , totally on his own, for 18 hours and was still quite chirpy !. They were keen to adopt him as a mascot and plied him with alcohol and Pizza. At one point a Harley drove right into the bar and proceeded to make crop circles on the floor of the bar to the delight of all the occupants including the owner, who advised Lindsay that this was nothing out of the ordinary.

Glad you enjoyed the puns !

Cheers

Andy

A New Exciting Online Cycling Publication

2011-07-14T11:31:00.002-05:00

http://www.almanzo-magazine.blogspot.com

Check out the new Almanzo Online Magazine (see link above). I am personally enthralled with the "Ask Mallory" feature...but there are sections for the whole family...

Well Done is in order....with reservations

2011-06-24T06:29:00.003-05:00

Coming from the Manliest of the pure sports of cycling and alpinism; I have never backed away from expressing my belief that the whole paying some old skinny guy to do some kind of running thing is an odious affair. While it maybe acceptable to run from the authorities from time-to-time (or the like); to involve oneself in a running contest against a bunch of malnourished guyz simply to get from Point A to Point B is ludicrous. Of course running a marathon is certainly not as loathsome as partaking in a triathalon or a duathalon or a gigathon or whatever the new contrivance maybe. Yet, a local restaurateur does offer an annual and rather nice, "safe" venue from which these often ridiculed and marginalized peoples can meet en masse and do their running against one another... allowing for these skinny, shy, sensitive people to engage in time comparisons, footwear discussions, nipple cream dissertations, and the like in a sealed off area, safe from roguish thugs, cyclists, Republicans, and the like.

In any event, I do want to publicly express my congratulations to Brent Smith on a job well done in last weekend's Grandma's Marathon in which he won, impressively, his age group in a time of something like 2 hours and 45 minutes. (also finishing very high overall). While a weighty amateur on a basic bicycle could complete such a course in ninety minutes or less (a professional could do the course in fifty minutes or less), still it was a fine effort for a runner! Bravo Brave Brent Smith, Bravo Old Man!!

No chance when conditions are "perfect." Perfect conditions means that the fastest guyz win!!! Whatz with that??? Thatz Not Fair!!!

2011-06-16T14:02:00.017-05:00

Paradoxically, “perfect conditions” spells trouble for me. For an aging, unwieldy man that relies upon Bell’s Kalamazoo Stout for the majority of his daily sustenance and convoluted walks with his Man-dog, Loki, for exercise; a perfect day out for a bicycle race means that external factors are all but eliminated and therefore I have no chance for a top 5 finish.

On a brutally cold day, the ones with nary an extra ounce of body fat suffer badly, ride below their abilities, and many even quit. In contrast, fat men with alcohol in their veins thrive in cold weather...On dayz with tempest winds, there is safety in numbers and thus no one (even the clear favorite) dares to attempt a break-way... On courses with long climbs and corresponding long scary descents, the heavier weaker ones, (if they can just hold on going up) can fly going down as their weight allows them to catch back up with the featherweights... On courses with sketchy terrain, rock-gremlins jump up and rip derailleurs off of fast guyz, fast guyz get flats when they hit boulders on wet clay, and fast guyz on fast carbon frames think twice before that tear down into a soaked culvert covered in long grass and the like. In bad conditions, people work together, both the weak and the able seek to help each other in mutually beneficial ways. There develops a sense of teamwork and even stewardship, a sense of commonality. But on a race day with perfect conditions there is nothing but talent on display. On a perfect day for racing the guyz that are suppose to win, well…they win!

Such were the circumstances surrounding the West Dirty Benjamin 100 mile Gravel Road Race. It was a perfect day for racing…and while I knew going into it such fine conditions would mean trouble for me, I still had a great time…

The pace started off pretty fast for a 100 mile gravel race, but the temperature was perfect, the wind was not a problem, and so the guyz pushing the pace seemed to know that it was the kind of day to not hold back. In an attempt to minimize my chances of getting caught up in some kind of frenzied crash right out of the blocks, as usual, I made a concerted effort to stay up front. My favorite position of late has been to try and hug big Jason Buffington wheel and thus this effort was no different. We flew along at a high pace and immediately I started to worry that I was not long for this world. Several guyz, including amicable co-owner Ben Doom and veteran fast guy and all around gentleman Jim Bell, were wearing the stylish and yet unpretentious Revolution Cycle & Ski kit (http://revolutioncycleandski.com/ if in Saint Cloud stop by and visit, tell'em Charlie sent ya!), so I knew that these guyz were not just pretending, but seriously contending. Although the pace was fast, at least in my world, the group was very friendly and seemed to accept me, and all my shortcomings, without judgment or ridicule. But I also knew that on a perfect day, men have no reason to be compassionate or empathetic towards fellow men.

So a kind of rhythm developed whereby the top 10 or so guyz would take a pull, then drop back, and then rotate through again. As implied above the pace was hard for me to hold and my pulls were quick and far from inspired, but I attempted to console myself with the thought that once the pack began to shrink a bit the pace would ease and I would then be able to contribute to the overall effort. Instead at about the forty mile mark, the pace increased to the point that many simply and truly could not keep up. There was no planned attack, no aggression, no concerted efforts by roadie-conspirators to leave the rest of us behind…but there was also no mercy...such are the rules on a perfect day!

Simply and coldly, but without malice or ill-will, the guy leading the group increased his pace just a little, tiny bit, then the next guy did the same thing, pushed it just a little bit harder, then the next guy did the same, until when it came time for Buff and then me to lead out and take our positions at the front, we could not stay up, we could barely hold the cadence, and so we were quickly passed over by the stronger ones. I felt like I was going to have a heart-attack, so I abruptly fell back and then desperately tried to hold on to the last guy, which was Buffington (who was also in a world of hurt). On a perfect race day, a man trying to hold on to the tail of a fast moving pack is a man without honor or courage, he is a reduced, forlorn man that knows for sure that his time is up in the very near future…unless…unless a miracle occurs and the pack inexplicably, mercifully slows.

On this day, a perfect day, the pack did not slow! Buff fell off into The Abyss of Lonely Nothingness, I saw him go, my dear friend, and yet I felt nothing—for a man about to be dropped by the pack, in such conditions, is incapable of feelings. I followed shortly behind him, cast away as if “dust in the wind.” The nine leaders never even said, “Good Bye, Friend” or “You’ll Be Missed!” or “Good luck Old Man!” such is the stoic game of cycling when the conditions are sublime!

Yet, all was not lost as there had developed a fairly motivated chase group that acceptingly enveloped both the Great Buff and I as we fell off, giving us renewed hope for transcendence and rejuvenation. Heading up this group was the always charismatic Hollywood Henderson (of Hollywood Cycles, located in Burnsville), the pioneer cyclist and CRC adherent Hurl von Evertone, and the highly motivated and talented single-speeder, Jeff Greenwood. My spirits soared, for perhaps there remained a chance? Once Brave Buffington regained his composure, his fight would return with vigor, his will would come to the fore, his never, ever say “die” would return and conquer, and then he would champion our return and lead us back to the front, in even these most perfect of conditions! We settled in to our new “digs” and took turns at the front, putting together a concerted chase effort. Then suddenly I heard that all too common, albeit disconcerting sound of the unnatural, violent, and dramatic intermingling of muscle, sinew, bone, metal, rubber, and gravel.

A four car pile up on gravel at good speed is never a happy outcome. Buffington took the worst of it. Broken spokes in both wheels, wheels thus way out of true, bent brakes, handlebar bent, seatpost out of whack, bruised knees and elbows, plus a host of other physical and mechanical maladies meant that Buffington, the Brave Buffington, the run away winner of both Tuscobia 150 and Royal 162, was now in it to simply finish and nothing more. Most would have quit, but that concept is foreign to this MAN! His body broken, his bike in disrepair, but not is DBD spirit! Again when I heard the rumors of his premature demise I felt only narcissistic sadness and self-pity for me for I now knew that our plan to bolt through the check point whilst the others reloaded was not going to happen. I knew that my dream of drafting him back up to the lead group was a lost cause. Such is the self-absorbed nature of cycling. A friend is important only to the extent to which he can help when conditions are perfect. Once he is no longer able to contribute he is forgotten, such is the Darwinian rule of cycling! Oh the shame of it all.

With Buffington out, “I” knew that I must rely on the others. The plan to “try something” solo at the 60 mile checkpoint was folly for a man of my abilities. Yet, I did try to get away with the hope that I may be able catch up to what I figured would have to be two or three guyz that would inevitably get dropped by Bell, Krumrich, Rients, and Koeneman, all of whom I knew were very very capable of riding the course in under six hours. I was thinking that a single speeder was up front (I was wrong) and I was also thinking that Ben Doom, Dan Glisczinski, Doug Nixon, and maybe one other might be up front and yet in between me and the four really fast guyz mentioned above. The thought was that if five guyz are up there spread out, maybe one or two might be going slow enough for me to catch them. So I pushed it hard as I headed out of the checkpoint/resupply area. I did not have to stop as I had brought enough fluids, etc. from the get-go. So whilst the others dismounted and made for their cached bottles and the like, I hastened my pace as I rode through some thrilling single-track. Upon re-entering a road, I spied a leader working on his bike. I smiled at his bad luck....for there is no honor, no integrity in this velo-game on such a day as this!!! Oh the shame of it all!!!!

I was cruising along pretty well on an old railroad grade when suddenly a rogue bee or a malcontented hornet somehow got into the front part of my helmet and, with malice, stung me right between the eyes! The effect was immediate and it momentarily hurt me to my core and I took it extremely personal, as a personal affront on my character, but the effect was not long lasting and the big red welt made for a funny story at the post-race party.

I was able to stay away from the Hollywood/Greenwood/Hurl chase group for perhaps ten miles, but they finally reeled me in and I was glad to be back with the group. At around Mile 85, I remember conveying my surprise to Hurl that we had not been able to catch up any stragglers off the lead group. He said, “itz still early.” Then just as he said that, we came around a corner and spied Dan Glisczinski, and Doug Nixon, both with ties to Duluth. It was a fine addition to the group as both of these guyz were still strong, able, and took many pulls at the front.

Well as it came to pass, we would not come close to the four leaders (Bell won in a three way sprint), yet we all, in the chase group, instinctually picked up the pace with about 5 miles out; Dan Glisczinski, Doug Nixon, Hurl, and I were able to establish about a minute on Hollywood and his very talented wife going into the final stretch. There was some maneuvering among the four of us, but all was civil, fun, exciting, and it was Doug Nixon that beat the rest of us to the finish line in a powerful sprint to the line. I had a blast…even though the conditions were TOO PERFECT for me...

West Dirty Benjamin 100 does NOT disappoint :)

2011-06-14T07:05:00.002-05:00

http://dirtybenjamin.blogspot.com/

For a comprehensive account of a most excellent racing opportunity go to the above link...The author shall submit a fully embellished personal account in a day or two....For now: THANKING YOU MARTIN & JASON and all the other volunteers...It was a blast.....

Charlie Chapin was much more than just a comedic genius...

2011-06-07T14:02:00.006-05:00

Check out this amazing speech given by Charlie Chapin at the conclusion of the classic comedy 1940 film, The Great Dictator (Note that his words still sadly seem so relevant, so poignant in today’s uncertain world, especially in North Africa and the Middle East):

"... I'm sorry but I don't want to be an Emperor - that's not my business - I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone if possible, Jew, gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another, human beings are like that.

We all want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery. We don't want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone and the earth is rich and can provide for everyone.

The way of life can be free and beautiful.
But we have lost the way.

Greed has poisoned men's souls - has barricaded the world with hate; has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed.

We have developed speed but we have shut ourselves in: machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little: More than machinery we need humanity; More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.
The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men, cries out for universal brotherhood for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people. To those who can hear me I say "Do not despair".

The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress: the hate of men will pass and dictators die and the power they took from the people, will return to the people and so long as men die, liberty will never perish...

Soldiers - don't give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you and enslave you - who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel, who drill you, diet you, treat you as cattle, as cannon fodder.

Don't give yourselves to these unnatural men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts. You are not machines. You are not cattle. You are men. You have the love of humanity in your hearts. You don't hate - only the unloved hate. Only the unloved and the unnatural.

Soldiers - don't fight for slavery, fight for liberty.

In the seventeenth chapter of Saint Luke it is written "the kingdom of God is within man" - not one man, nor a group of men - but in all men - in you, the people.

You the people have the power, the power to create machines, the power to create happiness. You the people have the power to make life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure. Then in the name of democracy let's use that power - let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give you the future and old age and security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power, but they lie. They do not fulfill their promise, they never will. Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people. Now let us fight to fulfill that promise. Let us fight to free the world, to do away with national barriers, do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men's happiness.

Soldiers - in the name of democracy, let us all unite!

Look up! Look up! The clouds are lifting - the sun is breaking through. We are coming out of the darkness into the light. We are coming into a new world. A kind new world where men will rise above their hate and brutality.

The soul of man has been given wings - and at last he is beginning to fly. He is flying into the rainbow - into the light of hope - into the future, that glorious future that belongs to you, to me and to all of us. Look up. Look up."

2011-06-06T11:35:00.003-05:00

http://vimeo.com/24628823

CHECK IT OUT...WATCH TIM EK BITE IT @ THE FINISH LINE AFTER NEARLY 29 HOURS ON THE COURSE, WATCH THE OLD MAN PASS OUT :)...tHE tRANS-iOWA IS SUCH AN awesome EVENT...bLOWS ME AWAY, EVEN NOW...

Think about being a Teacher....

2011-06-06T10:49:00.004-05:00

Youth is happy because it has the ability to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.
Franz Kafka

One way to stay youthful is to be a teacher. I may complain some about my job, but in reality I love being a high school teacher. Probably the main reason is that I find high school juniors and seniors to be so incredibly funny. Also the vast majority are still at that age where to them anything and everything is possible…that is the real alluring value of youth.

Being immersed in a social atmosphere based on infinite possibilities is amazingly uplifting and even contagious….thatz why I love being a teacher--it makes me feel "young."…And thatz also why I am so sad that this is my last week with my students. Also the long summer break kinda helps me get over missing my students... :)

Esko Grads, the Dirty Kanza, and in life...In all cases: "When in doubt; take a nap."

2011-06-03T09:27:00.004-05:00

Itz suppose to 95 degrees in Emporia Kansas for the Dirty Kanza 200…..Good luck to DBD’s Tim Ek and the rest of the boyz from Minnesota. Eki has not been in 95 degree temperatures since last year’s DK200. In fact we had frost warnings in Duluth last night! We have not biked in shorts yet this spring and Eki's gonna have to ride in those kinds of temps... In any event, good luck to all the racers and KUDOS to Jim Cummings and the rest of the volunteers. I’d love to have a go at it, but it always falls on the same weekend as Esko’s graduation. By the way—Good Luck to all the Esko Grads. My message to the Grads: “When in doubt; take a nap.”

I'm done defending Lance, the judicial system, etc. I am now going to throw all my energy into getting Mrs. Palin as the GOP's answer to Obama.

2011-05-30T14:37:00.004-05:00

http://digitalcommons.butler.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1001&context=librarian_papers&sei-redir=1#search="
Above is the link to a top notch paper written by two really smart guyz at Butler University. If ya get a chance check it out...based on the acronym CRITIC...
Whatz the Claim;
Whatz the Role of the Claimant;
Whatz the Information backing up the Claim;
Is the Claim able to be Tested;
Is there Independent testing available?
Whatz your Conclusion as to the Claim?

Apply and/or compare via Hamilton's Claim versus that of Lance's Claim; if ya wanna...Or Trump's versus Obama's...Or Socrates versus the State...Or Surgeon General v. Phillip Morris...or...

In this Country you have an inalienable right to a Trial By the Media...

2011-05-27T13:20:00.010-05:00

The New “abridged version” of the Sixth Amendment to the US Constitution: In all criminal prosecutions involving Tour winners, the accused shall enjoy the right to a long long long drawn out pre-trial circus that may last for years, may not even result in a trial, and will be paid for by taxpayers monies, ...by a partial jury consisting of the Media and convicted dopers accompanied by public relations attorneys, ghost writers, and talk show hosts, ...and to be not be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation...etc...

I know that I shouldn’t be, I should be use to it by now...but once again I am both dismayed and distressed at how easily the simple masses can be manipulated by the mainstream media. The notion that a convicted full-on "tattle-tail" doper with well-documented psychological and substance abuse issues can go onto 60 Minutes, shed a tear or two and subsequently turn public opinion against an iconic cycling champion that has never been charged with any wrong doing during his long cycling career, speaks well to the ever increasing fragile nature of this democratic republic. I hope that I don’t have to point out to you that at this point in the matter, it is irrelevant if Lance did or did not use drugs to win all those Tours of France. For the record I have NOT seen Lance do drugs...

“Four legs good, two legs bhaddddd.”
“Tyler good, Lance bhaddd.”

The presumption of innocence, sometimes referred by the Latin Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat (the principle that one is considered innocent until proven guilty) is a FUNDAMENTAL legal right of the accused in a criminal trial. The burden of proof is thus on the prosecution, which has to collect and present enough compelling evidence to proof that the defendant is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. In case of remaining doubts, the accused is to be acquitted. This presumption is seen to stem from the Latin legal principle that ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat (the burden of proof rests on who asserts, not on who denies)...Source: Wikipedia.

Apart from the Trial by biased Media... 60 Minutes' public conviction of Lance is also based on simple faulty logic as exemplified below:

Charlie travels with a group of students to Wabasha, MN for the first time in their lives. They see 10 people, all of them children under the age of 14. Charlie asks a kid,"Any adults live here?" The kid says, "Almost everyone, nearly everyone, just about EVERYBODY that lives here is a kid." Charlie and his students return to Esko and report that there are no adult residents living in Wabasha. or....

The Non-cycling poorly informed, easily swayed public learns about systemic doping in professional cycling for the first time in their lives by watching Tyler Hamilton's heartfelt and tragic confession on 60 minutes last Sunday. Hamilton is portrayed as a victim of drugs and Lance is typed cast as the evil drug pusher. The American people return to their places of work and report that there are no " clean" professional cyclists. Lance Armstrong is a professional cyclist; so he is not clean. Lance is bad. Or...

Premise 1: Hamilton and Landis were professional bicycle racers and they hung out with Lance. Hamilton is nice.

Premise 2: Lance is a professional bike racer. Lance is mean.

Premise 3: Hamilton and Landis used illegal drugs and now they cry a lot because they had to use the drugs ‘cuz almost everybody else was using drugs. Lance even made Tyler use drugs, sorta...

Premise 4: Did I mention that Hamilton and Landis contend that most everybody in the sport used drugs, including Lance and that it makes them very sad to think about it now that they got caught (and Lance did not get caught). Did I mention that Lance is not nice to people that accuse him of being a doper or to Sheryl Crow or to LeMond.

Obvious Conclusion: Lance is guilty...Lance used drugs. Bad Lance. Bad Bad Lance and good, but poor Tyler...

Save us....At least I think we need saving?

2011-05-25T15:28:00.003-05:00

So anyway, like all wise men, shamans, and the like, through the eons of time, exalted spiritualists have from time to time attempted to enhance their take on things by embarking upon vision-quests. In practical terms, these vision-quests often rely on metaphorical imagery of which a wise man conveys to his less intellectually talented citizenry in the hopes of instilling into them some sense of the TRUTH. Through the annuls of antiquity, some relied upon long solo episodes into remote desert environs, others through fasting and meditation; for me I find that ingesting a large V.I.P. pizza complete with jalapenos and the full complement of spicy meats, chased by ample quantities of Bell’s Kalamazoo Stout has the effect of transporting me metaphysically into a different realm of time and space or even existence…offering essentially a venue by which to embark upon a metaphorical “vision quest.” Such was the case last night…

Having prepped accordingly, upon my trusty couch I lapsed into a vision quest...

Amid tempestuous winds and unsettled skies, high upon a bluff there stands a lonely tree. Below there is only the unbridled chaos of godless wolves attempting to engage in collective bargaining as the rest of the animals wither in various stages of starvation and disease. The nest rests high high high in this lonely tree. In the nest is a cacophony of obviously hungry and agitated Robin hatchlings, their weak mouths agape in anxious anticipation of a meal, any meal for they are in the depths of despair and hunger. There is supervision present, but alas the adult bird in the nest is not a Robin as expected (or as it should be), but instead a black ominous Raven sits. A Raven from a far-way land. The Raven has only thorns (and the like) to feed the pitiful hatchings. In forlorn desperation the baby birds try as they might to eat the thorns, but we all know that it is a hopeless endeavor. Suddenly as if Providence finally hears their cries, a Robin clad in the Stars and Stripes lands standing on a limb next to nest. He stands tall and true, very tall and very very true, courageously tall and courageously truthful. Soon the brave Robin chases off the Raven. The hatchlings are saved as the newly arrived Robin, still standing tall, momentarily bends down ever so slightly to feed the grateful hatchlings a bountiful feast of rotund and truthful worms…(Did I mention that he was clad beautifully from tail to beak in the Stars and Stripes and that he alwayz tells the truth)…the skies suddenly break a bright ocean blue and a rainbow appears….but just for the nest...

I am suddenly and shockingly awakened from my trance by the Man-dog, Loki, who is calling for my immediate assistance. I have significant heart burn. I will leave the interpretation of this vision-quest to you, my Dear Readers.

2011-05-19T11:23:00.014-05:00

The Royal 162 did not disappoint. Chris Skogen, The Force behind this event and a catalyst for this wonderful movement, is famous among the Midwest gravel crowd for putting on a flawless, meticulous race, and this one was no different than the several others I have participated in over the years. Given the fact that the last couple of these things have been commenced in fast, idyllic spring conditions, I guess we were due for some tough riding.

If the truth be known, the Duluth Boyz were even quietly excited about the prospect of riding in weather that we have come to consider status quo. WE are use to riding in this stuff…During the course of the last six months or so, seems like every time we have gotten together to do a group training ride the weather has been inhospitable, implausible, even downright un-American…“When will it get warm?” “Can you believe this wind?”“Will I ever ride my bike in shorts again?” “I am so tired of being miserable.” “How are your feet doing? Mine are numb again?” “I am so sick of being cold!””Will it ever get nice out?”—Are just a few of the common themes of conversation during our rides up in Duluth over the last six months…

So in planning for this thang, we figured on having to dress warm, but in packing on Thursday night, I forgot to bring both adequate hand and leg gear which meant that I had to start wearing just shorts and a pair of light wool army-surplus gloves. Misery ensued. The overall suffering can best be summed up by two rather disturbing symptoms of my stupidity. One involved the realization that my hands were so numb by mid-race that I was unable to muster enough strength to squeeze the liquid from my bottles. Thus, in a desperate effort at improvisation, I was forced to revert back to my early infancy attempting to suckle the nipples on the water-bottles in an effort to retrieve the life-giving sustenance. The second occurred towards the end of the race when riders are faced with wading across a significant stream (that hit me at about mid-to-high calf), I was worried for some time that this crossing would really cause me to get even colder, but my legs and toes felt nothing; to my surprise they were completely numb. I remember thinking, “thatz weird!”

The pace at the start, to me, seemed pretty fast and I knew when we hit the first hill and I struggled to hold on with the group that I am use to riding with— that I was going to have a long long day. Have you ever been in a race where you feel like you are working way harder than you are suppose to and yet you are still getting dropped? It was that kind of day for me. It got so that I became convinced that my rear brakes were rubbing. I stopped and checked this several times and each time the brakes were fine. Then I became convinced that I was struggling because of a slow leak in my rear tire. I stopped and checked my tires—they were fine…I began to obsess that my cleats were coming undone, that my frame bag was rubbing on the front wheel, that my front brakes were rubbing, that I had somehow hooked into an iron anvil (initialed with the letters T.I.) and was towing it behind me, I fought with the zippers on my jacket and on my frame pack, my glasses blatantly worked against me…and so on and so on…

Eventually I made my peace with my situation and adjusted or transitioned to a “survival mode” approach to the challenge. I may be gettin’ slower, but I still know how to grind ‘em out to the finish…Slim as it maybe; I always like to start off thinking that I have at least a mathematical chance at finishing with the top guyz. But now at this point in my racing career, I am not the kind of guy that goes down with the ship in a blaze of glory. In other words, after about ten miles or so of burying myself to try and stay with the front row, I pulled back on my harried forlorn effort to hold on and instead dug in for the long grinding haul.

Plus, given the tough conditions, I knew that it was a statistical likelihood that many of the guyz in this race, ahead and behind me, would not finish and so I figured that if I could just hang in, I’d at least get a Top 10 spot. After awhile I was fortunate to end up riding a lot of the course with young Robert Held from Rice Lake and then we joined up with Ben Doom from Saint Cloud (proprietor of Revolution Cycle & Ski). Note: Revolution Cycle & Ski is a great store, so if ya ever in Saint Cloud stop by and spend a ton of money.

Young Held was the driving force for me early on and I am confident in submitting here in public that if he keeps it going he will be a force to be reckoned with in the near future. He has all the tools to be a total long distance hammer-head! Yet, it was hard to draft off of him (or to draft anyone) due to the constant mud spray. Ben Doom is an experienced and fast cyclist that could be a top tier talent in any of the sub-categories of bike racing, but instead has begun to forge a path that will lead him to be one of the top endurance/adventure racers in the Midwest within three years…look for him to vie for the win at the 2012 Arrowhead 135 (you read it here first!). In any event, I very much enjoyed my time with these two extraordinary guyz and look forward to shamelessly drafting off of them again in future races.

Meanwhile a serious race was unfolding ahead of us between the top guyz, but we did not know who was up there battling 'cuz we knew folks were dropping out. Drew Wilson had been with us, the second tier chase group, but rode away from us early on and I figured that he may still be in the mix and I knew for sure that Joe Meiser and DBDer Buffington would yield to "…neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed goal.” And I surmised that Cornbread, Troy Krause, and Dennis Grelk were still up front as they had looked solid in the beginning (and have lotz of experience in these kinds of endeavors). But we could also tell by tracking the fewer and then even fewer tire tracks that people were bailing out.

By the time we got to the regular Almanzo trail, we knew for sure that Troy was out because of the onset of hypothermia and that Dennis had dropped (ultimately, I accurately predicted, with about fifty miles to go, that there were only five riders left ahead of us). This calculation buoyed my resolve to keep the bike moving forward…I even began to hope that we could get in the top six, given what appeared to be a high attrition rate amongst the lead pack.

Although a bit foggy as to the remainder of the effort, I do remember battling an unrelenting head wind for what seemed to be two hours or more. In the tempest, gradually the youthful power of Doom’s legs allowed him to pull away from me and I was happy that he was going into the 6th place finish. I finished behind him and not long after came Robert Held along with the always amicable Nordacotedean John Struchynski…

Little did I know that whilst I was perhaps crossing that stream, the intrepid Joe Mieser coupled with the formidable Jason Buffington (both of whom averaged more than a mile-an-hour faster than my troupe) had gapped the rest of the fast guyz, composed of Iowan Jim Cochran and Nebraskan all-around good-guy, Corey Godfrey, and were setting up to sprint for the finish!!! The outcome was so close that on our way back to Duluth, Jason was not really sure of the outcome. But according to the official result, he was the winner…Of course in my mind, as yours’ as well; both of them are Top-Notch Winners…..

Overheard as pre-conditioned race fans looked on...
Pre-conditioned Race Fan #1: "Who are those tough looking men?"

Pre-conditioned Race Fan #2: "The biggest one leaning against the post is Buffington. The other younger, hungry looking one is Meiser. Word 'round town is their outlaw riders...they have no category....they ride with no license!

Pre-conditioned Race Fan #1: Well, why aint they in prison? Why aint Skogen in prison fer let 'em ride fer free? Why aint they all in prison? It aint right...ta ride without paying money to the USCF.

Pre-conditioned Race Fan #2: This here aint no sanctioned USCF race, honey. This here is the last frontier of Bicycle Racing. Guyz race here so they can have braggin' rights...nothin' more than that...The last two USCF marshals that went after them are...well... letz just say they aint of this world no more."

Royal 162 turned out to be kinda tough in a Shackleton sort of way...

2011-05-16T15:20:00.005-05:00

This is a photograph taken by Kyia Anderson of the leaders, early on, in the Almanzo 100 (Note: She is a great biker and humanitarian from St. Cloud thatz soon to be an awesome mommie as well)...We did the Royal 162 which was just a little bit muddier and a little longer...I don't think further commentary is necessary.

Expect a fully embellished race report in a few dayz, once I get all the gravel dug out of my eye sockets....For now: DBD's own, Brave Buffington did NOT disappoint nor did Joe Meiser...Kudos to Ben Doom for aiding and abetting the author...and of course, Thank you Mr. Skogen and Team

Thanking You Chris Skogen...thanks alot!!!

2011-05-11T11:13:00.004-05:00

The Almanzo 100 and the Royal 162 commence on this upcoming Saturday...For me it'll be 162 miles of pure bike racing joy!!! I have not been this pumped since I graduated Number One in my Class at Team 6 Navy Seal school way back in the day (Note: I can give no further details on this time in my life). In any event, Thanks a lot Chris Skogen, et. al. for putting this great event on!!! Look for the DBD to be well represented with the triumphant return of the wizened 0ld wily Pramann

2011-05-05T14:08:00.011-05:00

Is it me? Did I bring this on? Am I so loathsome that I deserve to be snubbed? A Full "10" on the Snub 'O' Meter

I apologize for the shaky thoughts…I’m going through a rough patch right now…Was the victim of TWO unrelated albeit premeditated, aggressive, and flagrant Snubs yesterday whilst riding my trusty Merlin on a loop that involved Lester River Road and other asphalt aspects of the Heck of the North course. Of course the first snub hurt, but by the second one I felt so alone, so dirty, so unloved— I was a total mess by the time I got home…Thank Heaven that Loki was there for me to offer comfort and solace (Note: Loki, the MAN-dog is the only one in my life that truly loves me. After the attacks, my wife told me, “It’s little wonder you get snubbed so much, you dress like a homeless person” and my kid said, “Your're weird!”). Although reliving the horrid memories hurts me to the very core of my soul, for itz like I am reliving the whole sorted affair once again; my team of therapists, life coaches, pharmacists, and the like have encouraged me to write about THE SNUBS as a form of cathartic proactive healing. They tell me that itz not my fault and that with extensive (and expensive) support I will get better. They tell me that where I am right now is at the victim stage. I am a victim of a series of snubbings…Someday I will be able to change and become a Snub-survivor…Help Me…So here goes…

Snub #1: I was riding up the series of hills towards the top of picturesque Lester River Road. Elated as the weather was perfect, I was moving slow and taking time to “smell the flowers” when I spied a fellow cyclist coming towards me. There was plenty of time to prepare a proper salutation so I immediately began to contemplate the traditional (with a twist), “How we doing?” greeting. I usually like to replace the “ya” in “How ya doing” with “we” because I feel that it implies solidarity, commitment to interdependence, and perhaps even a hint of kindred spirit. In other words, the idea of substituting the “ya” with “we” is to convey my appreciation for the philosophical view that we (as cyclists) are inter-related at both a concrete and cosmological (or even metaphysical) plane. Nevertheless, after a bit more thought and surmising that he appeared young by my standards, I decided to save the rather weighty “How we doing” for later (should I encounter a more like-minded cerebral comrade) and instead decided on the more generic, “Beautiful day!” The justifications being first the youthfulness of the rider, and secondly that given the decidedly lack of good cycling weather of late, it would more appropriate to state the obvious in an effort to bridge the potential for a generational gap. So “Beautiful day!” in exclaimative form with a concerted effort to emphasize “Day!” was the option that won out.

He was approaching with speed but not too fast. We looked at each other. Atop a shiny brand new Carbon racing machine, he was clad in a beautifully arranged cycling ensemble complete with matching bibs, jersey, helmet, gloves, socks, even water bottles. He was truly a serious cyclist, my heart soared! I steadied myself to deliver the greeting at the proper time and hit it perfectly just as we made eye-contact. “Beautiful Day” I called out in perfect tone and volume. Immediately following my delivery there was a split second of limbo…time stood still as we locked eyes. I felt the connection...it was real...During this surreal interlude, I remember hoping for more than a simple, “Sure is” but I readied myself for it all the same, having been disappointed so many times before. Then it happened, HE SNUBBED ME!!! He put his head down, stood up, and sprinted away. I felt hideous, like the Elephant Man!!!! “I am not an elephant! I am not an animal! I am a human being! I am a man!” I screamed as he rode away.

Snub #2: Badly shaken, I continued on. The heart is a wonderfully resilient organ and it was not too long that I began to feel whole again. I reasoned that he was an upstart USCF card-carrying Category 4 racer (maybe even a Cat.3 racer!) and that he was simply too busy to offer an old man a greeting. I figured that he surely was heavily involved in interpreting his power-meter, heart rate, and cadence metrics and that he was thus unable to extend to me a brief salutation.

I was on flat ground now and saw well ahead of me a duo of comely lasses heading my way. Although well past my prime (I now only dream of fresh lasagna and ridding myself of toe fungus) I took a moment to adjust my stylish Salsa cycling hat to compliment my greeting. I decided upon a “Hello Ladies” approach with the idea that they would find such a greeting from an elder to be both harmless and charming. As we came closer I set up straight and offered a full smile and called out, “Hello Ladies!” In response they both looked away and rode on…I was reminded of Arendt’s classic essay, The Banality of Evil. I wept as I automatically pedaled my bicycle onward, then I went numb…

Why do cyclists snub other cyclists? WHY???? Help me understand….HELP ME! I can take being snubbed by a Tri-athlon malcontent or a starving runner…but to be snubbed by my own kind???

We're off to see the Wizard...the Wonderful Wizard of ____: T.I. Race Report

2011-04-29T12:05:00.012-05:00

2011 Trans-Iowa Race Recap

"... there is no man that shall catch thee by a burst of speed, neither pass thee by, nay, not though in pursuit he were driving goodly Arion, the swift horse of Adrastus, that was of heavenly stock ...”

"...I was in another lifetime one of toil and blood.
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud I came in from the wilderness a creature void of form "Come in" she said "I'll give you shelter from the storm".

Note: if you want to read an excellent account of my actual experience in this extraordinary race please refer to Tim Ek’s account (The Eki Chronicles). Or if you want great pics go to Jeremy Kershaw's site, "Gravel". If you want the truth about what really happened in this race...good luck :)

In the interest of transparency and accuracy, I am compelled to submit to you that I honestly do not remember many of the concrete details surrounding the actual running of the Trans-Iowa… Essentially I remember that it was awfully tough and very adventurous. Perhaps there is some truth in the adage that we are hardwired to forget the pain and remember only the good stuff—a rationale for why mothers have more than one child. Yet I also believe that as a species we crave (and some even thrive-on) adventure in our lives. Paradoxically, as we continually “progress” we further alienate ourselves from opportunities to experience true adventure. Sure modern civilizations make efforts at satisfying this need with things like Alpine Slides, Theme Parks, The Lutsen 99er, and the like, but these contrivances fool (or satisfy) only the most elementary of the citizenry. Perhaps then it is events such as the Trans-Iowa, events that inherently invite uncertainty and many of the other vital elements needed for a good old fashioned adventure, that act to satisfy this essential human need…but I digress.

In any event, like all of the adventures and misadventures that I have experienced over the decades, instead of crystal clear memories of this long cross-country race, within my fragile psyche there exists a surreal notion of having experienced a deeply satisfying encounter, perhaps even a kind of primordial experience, that contained all the makings of a true adventure. The kind of adventure that transcends the ages (or maybe even context) in that surely the raw feeling of uncertainty I felt that long night could not have been much different than what Ötzi and his comrades felt 5000 years old as they travelled across what is now the Italian Alps [google Ötzi ].

Included in this vague, but highly positive memory is the power of being intrinsically motivated, the sense of singular purpose that developed amongst our small group, and the manifestation of friendship demonstrated by Eki, Troy Krause, Dennis Grelk as we gave chase onto the stronger John Gorilla and Sean Mailen.

I do remember having a wonderful time traveling down to the race with brave Jeremy Kershaw. Bidding the Great Northern Lake adieu, we left beautiful Duluth on a fair Thursday afternoon and then 250 miles south amid domesticated farm country, stopped for the night @ a nondescript motel in Albert Lea where we enjoyed a few ales and wiled away the time laughing at the absurdity of our tenuous time here on planet earth as the rains began and our hopes of good conditions in Iowa diminished. Given our regular and hectic lifestyles at home, it was a glorious respite to be able sleep in on Friday. Arriving mid-afternoon in the idyllic hamlet of Grinnell we took time to explore the quaint main streets which included a bike shop from which we had a pleasant conversation with the owner.

The pre-race meeting was a resounding success with all in attendance in good-cheer to the degree that even the rainy, chilly weather could not damper the amicable atmosphere. Once the informative segment of the evening began, even the most dull-witted of T.I. patrons could not help but appreciate the hours-upon-hours of work that Guitar Ted and David Pals put into this special event. The logistical challenges associated with the course alone must take tremendous time and effort. Compounding the challenge of course creation is the unpublicized closing, alteration, or re-categorizing of roads. Eki and I were confronted with this very problem during the nighttime when we came upon a road that had been presumably “downgraded” from a minimally maintained B-road to a privately maintained C-road. Luckily I remembered G.T. discussing this very issue at the meeting and thus we were able to avoid what the others both ahead and behind did not. Also a public thank you to all the sponsors that generously donated a plethora of good product. Personally I found the GU gels to be life-savers.

From Grinnell to Check Point (CP) #1: When I consider the start and the first few hours— what stands out is occasionally looking back at the long line of bike lights that streamed behind us; all riding at a sustainable controlled tempo…I remember thinking that it was a good, competent group-effort especially when compared to last year when the group pace was harried, futile and ill-conceived; a recipe for mass failure, like lemmings headed collectively for the Cliff of Abysmal Failure. Perhaps like the Lemmings, last year’s group knew that it was doomed from the start. On this day, only one rider nearly screwed up the whole air of good-feeling as he took a turn way too fast and almost wiped out a bunch of guyz. He was the old haggard one, clad awkwardly in red tights riding an antiquated Merlin frame. Sadly a perennial peloton favorite, Corey Godfrey (aka Cornbread) had a catastrophic mechanical which put him out of the race. It was a real shame as I am quite sure that he would have been right up in the running for the win. Another casualty was Team Slender Fungus. My heartfelt message to them, in Lord Tennyson’s words, “Hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost; Than never to have loved at all.” Come back to Iowa Dear Slender Fungus friends for next year may well be the one!

From CP #1 to CP #2: Having raced with all of the serious contenders left after the first fifty miles, from my perspective, of the remaining six that were in close proximity, John Gorilla and Tim Ek would be the ones to watch. Of course, Eki and I are training partners and good friends so I was hardly objective in my hopes for who would prevail.

My simple plan was to hang on for as long as I could during the initial 17o miles or so, shamelessly sucking off of the leaders’ wheels, and hope for redemption in the night-time and ultimate salvation with the sun’s arrival on Sunday morning. If things went really right for me and if a few of the others experienced bad luck, I’d have a chance to win it. Like the great Don Quixote, I always approach every challenge with the notion that if everything aligns just right I’ll be victorious…Of course, this perfect alignment has yet to materialize, but I continue to “dream the impossible dream!” Really, for me, a top five finish was what I was shooting for and at that point I felt like it was within reach. I was initially surprised at how well Dennis Grelk was riding, but when he fell off the pace after the first CP, I was not surprised as he is a notorious fast starter. I knew the amicable Troy Krause to be tough, fit, steady and thus I was not surprised at all when he regained the chase group (along with Dennis) later on in the night-time. Also, I knew young, charismatic Sean Mailen had potential, but I must admit that I was initially surprised at how strong he was riding, as well. Sean was nearly as strong as John in pushing the lead.

A happy memory involves riding a stretch of a flat railroad grade, Eki and I closely following the stronger Gorilla and tenacious Mailen. Laughter and joke-telling flourished as the pace moderated. But alas, by and by the tone turned serious again and it became once again a singular focus to just exert enough energy to hold Gorilla or Mailen’s wheel. I’d be a liar if I conveyed that I felt guilt for only drafting because at my age, weight, and ability— I feel entitled. It went on like this until, with about 5 miles to the second checkpoint, I started to fall behind, lost the slipstream, grew desperate, and then I experienced a rear flat. Remaining relatively calm, having two extra tubes, a patch kit, and three CO2 cartridges, (plus a pump), I was ready to deal with flats, so I made the change in good time and luckily caught back up with the group as they had stopped at a gas station (just a few miles in from CP #2). If a guy had to choose a place to have a flat it would have been exactly at that point for with the stop just up ahead I had plenty of time to do the repair and regain the group. Salvation.

CP #2 to Grinnell: Before I forget: A public "thank-you" to Eki for guiding me to the finish line in Iowa...had I been left alone I may well still be out there somewhere living as a farm hand. A public “thank you” also to Troy and Dennis for putting up with me, and another public “thanking you too!” to Sean and John for pulling me along for hundreds of miles.

In any event, Eki and I jumped passed the two leaders at the last checkpoint (as they leisurely met with loved ones and well wishers) in a forlorn hope of gapping them. They caught us in short time and we took our rightful position of chase group.

I have done enough of these things to know that the “real race” begins when the sun goes down. With the advent of darkness, Eki and I were in good shape and our spirits soared…we were pumped and flying high, really this was a Miller High Life moment. Truly the time spent alone with Eki racing fast into the night is a most happy and cherished memory on par with my time spent with Kershaw during the Trans-Wisconsin and Buffington at the Arrowhead. Even the complicated route finding was tolerable as long as I had Eki leading the way. Eki became the undisputed leader and care-giver, a true and loyal friend not unlike our great DBD patron Ernest Shackleton…”Long Live Eki!”

There were a series of pilot errors and mistakes made, including a second flat tire that took way too much time to fix. But, unbeknownst to us at the time, the delays and set-backs ultimately turned out for the best because it put us into contact with Dennis and Troy, who were chasing us. A renewed, energized, youthful, zestful, buoyant Dennis had seemingly undergone a metaphysical transformational resurrection (and along with the stalwart Troy riding shot-gun) was riding like Adrastus atop the fabled equine, Arion. Dennis is “good people” and actually apologized for putting the three of us in the proverbial hurt tank whilst trying to hold his wheel…

It was during this segment of the race when I began my rapid devolution into the Eternal Abyss of Self-Loathing (from which there can be no return). Note: evidence of the launch of the author’s downward spiral into the Eternal Abyss of Self-Loathing (from which there can be no return) was demonstrated in his inability to intellectually grasp the underlying mechanical principles of both the CO2 inflator gizmo and the mini-pump as he repeatedly tried to fix his second flat of the race. The long delay helped Troy and Dennis to catch back up to us…perhaps had Eki not stayed to wait for me, he may have won it all, given John’s problems later on…but it is doubtful given Dennis’ amazing surge of energy . I guess this counterfactual is left to best be debated at a tavern some day in the future with both an elderly Eki and aged Grelk buying the rounds!

As stated in an earlier post from about the twenty-four mark to the finish the events are blurry at best. I remember thinking that Gorilla was certainly having some bad luck and that the “Hinge Factor” swings freely and is not concerned with fair play or the like. I remember approaching the Emerald City in our quest to see the Wizard, but falling desperately sleepy as we crossed the fields amid the beautiful yellow and orange poppy flowers. I remember the monkeys singing old Beetles songs whilst swinging in the trees... I clearly remember a fair maiden calling to me from a distance, "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

AND I remember thinking that somewhere along the way I may have taken a Sacred VOW, along with Eki and Troy that we would NEVER, EVER, EVER, do this race again…but I’m not sure…not sure I got that right, so I better not write it….in the interest of…in the interest of transparency and accuracy.

Thanks again GT and DP.

Trans Iowa Official Results are posted below...but thatz just the bare facts...

2011-04-26T14:50:00.006-05:00

Open Men: 1st: Dennis Grelk @ 28hrs, 40mn,
2nd Tim Ek, @ 29hrs, 44 mn
3rd Troy Krause (same time) @ 29hrs, 44mn,
4th Charlie Farrow @ 29hrs, 56mn,
5th John Gorrilla @ 30hrs, 13mn,
6th Sean Mailen @ 30hrs, 24mn,
7th John Williams
8th Eric Brunt,
9th Adam Boone (same time) @ 32hrs, 13mn,
10th Mike Johnson @ 32hrs, 45mn,
11th Jonathan Weissman @ 33hrs, 11min,
12th Charles Parsons,
13th Jeremy Fry,
14th Joe Mann (same time) @ 33hrs, 25mn,
15th Scott Bigelow @ 33hrs, 44mn.
Open Women: Janna Vavra @ 33hrs, 44mn Open
Singlespeed/Fixed: 1st Aaron Gammell,
2nd Ben Shockey (same time) @ 33hrs 11mn

20 through 80 DNF Or about 23% of the racers finished it...expect a fully embellished race report within a week...

It was an awesome test of one's mettle, but the most fascinating thing for me was my devolution. By the seventeen hour mark I lost my ability to think for myself. By the twenty hour mark, I was completely reduced to a singular molecule devoid of functional capacities other than pedaling the bike forward and consuming caffeine and Ibooze. I no longer ate food or drank water or felt pain. By the twenty-four hour mark, I was no longer an organic entity as I had morphed into a simple virus capable only on pedaling forward...the last five hours do not belong to me so I cannot comment on them....Dear Reader, you think I am kidding, but I am not....

Trans-Iowa Does NOT Disappoint...The Trans-Iowa provides an awesome experience for all involved.

2011-04-25T14:56:00.009-05:00

Most people now-a-dayz use the word, awesome, incorrectly.

Webster's 1913 Dictionary
Awe´some
1. Causing awe; appalling; awful; as, an awesome sight.
2. Expressive of awe or terror.
An awesome glance up at the auld castle.
- Sir W. Scott.

Adj. 1. awesome - inspiring awe or admiration or wonder; "New York is an amazing city"; "the Grand Canyon is an awe-inspiring sight"; "the awesome complexity of the universe"; "this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath"- Melville; "Westminster Hall's awing majesty, so vast, so high, so silent"
Synonyms: awe-inspiring, awing, amazing, awful

Related Words
Gargantuan, affecting, aggrandized, alarming, amazing, amplitudinous, apotheosized, appalling, astonishing, astounding, astronomical, august, awe-inspiring, awful, awing, beatified, big, bizarre, boundless, breathtaking, bulky, canonized, colossal, cosmic, daunting, deified, dire, direful, divine, dread, dreaded, dreadful, eerie, elevated, eminent, ennobled, enormous, enshrined, enthroned, estimable, exalted, excellent, extensive, fearful, fearsome, fell, formidable, frightening, galactic, ghastly, ghoulish, gigantic, glorified, grand, great, grim, grisly, gruesome, heavenly, held in awe, hideous, high, high and mighty, holy, honorable, horrendous, horrible, horrid, horrific, horrifying, huge, immeasurable, immense, immortal, immortalized, imposing, incredible, ineffable, inenarrable, inexpressible, infinite, inviolable, inviolate, king-size, large, lofty, macabre, magnified, mammoth, massive, massy, mighty, monster, monstrous, monumental, morbid, mountainous, moving, mysterious, numinous, outsize, overgrown, overwhelming, prodigious, redoubtable, religious, reverend, sacred, sacrosanct, sainted, sanctified, schrecklich, shocking, shrined, sizable, spacious, spiritual, stirring, stunning, stupefying, stupendous, sublime, supereminent, terrible, terrific, terrifying, throned, time-honored, titanic, tremendous, unbelievable, uncanny, unspeakable, untouchable, unutterable, vast, venerable, voluminous, weighty, weird, wonderful, wondrous, worshipful

Wow...it was even better than I hoped it would be...How many times can a guy say that...The Trans-Iowa was truly AWESOME.
Here is what I am thinking about (a theme that I plan to explore in my race recap)…I am fascinated by how the extraordinary unknowns that are so embedded in this great physical challenge facilitate and dictate the social bonds that develop between the participates. Or in otherwords, How Eki saved my butt!!!

Woe is me...sometime I feel like a motherless child...Iowa calls

2011-04-20T10:55:00.001-05:00

Dear Diary:

Lat: 47 degrees North
Temp: 31 w/snow flakes

Given the weather, even after ordering a finger of rum to all enlisted, the men of the DBD are low. Only Crazy Horse and the Man-dog, Loki, seem game. Buffington has inexplicably disappeared; rumors abound from a solo sojourn vision-quest in the far reaches of the Arctic to running barefoot on some sissy-pants beach in domesticated Florida. Pramann is broken and only the scalpel can mend him. At the Club, Kershaw was found by a man-servant rocking to-and-fro in the fetal position mumbling something about the hinterlands of Iowa and that he wouldn’t be taken alive. Whilst in the red-light district of old Duluth, a wild-eyed Eki played Russian-roulette all night with a decreasing throng of ner-do-wells and thugs from the Hindu Kush. Iowa will be no picnic.
Pray for our eventual salvation,
Mallory

Ditto...Iowa'z got me head all busted up inside...

2011-04-19T17:55:00.002-05:00

Regarding where I am at regarding my preparation for the classic Trans-Iowa--What he said...

http://theshockstar.blogspot.com/2011/04/requisite-pre-transiowa-mental-collapse.html

or What he said...

You desire to know the art of living, my friend? It is contained in one phrase: make use of suffering.
Henri-Frédéric Amiel

IF...the weather gives us a fighting chance in Iowa

2011-04-19T06:20:00.004-05:00

IF.....
IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated, don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginnings. And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in you..Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Thank you Mr. Kiplin...If only the weather will hold...IF...

Wiki leaks...exposes the rift between runners and cyclists

2011-04-14T09:41:00.010-05:00

More from Wiki-Leaks...Disclaimer: the names have been changed to protect the _____.....A recently obtained correspondence between a notable elite runner (with an infinity for snowshoe racing) and a “has-been” cyclist.

Cable #1: Dearest X: I am still growing in my ability to understand and appreciate the sport of cycling---In bike racing, as often as not, the best man doesn't win the race. The luckiest man, with the right equipment, the right team, who fell into the right group, with just enough fitness, is the man who wins the race. In some ways this makes cycling crueler than running; it has the feel of being directed by fate not action. At the same time, this bothers me. Most bike races, in my opinion, are not really races---they are too orchestrated to call them races. Analyzing my cycling loyalties, this is why I like time trialists. That is the closest thing to "real" racing in my opinion----where, barring mechanicals, the best rider wins. Everybody knows that Fabian Cancellara was the best rider last weekend (Flanders) and this past weekend (Paris Roubaix) but he didn't win. More specifically, he wasn't allowed to win. Directors in the team cars made decisions to prevent him from winning, even at the cost of having their lesser riders beat their better riders. While I find this intellectually stimulating, it violates my preconceived notions about what racing is and isn't. Had the entire course been a time trial, I wouldn't doubt that Cancellara would have won by 10 minutes or more. While Cancellara seems to accept this fate, I do not. In cycling, I believe there is a lot of mediocre talent hiding in the peleton. In running, there is no hiding. With guarded respect, Y.

Cable #2: Dearest Y: Your assessment disappoints, I had hoped for more insight from a man of your abilities. Are you not feeling well? Break from your myopic Utopian view of sport! The world is complex and inherently unpredictable. The notion of the purity of athleticism is folly. You state correctly that in cycling the best man often does not win. The same can be said in all of life's endeavors. Luck swings in unpredictable ways, but I will concede that the foot race on a flat track in a controlled environment is about as pure as one can get when it comes to determining the elementary, albeit artificial question of who is the fastest at a given distance. But beyond that the almost infinite contributing factors (even such things as temperature, humidity, track conditions, etc.) play major roles in outcomes. The great time trialist must fit a certain physical mold just as the great climber or the great marathoner. Look at how the Kenyans fair in the high humidity, or how “unfair” it is for low land runners to compete at altitudes. Please reflect on this important topic and seek flexibility in your thinking.... Concerned, X.

Cable #3: Memo… To: X From: Y

Re: Cycling as pseudo-sport and/or sport-lite?

Dear Sir: I have come to the conclusion that while cycling is not inferior as an activity or pursuit, it is inferior as a test of man's athletic ability in relation to the athletic ability of other men (sport). It is not competition in a pure sense (as is all running sport). In cycling, the bike engineers and builders are competing against the other bike engineers and builders, SRAM is competing against Shimano, Mavic is competing against HED, Continental is competing against Ritchey, Fisik is competing against Bontrager, Garmin is competing against Suunto, Team Sky is competing against Saxo-Bank, Director Jonathan Vaughters is competing against Director Bjarne Riis...........................and finally-------------------------rider is competing against rider. Riders are pawns in a larger game of chess. The very few who are athletically gifted do, in fact, shine occasionally, but norm is that inferior athletes, who are treated as human chemistry projects with the intent of making each rider have the exact same racing potential, end up on the podium. Some riders' physiology is altered through chemistry to make for effective performance uphill, or on flats, or for short bursts of speed, but the goal is to make the inferior passable and useful in the game of chess. In many ways, bike racing is like NASCAR. Not to mention the similarly low IQ of their fanships, both "sports" do everything they can to dilute the impact of individual talent, in favor of artificially-leveled playing fields. As a complex thinker, I have come to appreciate cycling as one does WWE wrestling. It is a show, filled with drama, multiple story lines, and a facade of competition. For those of us who have a different intellectual pedigree, we may outwardly scoff at cycling, but within our circle we discuss cycling as post-modern motif of Neo-conservatism. You may have read my paper on the topic, "Johan Bruyneel and Scott Walker---Unwitting rubes in Koch Brothers Intelligent Design." Running, on the other hand, is as pure an activity as possible in our soiled world. Barefoot, with just a cloth to cover one's loins, a runner looks into the eyes of another man and launches forward for a distance to determine individual supremacy. Like Howard Roark in Ayn Rand's seminal work, The Fountainhead, all runners are an embodiment of the human spirit, and running races represents the triumph of individualism over collectivism (as discussed further in my widely known dissertation). You and your cycling friends are all eunuchs. With contempt, Y.

Cable #4: Mr. Y: Your cretinism progresses. I have read your recent rants solely with the interest of a concerned professional intent on helping you find solace and thus have taken the liberty to forward your diatribes to the National Institute for the Advancement of Deranged Runners (NIADR), where it is hoped that you can get the help you so obviously crave. The decades of being called, "just another skinny runner," combined with the repeated “snuggies” you endured in grammar school has taken there toll on you. Help me, help you. Note: The experts @ NIADR have asked that I continue this dialogue so as to tempt out further conveyances, presumably to be used as diagnostic glimpses into your troubled psyche. Perhaps by helping you we can learn to assist all of the tormented running community. A community that left unchecked represents a significant security risk to the American people. My initial thinking on your preoccupation with manliness is that it has its genesis as a simple manifestation of what Freud calls a “trapped id.” Whilst the ancestors of the modern cyclist stayed and fought the Saber-toothed tiger rightly winning the right to procreate with diva cave women. The precursors to the modern runner, ran away and hid and then did some stretching and went to the cave dances as wall-flowers... Thus as a group, the runners of antiquity stood idle (or did some “stretching”) whilst the ancient cyclists engaged the natural, albeit masculine activities retained solely by the Alpha males of the pack. As time progressed the future cyclists evolved massive quads, unfettered libidos, and become hunters and surgeons and hedge fund managers, and dated rock stars. Whilst future runners gathered herbs and twigs, developed more feminine and delicate physiques, and formed public unions, whole-food CO-OPS and the like. Why do you people “skip” before the race? Try to get some rest, X.

Ragnorak Race Recap...

2011-04-12T14:06:00.021-05:00

Disclaimer: Any semblance this essay has to the great Hemingway is purely coincidental:

The race course was hilly and the man was old. Every thing about him was old except his eyes which sparkled and flickered and were in constant motion as the Northshore of the great inland lake of Gitchee Gummee. He did not curse the lay of the land for he accepted the way of things. The old man knew that the climbs that came late in the race would destroy him. Yet, by lining up and beginning the race, he knew that he could not be defeated. He knew that to die in the act of living assured him that, whatever the outcome, he was protected from ever being defeated. It was not as if he needed to race or wanted to race. It was just what he had become and he knew of nothing else that he could do, such is the curse of the aged.

In the morning, the old man was rested, having stayed the night before in the DBD fishing camp with the other three cyclists of his clan. The younger men had dreamed of great victories and acts of bravery, but he no longer dreamed of beautiful podium girls, nor of great successes, nor contests of strength and speed, nor of material wealth. He only dreamed of his man-dog, Loki. The dog roamed playfully within the wild high places of the old man’s youth and he loved the dog and these places.

The race commenced and the old man knew that he must try as he might to stay in the lead group. The man was old and knew the way of these things. He knew that the youthful ones would blast away from the start line to be alone with their own kind, but he also knew that the lead group would slow as soon as they felt clear of the others and that it would become a family. Also he knew the young ones and he knew that they would take him in if he did not cause problems. A family, but an unstable family, with ill-defined roles and degrees of loyalty. If the race were to be longer then the family would grow close and bonds would develop, but for today the family was not so strong and no one was safe from expulsion. Early on Kershaw flatted and was left alone. There was no remorse from the group, even the old man barely looked back. The clouds were building up but seemed in battle with the sun while a cool breeze filled the landscape and yet he never felt alone when riding his bicycle. As the pace quickened he thought to himself- now is the time to think of only one thing. That which I was born for.

With a sharp popping noise the Great Eki went down hard onto the floor. The old man thought why did they make the fast ones so delicate and fine when the road can be so cruel? The road can be joyous and wonderfully beautiful. But the road can turn suddenly cruel and unforgiving. The family felt sadness for the great Eki but the family did not slow its pace. To race a bicycle is a wonderful and strange thing, he thought. Like the great DiMaggio who always plays with grace, even with the painful heel spur. The great Eki regained the group and the old man was happy.

The race went along that way for many many miles. Not before very long there were only six left and the old man. Buffington, Austin-Phillips, Meiser, Tri, Manske, Eki, and the old man. The others looked at the old man and while they did not say so to him, they felt, “old man I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this race ends.”

Soon the family came upon a wickedly long and involved climb. The old man knew that he would have to put in everything now and go go go until something important inside him broke. As the old man labored up the great climb and the others pulled away from him he toiled onward and remembered the great DiMaggio. He thought that he must have confidence and be worthy of the great DiMaggio who does all things perfectly even with the pain of the bone spur in his heel. He thought of his man-dog Loki. He wished the dog was with him… The family left him at the hill and he was alone. But he knew that he was not defeated. A man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.

I think the great DiMaggio would be proud of me today.

Ragnorak did NOT disappoint!!!

2011-04-10T07:55:00.003-05:00

Top Ten- 1. Brandon Mankse 2. Tim Ek 3. Joe Mesier 4. Jeff Austin-Phillips 5. Charly Tri 6. Jason Buffington 7. An Old Fool from Old Duluth 8. Tim Norrie 9. John Struchynski 10. Dave Meyer

A fully embellished race report to follow in a day or two!!! Thanking the race directors and volunteers for a great day of gravel road racing!!!!

The Season is NOW about to begin...Rejoice rejoice rejoice....

2011-04-05T10:46:00.008-05:00

The Ragnorak 105 commences on this upcoming Saturday in Red Wing, Minnesota. Red Wing is a picturesque river town that is adorned with majestic limestone bluffs and Victorian-styled mansions of yesteryear built in a better time, a time when "free-market" meant something; when the unfettered land, lumber, and shipping barons were unencumbered by petty societal concerns such as labor rights, affordable healthcare for the peasantry, gender equity, and stifling pollution regulations, but I digress…

As I put the cold blue steel blade to my grizzled old tottery legs in preparation for the first race of the season I silently weep the sweet tears of enthusiastic renewal. If or when “the excitement of the race” leaves me then I will know that it is time to embark upon a new endeavor, but to date that magical feeling of great anticipation for racing endures deep within my manly loin area. Although I know for certain that with the advancement of each year, my chances for a podium finish diminish; there still remains within a secret, albeit slight probability that I might pull off an upset. What if the top guyz get lost en route? What if the claims cited by the Brew Masters are true regarding scientific studies proving the positive relationship between the efficacy of beer consumption and athletic performance. I drink a lot of beer, more beer I bet than any other racer south of Duluth, plus beer has a ton of vitamin B12 in it, which unquestionably adds to my chances. May be, JUST MAY BE, if the conditions are less than perfect, and more than a few top guyz get flats, added to the extra time I have put in ingesting beer will all pay off in a podium finish for the writer? Stranger things have happened, or so I am told….In any event, look for the DBD’s Buffington and Eki to impress…as will the newly “geared” Kershaw…Thanks guyz of the Ragnorak for providing this wonderful opportunity...it is highly appreciated...

Note: Pramann will be sorely missed...but his return in the future will be cause for great merriment!

Tryin' to get my head 'round Iowa...found a quote from Shawshenk Redemption that fitz where I'm at....it aint pretty...

2011-03-29T13:00:00.006-05:00

Seeds of doubt... "There's a harsh truth to face. No way I'm gonna make it on the outside. All I do anymore is think of ways to break my parole, so maybe they'd send me back. Terrible thing, to live in fear. Brooks Hatlen knew it. Knew it all too well. All I want is to be back where things make sense. Where I won't have to be afraid all the time. Only one thing stops me. A promise I made to Andy..." "There's a harsh truth to face. No way I'm gonna make it in Iowa. All I do anymore is think of ways to break my date with GT, or do somethin' so maybe they'd not make me race. Terrible thing, to live in fear. All I want is to be back where things make sense. Where I won't have to be afraid all the time. Only one thing stops me. A promise I made to Eki..."