Greg Hexum, my boss and a top-notch enduro-freak!!!

Kudos to Mr. Greg Hexum, principal of Esko High School for finishing in fourth place @ the National Snowshoe Championships!!!! [Note: He has won it twice in the past, plus he is one of the best trail runners in the country and a great leader at our school!!!]. Greg reports that the course, located in upstate New York, was very hilly and punctuated by a sick half mile climb leading into the finish. The guyz that beat him are all young fellas that basically train for a living, while Hex works at one of the toughest jobs in the world and yet still is an endurance force to be reckoned with... I believe that once he starts to experience the inevitable mental decline that comes with age, he will make a great DBD cyclist!!!

Itz a lonely job being the LEADER of Undisciplined MEN!!!!

Musings from a recent training seminar...

'Tis Pride with these old men
To tell what they have seen.
'Twill be Pride, when we are old,
To say that in our youth
We heard the tales they told
And looked on them in their truth.
- Anonymous

No doubt, like those that have come before me (i.e. Washington at Valley Forge or Shackleton sans The Endurance), I have come to appreciate that the trials and tribulations of molding a cadre of raw men into an efficient team is often a thankless, confusing, and desperately lonely job. Yet, leaders of MEN must never lose sight of their overarching goals. For Washington, it was the birthing of a new nation. For Shackleton, the survival of his men. For my charges, the goal is nothing short of podium finishes for all of them in Iowa this late April. To this end, I shall prepare them! To this end, I shall endure their insolence!! To this end, I shall continue to push them onward beyond what they think is possible!!!

Specifically, in accordance with my duties as a DBD Member-in-Good Standing, I led my small intrepid group out for a long 115+ mile training ride on the recent Sabbath. Namely; Hendricks, Eki, and one of the two Jasons, the one of whom that oddly insists that I call him, 'Jeremy', respectively. (Note: we also had the pleasure of the multi-talented Dave S. along as well for a bit in the early a.m.). Thankfully, these roughly-cut men are not without talents and yet they collectively are resistant to civil order and thus must be managed with a complex melding of strict adherence to proper cycling protocol, rigorous exercise, and yet balanced out with empathetic, even maternalistic support and nurturing.

Pedagogically sound from nearly twenty years of teaching high school students, I am equipped for such endeavors, but this group is particularly challenging as they are use to some degree individual successes and thus lack (at this stage) a commitment to (or understanding of) the joys of winning group efforts. Such a unit of men must therefore be approached to educate with extraordinary and unorthodox teaching methods.

For example, to simply employ “modeling-technique” to instruct these uncouth men in the subtleties of an efficient and rapid tire change would be counterproductive as they would simply not pay attention to me. So instead, I feigned a series of flats during Sunday’s ride and then pretended to screw-up the process of repairs. Initially, in the first instance, I pretended to use the pump in a manner that would sheer off the valve-stem, then during a subsequent "flat," I gave the impression of blindness by applying the patch NOT over the puncture hole, but near to the hole. Finally, I feigned throwing up food chunks whilst admonishing an underling for allowing his digestive system to shut down.

In doing so I compelled the trio of ruffians to sharply criticize me, to rally, and to ultimately “bind” together in their disregard and contempt for a shoddy job done by their leader. Tricking them into learning the correct way to fix a flat, coupled with teaching the importance of proper nutrition; success was obtained, important lessons were learned!

I was silently elated and yet I must always stand alone, apart from the group...Progress was made that day, although there is still much work to be done!!!

Looking forward to Sochi 2014...

If you need someone else (or worse, a panel of judges) to tell you if you won (or not) you are not in a sport.

To piggy back on a recent noteworthy and insightful piece that appeared on Jason Buffington’s blog (see http://buffduluth.blogspot.com/)

“Sports” that should NOT be included in the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi:
*Any sport involving a “board” and/or baggy pants.
*Any sport that empowers mean, old, soviet-era former Olympians by allowing them to judge current Olympic athletes.
*Any sport that requires a commentator to rely upon any of the following terms:
Triple Salchow, Triple Lutz, Triple Axel, Quad Salchow/Toe Loop Combination, Halfpipe, Two Fakie, Double McTwist, Backside 720, the Hurricane, Inside pass and outside pass, Apolo, moguls, inverted 360, "...stuck the landing", "We will have to wait to see how the judges score that..." The judge ruled that First, Second, and Third place finishers have all been DQed..."

Go Dave Go!!!!!

To honor Dave Praman as he fights his way onward to McGrath—

The Charge Of The Light Brigade
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
[Memorializing Events in the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854
Written 1854]

Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Noble Dave Pramann!

Mallory to the rescue of a good Man's reputation!

Dear Seekers of Truth:
Although he is too refined to raise an objection, I am not and therefore I shall address a few (of the many) inaccuracies as stated in the public recollection of one of the three participants regarding a recent DBD training session with the goal being solely to set the record straight.
Obsequiously,
G.Mallory

Excerpts in purple taken from The Eki Chronicles (http://timekchronicles.blogspot.com/ ). Mallory's commentary in green.

“I pulled in fashionably late to notice my two comrades joking and milling about in the shadows of the dormant ship.” This much is true. He is always late, often he appears unshaven, smelling of cheap whiskey, and he is known to keep company with barkeeps, the like, or even worse...So often is he late that we have created a little ditty that goes like this,
“Waiting on Eki...
Growin’ old awaiting on Eki
...itz my destiny to be waiting on slow-poky Eki.”

“Immediately something struck me as odd in Hondo's appearance. He seemed to be wearing some type of hand made square topped head gear. No, this was not a helmet, but rather an early version of an Icelandic reindeer herding cap... However, it should be noted that the top of this "hat" was flat giving my partner a Herman Munster look that quite frankly was complimentary. Well, before rolling out I was issued a tongue lashing and severely made fun of for a myriad of things ranging from being 30 seconds late to my general being.” Again, only a partial truth at best...The “headgear” of which he admonishes is in fact a stylish Wintergreen Expedition Hat worn by discerning, serious polar explorers and crafted by the nice folks in Ely, Minnesota. Regarding the so-called “tongue-lashing” the reader must remember that “Hondo” is in the company of coarse, uncouth irreputes that respond only to elemental guttural directives.

“This ride would focus on saddle time as well as working pace line with each other of course all under the tutelage of Hondo. He demanded that we perform 90 second pulls all the while shouting instructions on technique that flew in the face of what any one who has ever had the privilege of riding with him knows to be his normal riding style. Recently Hondo took down the winner (caused him to crash) of this year's Arrowhead 135 while he clumsily fumbled with his camel back hose.... Big Buff and I took our whippings from the deranged one as he called us out on skimping time on our pulls, claiming we were only out front for 60 seconds, not 90. It is not known if he had any type of time piece with him.” The above rant represents a blatant disregard for the principal tenet of factual reporting; namely objectivity. Again it must be emphasized that “Hondo” is attempting to make a semblance of order from chaos. These are rough-cut, uncouth men of the North country. For our man to have any hope of establishing an efficient pace-line he must be both firm and strict with these ruffians. As to the mishap involving the crash w/ Jeff Oatley, the old reliable adage applies; “It takes two to Tango.”

“Believe it or not, moving through our rotations began to resemble something like cycling save the constant complaining and crying from Hondo and his ill prepared fluid situation. You see, we were scheduled for an 8 hour effort totaling some where north of 100 miles and Hondo brought two water bottles or maybe it was just one with him.” Once more, the above narrator fails to comprehend the lessons that can be gained from learning to do more with less.

“The 45 mile return to Duluth was uneventful except for Hondo's poor choice of bike set up leaving him 'off the back', while Big Buff and I joked about better times. 8:05 hours, 105 miles.” A simple, but effective ruse initiated by our intrepid leader in an effort to build camaraderie and esteem amongst his raw underlings. A tactic taken straight from Shackleton’s play book!

When you hit your knees tonight, before you climb into your warm cozy bed...Remember to mention Dave Pramann for he will be livin' the dream out on the Iditarod Trail. Whilst you sleep, he will be doing battle with the merciless Frozen Demons of the sub-Arctic...How cool is that? Much more on this amazing race and talented, stalwart, veteran racer in the dayz to come...Methinks he could win it!!!!

A pivotal moment of rare clarity...

Last night, as I rode my trusty Pugsley along the North Shore trail, a great sense of poignant well being befell me. The snow-trail was rock hard, the brilliant stars were out in full regalia, the vivacious deer frolicking and bounding hither and thither, and thusly I acutely felt the full effect that is the sheer joy of backcountry velo-movement.

Suddenly, an incomprehensible saline solution began to flood my eyes. Of course, as a man, this was a disconcerting phenomenon. Mallory, nor Shackleton, never wept! Dumbfounded, I attempted to ascribe meaning to this inexplicable and decidedly unDBD-like emotional display. Were the tears a simple response to stimuli— Perhaps, a physical manifestation of my newly (and painfully) reconfigured and less than attractive left big toe? No, for I have embraced my new “leaner meaner” appendage. Itz slightly necrosed appearance now acts as a reminder of the consequences of unbridled hubris.

Did the tears stem from the realization that these lovely winter rides are coming to a speedy close with the encroachment of the spring melt? No, for I love riding in the spring gravel classics nearly as much... I was confused, my pace slowed, thankfully it was cold, so the trail was mine alone.

Then as if providentially sent, I knew the source of my tears! I was crying tears of unrestrained sympathy for my training mates for they have resorted to spending hours upon hours of mundane drudgery on their fancy-pants trainers whist glued to their television sets watching those shockingly-spoiled-saggy-panted sissyboarders do their little pony tricks for the masses...My dear training mates had been taken in, like so many others, by the manufactured hysteria surrounding these somewhat acrobatic juvenile delinquents!

The source of the tears was my realization of their missing-out on this amazing cycling experience when it is so close at hand and yet so fleeting. The tragedy of their misguided priorities had caused me to become emotionally overwhelmed, for I am at my essence a pack-rider.

Thankfully a shot of Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey brought me back to my senses. Fortified, I continued on...stalwart in focus and solid in the knowledge that I cannot change the world...and that I needed to simply embrace the here-and-now... I have made an appointment with an ENT doc to have my tear-ducts once again removed!!!