Dear Marin (an open letter to my MTB); Quick N Dirty race report

Dear Marin,
You and I have known one another for many years. We've shared many rides together, and even several races. And throughout all this time, I've always known you were a bike that encompassed the very essence of rule #5. Shoot, when people ask me what kind of gear ratio you're running, my answer is always simply "5."

In an age of 9r wheels, disc brakes, and sub-20lb out-of-the-box carbon single speeds, you, my dearest Marin, are an anomaly. And that's not a bad thing. With your old 26 inch wheels, your steel frame, your chain tensioner, and your adorably old v-brakes, you're a no frills type of bike. And that's OK.

That's why, when we rode around Morley Field to pre-ride Sunday's mountain bike course, I wasn't bothered at all when you decided to shirk off one of your two decade old water bottle cages with a level of disgust that would shock a lesser rider. Like I said, no frills.

I knew we'd only be racing for an hour, and with a shipment of Skratch Labs expected to arrive the day before the race, I would be plenty hydrated with only one bottle for the race. So alright. One bottle cage it is. That night, I removed the now defunct, decrepit bottle cage and threw it away with appropriate levels of disgust and disdain. No frills.

Enter the day of the race. I did the usual prerace checks that come with owning a single speed. Air in the tires? Check. Chain? Check. Good to go.

We toed the start line, you and I, ready and eager to leave our foes behind in a world of pain, suffering, and tears. Obviously, you received a ton of compliments. You're magnificent, after all.

"GO!" the announcer cried, and we were off, us brave single speeders, and some not-nearly-as-tough but still foolish geared category, the beginning of the course taking us into the velodrome for a lap before spitting us back out into the dirt. We left the velodrome and circled around behind it before cutting over to the dog park.

Boom bang skid brake bang. Your unforgiving steel frame and rigid fork forced me to hang on for dear life as we took our first downhill together at race pace, but we survived. That is to say, I survived. You laughed it off. Onto the flat, when I attempted to pedal, only to find that I was spun out of my gear. That's OK. Leaves me to conserve some energy. We ascended the pop up shortly after, then cruised down the following downhill, your v-brakes keeping us from going too quickly and sending me into a cactus that, honestly, I really did not want to be friends with.

Next up, the only real challenge that I was afraid off: a short but steep hill, rocky and loose. I knew any geared guys around me would shift into an easy gear and spin it out. Not an option for you and I, Marin. Our first lap, fortunately, we were in a bit of no-mans-land, not able to hang on to the front group of geared riders, but not slow enough to be caught by the second group behind us. So what did we do? We suffered, as only a single speeder could. We ground out that damn hill, and as we ascended its peak, my thighs finally caught on to the misery that they would be subjected to for the next 53 minutes.

Fortunately, they caught a bit of a break through the next flat, then the following downhill, before we hit another little pop up hill. Weren't no thang, though. We hammered onto the longest, flattest part of the course, and it was here that the geared guys I'd been holding off caught me, and proceeded to leave me behind like the one-geared suffermeister that I was. But that didn't last long.

We came to the Pershing St. climb. It was here that you and I would really shine, Marin. You were geared perfectly for a climb like this. At an average of 4% for roughly 0.6 miles, it was just steep enough that most geared guys would shift down and try to conserve/recover, and just long enough that they wouldn't want to grind it out. But not you, Marin. Your gearing made you a force to be reckoned with on the climb.

And a force we were. I can only imagine the number of spirits we crushed as we climbed, leaving people with gears behind left and right. Lesser riders were left in awe of how a single speed was cruising up the climb, its rider smiling in grim pain and joy on top of it. And this was just the first lap of four.

We climbed to the top of Pershing and hit the flat, circumnavigating a large field before we'd inevitably head back to the start/finish line. It was here that I got my first real surprise of the race: another single speeder had caught us. While we'd been sitting quite happily in 3rd, I thought we had a much larger gap on those behind us than we did. As we stuck on his wheel for the remainder of the first lap, that was when I noticed it: he was riding a fancy pants, new, sub-20lb out of the box, aluminum 9r single speed with disc brakes. I think that's what made you mad, Marin. And a mad Marin is, well, a mad bike.

We popped in and out of the velodrome, rode around its back and hit the downhill by the dog park. That's when it happened: your chain popped off. No matter, though. I knew it was just a matter of time before that happened. You were jury-rigged to be a single speed, after all. I hopped off, put the chain back on, and in less than 10 seconds, we were on our way again. But a bikes anger knows no bounds, and as we prepared to tackle that painful little climb, what happened next was a bit of a wrench in my race plan. Or should I say water bottle.

The suddenness and willing way you'd cast off your first bottle cage days prior was no big deal. I almost took it as a sign. You saying, "we don't need to stinkin' second water bottle, Ray. We're tough as nails. Hell, if we fell on a boulder, we'd probably hurt it! Get rid of this weak ass bottle cage!" And thus it was so. But I honestly didn't expect you to disregard the second cage with as much violence as you did. Maybe you were mad at the course. Maybe you were mad at me for letting that other single speeder catch us. But honestly, you weren't doing either of us a favor, because now I had to get off you again and rip the offending water bottle cage from its mount, stuffing it in my jersey pocket, an action that cost us roughly 60 seconds. Not to mention I'd lost all our momentum for the climb, which we now had to run. But run I did.

Top of the climb. Downhill. Ready for the pop up hill, start spinning the legs and.....the chain is off again. OK. Hop off the bike. Put it on. Run up the hill. Remount. Hit the flat. Climb. Finish the lap.

On our way out of the velodrome, I dropped the now useless bottle cage at the feet of some teammates and yelled something about not needing excess weight on my 30+lb bike. By now, I was trying pretty hard to make up lost time. Not all out. Not yet. I knew our spot on the podium was in jeopardy, and we were now into our 3rd of 4 laps. Uh-oh.

Downhill by the dog park and....chain off. Shit. Chain off by the hill of pain. Ouch. Chain off at the bottom of the following downhill. Dammit. It was almost like you were playing a game with me, Marin. I knew if we could just get into a rhythm, we could really haul ass. Hell, we'd done it the first lap. But I couldn't shake the feeling that you were trying to teach me something. As we cranked up Pershing St. again, administering pain and suffering to those behind us, it hit me.

On our first lap, I had grown complacent. Comfortable. Relaxed. Not rule #5, and definitely not actions becoming of a rider worthy of you. Each time the chain had come off, I had to work harder and harder to make up lost time. Your rejection of the water bottle cage forced me to carry my water bottle, rather than let you hold onto it. You were trying to make me suffer harder. Cue a light bulb and angelic requiem.

We entered the velodrome for the 4th and final time, this understanding now at the forefront of my mind. Go hard. Go fast. Don't just serve up suffering, but suffer yourself. This knowledge in hand, I opened the hurt locker and stuffed myself inside, determined not to rest until I crossed the finish line. I'd previously run 3 miles to finish a race, and I would do it again if I had to.

Fortunately, it never came to that. I maintained a hard pace through the rest of the race, though sadly never saw the 3rd place guy again. That fact ended up being moot, since, in fact, he wasn't 3rd place, but 4th. Turns out, one other single speeder was in our category, and nobody knew about him until the results were posted. Honestly, doesn't bother me, though. The 4th lap, the chain never came off. Boom. Rule 5 in effect.

The Marin is a blast of a bike to ride, if only because of its simplicity, and the Quick N Dirty course at Balboa Park was as fun as they come. The course was fast, but featured just enough climbs to break up the pack. The two major downhill sections were chattery enough to force me to pick my lines well, but weren't so technical that there wasn't anything I couldn't clear. All in all, I want to give props to the team at QnD. They put on a fun, fast race that gave a little bit of everything for everybody, and was spectator friendly to boot. Expect to see me again for the next one.

Overall, Team Ninja showed up with about 8 people and put at least one person on the podium in almost every category. Not too bad, if I do say so myself, so great job Ninjas.

And in case you wanted to see it, here's a picture of the Marin looking pretty satisfied with itself, having spit out the second bottle cage.



HeArt of Idaho Falls century race report

It was early when I rolled out to ride to the start line. 5 am San Diego time. And damn was it cold. I think the official temperature was somewhere between “freezing” and “you should just crawl back into bed.” My knee ached immediately, as it is want to do whenever it gets abnormally cold. Naturally I hadn’t thought to bring any base layers, but even if I had, I wouldn't have worn them. I hate carrying extra gear that I’ll only need for a little bit, comfort be damned.

I started pedaling slowly. I only had 7 miles to go, and nearly an hour to do it. And even though I knew that the sooner I got up to speed, the sooner I’d warm up, my cold body practically begged me to take things easy, and to work up to a proper warm up. That basically meant that by the time I’d be rolling up to the start line, I’d be warmed up, only to have half an hour to kill before the sound of the gun, signalling the start of the event.

I rolled through pancake flat country roads as a dull, misty haze hung over my surroundings. I passed by innumerable fields and caught the attention of several cows, all eyeing me curiously. I can only imagine what they were thinking as they watched this goofy, latex-clad San Diego-based cyclist roll by. All I could think about is how warm it would be, sitting between a pair of them.

The ache in my knee spiked abruptly, and a handful of seconds later, I found out why as the local canal swung into view. How it wasn't just ice cubes, I have no idea, because I sure felt like one. Hell, I was positive my water bottles would freeze before I got a chance to drink from them. Several ducks floated along the waters, quite content with where the currents carried them, and I couldn't help but marvel how similar our lives were, if you ignore the fact that I wasn't covered in feathers, didn't have a bill or hollow bones, and would both sink and freeze in water if I had jumped in. Hey, you need something to occupy your thoughts when you’re cold and up early.

Eventually I arrived at my destination and settled in for a wait, which would end up being longer than expected, no thanks to a blown circuit, which resulted in a collapsed start line. But even than didn't slow us down too long, and at 7:05 mountain time, we were off: the HeArt of Idaho Falls Century had begun.

It was a huge loop, taking us along miles upon miles upon miles of country roads, essentially circumnavigating the city of Idaho Falls. At one point, we went nearly 20 minutes without seeing a car, we were that secluded. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

The starting gun went off, and soon we were rolling along at a steady 20 mph, being lead out by a dune buggy, which was a first for me. Here's a brief video.

As we made our first turn, I saw one guy ahead of me. I looked back and saw one guy behind, all of us separated by about 10 meters. We linked up together within the first two miles, and our trio stayed like that for the next 58 miles. We formed a nice little paceline, or three man group. Each of us pulled for a few minutes, keeping the tempo right around 25 mph, before the lead guy peeled off and let the next guy in line take over. Within fifteen minutes, we’d left everyone else behind.

In less than an hour we blew past the 25 mile aid station and just kept on rolling, coming to the 35 mile aid station less than half an hour later. Why they were positioned so closely together, I have no idea, but the second one had been our pit stop of choice. Here we took a minute to introduce ourselves, make use of the local facilities, and grab a quick bite. Unfortunately, we delayed about a minute too long, as a group of four flew by our stopping point and kept on going. We rallied quickly, though, and our water bottles refilled, took off after them.

We chased hard, keeping up our tough pace, and at 2 hours 27 minutes, had ridden 52 miles. Our next challenge loomed just ahead of us, literally: Bone Road. On paper, it’s not that hard. 6.8 miles at 3.3%. Then there’s a short reprieve followed smaller section, about a mile at 5%.

Unfortunately, I underestimated the first section and pushed too hard, not realizing until it was too late that the goal I’d had my eyes on had been a false flat. During my hard charge, I’d dropped one of our group, Scott. After realizing my mistake, I dropped the pace to recover, but as a result our third member, Eric, kicked, leaving me in the middle to suffer alone. Once at the top, Scott and I linked up briefly before he surged on the final section, once again leaving me alone. What a jerk.

But man, once you finally come over the top, all of Idaho Falls is laid out before you, and it’s only then that you realize two things. First off, you can’t help but marvel at how spread out the city really is, with the center of the city relatively packed, surrounded by fields and the occasional farmhouse dotting it all sides. Second, you realize that all that climbing you did, you’re about to undo rather quickly.  I can’t tell you how much fun I had, flying downhill at up to 50 mph. It’s riveting. It’s terrifying. And it makes you feel alive. Wanna see what it's like? Well, today is your lucky day!

Once at the bottom, I had an epiphany: I had 30 miles left, and nobody to pace in with. Without a group, I’d be hard pressed to make it back by the 5 hour mark, my unofficial goal. But I’m nothing if not stubborn, and after flying by a group that was content to go slower than I’d like, I settled in for an unpleasant hour and a half.

Now, in case any of you were wondering, holding 20 mph for an hour and a half, with a group, after having done 21 mph for roughly 60 miles, is challenging. Absolutely doable, just challenging. But having to do 20 mph for an hour and a half, solo, was just a bit too much for me, and after an hour, my legs finally gave up on me.

It’s disheartening, cracking after such a monumental effort. I’d poured out just about everything I had in the legs, but with 10 miles to go, it proved to be just a bit insufficient. Fortunately, I linked up with a group of four who were feeling a bit more fresh than I was, so I managed to hop onto their wheels, hanging on at one point just out of a sheer power of will not to be dropped again.

Finally, the last 2 miles approached. I knew my family would be there, and as luck would have it, it was my turn to take a pull. I summoned up everything I had left in my body. Every iota of strength, and every flicker of a watt, and began to lift the pace. First to 20. Then 21. 22. 23. As we came along the final 800 meters, I pulled us up to 25. I was gasping for breath, wondering, hoping it would be over soon.

It was then that I heard it. Someone screamed my name just as a car came flying by, and there were 2 of my cousins hanging out the windows, snapping pictures like every moment counted. Whether that gave me the strength I needed or summoned it from deep within me, I don’t know, but as we came up to the final 400 meters, I kicked as if there was no tomorrow. One last video. Promise.

I don’t entirely recall what happened next, or how much time passed. I have a brief memory of pictures being taken of, and with, me. I remember shaking hands, and having a cold Coke thrust into my weary, waiting hands. Then I was down on the ground, just trying to remain conscious. I wasn't joking when I said I’d pulled out all the stops.

Eventually I had a beer and food, followed by a coffee and another Coke, and let me tell you, after 5 hours and 20 minutes, covering 102 miles, each bite of food or sip of a drink was the most glorious thing I had put into my body in the history of ever.

Looking back over the event over the last few days, I could have done a few things differently, but nothing major. Overall, while I’d been hoping for something along the lines of 5:05, I’m still pretty happy with my finishing time. Especially considering the fact that my longest ride leading up to the event was only 88 miles, and even that was a few weeks prior. 

When it came down to what mattered, I had what was important. My bike was clean, and had been given the love she deserved from the boys at Zumwalt's Bicycle Center, so she ran smooth and fast. I had my shades, courtesy of Spy Optics to keep the sun out of my eyes, and to keep me looking cool (which is more work than it seems!). I had my Team Ninja kit and lucky Unicorn socks on, so people would know I meant business. And I had Skratch Labs there to keep my hydrated in the heat.

Riding a bike is, like life, a learning experience, and while we may not always get the results that we want, we have to learn to accept the results that we earn. At the end of the day, I’m happy with how things turned out. I’ll take what I learned, both about the event and about myself, and I’ll apply it to other races. That’s all I can do in the end. I was raised knowing that if I didn't get the result I wanted, to learn from it and try harder next time. We can’t all win, but so long as you’re happy with how you did and know you gave it your all, then you sure as hell didn't lose. And in my book, that’s pretty damn good.

Till next time, keep the rubber side down, and your skin off the ground.

Big Bear race report: I raced a single speed against guys with gears

Have you ever done that? Entered to race against guys with gears, while you only have one? I've done it twice now with very different results, but both times were awesome. The first time was years ago, and honestly not the point of this story. This is a blog post about a mountain bike race, something I've not done for a long, long time.

You said it, Old Ben!

So, why'd I decide to race? Long story short, I just felt it was time. It'd been long enough since my concussion that I started to feel confident in my abilities again. Of course, having not even ridden a mountain bike in that two year span, my self-confidence was completely unfounded, but that's besides the point! The point is, I decided to race a single speed. Not only a single speed, but a rigid single speed. On a course that I knew had a few spots that would make life unpleasant. I may not have started the race as an angry singlespeeder, but damn if I wasn't close by races end.

Before we begin, though, let's review my thought process for why I decided to race a rigid bike with one friggin' gear on a course that featured some brutally steep sections, against guys who's method of compensating was shifting: in short, there was no thought process. There. Glad we got that settled.

So! Big Bear. I've always thought it was a bitchin' course. Fire road climbs, fire road descents, with single track thrown in for good measure. Like I said, though, I raced guys with gears, and this course starts you off with a 2 mile long climb that averages just under 6%. Except when it gets steeper, and sometimes it's triple that. Yeah, triple. And all you can do is sit there, pedal, and try not to cry. I may or may not have succeeded on that last part. Especially since, by the time I hit the top of the climb, all my competition had left me in the dust, literally and figuratively.

If you feel like looking at the course, take a peek at this. Feel like you've got it? Good. Let's continue.

This course, like most of the Big Bear courses, was a lot of fire road climbs or descents. The first real tough part for me was a section called Plantation Trail. It comes at about the 7.7 mile mark, and lasts for just under a mile. Plantation is a twofold section of ouch for me because it's a single track climb. You don't gain a ton of elevation, but when all you have is the one gear, it's enough to put some hurt into the legs. Doubly so because you climb up to Plantation, and then continue to climb after you leave Plantation.

Shortly after that came a trail I'd never ridden before: Skyline Trail. Skyline is like 30% awesome, followed promptly by suck. The first 1/3 of the the trail is rad, because it's little rollers that you can just flow through. The rest, though? Hey, yeah, more climbing. With some technical shit thrown in because the course designers hate you. Yes you, specifically.

There was one section that I knew we'd be racing that I was afraid of, and that was Pirates. In years past when I raced mountain bikes, Pirates had a log transfer that you had to cross, followed shortly by a short, steep, technical climb. Now? Pansy shit. No log transfer. The climb has been shallowed out a bit, and all the technical shit has been removed. Meh.

But Fall Line. Oh Fall Line. When I first raced in Big Bear oh so many years ago, I remember my mentor, Bob Umpenhauer, telling me, "Fall Line is sandy and rocky. It's important to pick a good line, try to follow it, and don't die." Fall Line still sort of lived up to its name. It was less sandy, but just as rocky. You had to pick a good line, and if you were a hard man like yours truly and were rocking a rigid fork, you just had to hang on for dear life and pray you didn't crash out. Obviously I lived, and it was a blast. Plus I got some props from the guys behind me who, when they were able to pass, noticed my rigid fork from the airy comfort of their full suspension bikes. Here's a video of Fall Line. If you can, watch it till the 1:25:31 mark, which is when Fall Line ends.

We tackled yet another new section that had been shredded to shit, and which I was not a fan of because it was stupid, before diving into one of the last two sections I was scrapared (scared and prepared) for: Fern Trail. Fern Trail is basically just more downhill single track, except for one really tricky section. It's a sharp right hand turn that requires you to descend down either large rocks or roots. It was here that a photographer, Called to Creation, decided to post up. Go ahead and take a look and see what I'm talking about. Fortunately, he'd seen me earlier in the day, and as I settled in to bomb the descent, he gave me a shout out.

Then the last section of the course that had been on my mind since before I started. It has no name, but I've taken to calling it "that rocky section where Kris Gross crashed out and had to get stitches." All I can say is, it's a downhill with a ton of little rocks, and it's easy to lose your wheel. And it's where I let the bike have its head, and do what it needed to do to keep us both upright. My arms bounced around so much, they actually went numb. But I'm happy to say, the Marin handled it!

Post race steed, proudly showing off its dirt.

So, long story short, I finished last. Not counting the guys who decided they weren't manly enough to finish the race. If you ask me, they should turn in their bikes. I did the whole thing on a rigid, 26'r, single speed, and still finished. They have zero excuses, short of maybe their legs falling off. Maybe.

If I knew I was gonna finish last, what was the point? To have fun, to shock people, and to see if I could still race a mountain bike. Hell, I'm willing to be I was the only guy out there on a rigid, 26'r that was also racing a single speed. That's what cycling has always been about for me: pushing your limits. Or, to put it another way....

DO EPIC SHIT.

Whatever you do, make it epic, and enjoy it. You won't regret it.

Now, I just wanna give a quick shout-out to some of my sponsors, without all of whom I wouldn't be the racer I am today.

Spy Optics: your shades have survived everything I've put them through which, if you know me, is a lot. And they not only still hold up, but they also look fantastic. I almost wish they would break, just so I could justify buying a new pair! If you want a rad pair of sunglasses that are light on your face and can take some spills, check out what Spy has to offer!

Zumwalt's Bicycle Center: I brought the Marin in to them on a Tuesday, and said I'd need it by Friday. When they saw the bike, all of us were skeptical that she'd be race ready in that time. She needed a ton of love and parts. But damn did thee guys at the shop get to work. Not only did they do what I thought would be a truly daunting task, they had my bike ready the next day. Hell, saying the bike was ready is an understatement. The bike was unstoppable! I can't thank the guys at Zumwalt's Bicycle Center enough for all their hard work!

Skratch Labs: it averaged about 88 degrees during my race. I knew it'd be hot, so I brought two bottles full of Skratch Labs hydration mix with me. Imagine my shock and disappointment when, during a particularly tricky downhill section just 4 miles into my race, one of my bottles bounced out of the bottle cage and off into the wilderness! Suddenly I had one bottle to last me for 16 miles. But ya know what? I wasn't worried. I knew I had some Skratch Labs in it (pineapple, too! One of my favorite flavors), so I'd be alright! And you know what? Not only was I OK, I felt great after the race. My total hydration had barely dropped. I've been drinking Skratch Labs for well over a year, and even I was impressed! Bravo, guys!

OK, that's all done. Sorry it was so long guys, but I'll let you go now. Until the next one, keep the rubber side down, and your skin off the ground.