2008
TRUST ME 021108
Yesterday my ride group was taking a break at Nelly's and I got the idea to take them on a little roundabout route through upper Piedmont on the way home. A nice, gentle side route with the aim being to show them a new area and a fun downhill to boot. Well, I got good natured flak from almost everybody on this. They were skeptical of my intentions and convinced that I was going to trick them into climbing a MoFo hill. I gave repeated assurances it wasn't like that, and everyone eventually agreed to go, and they did have a good time. However, I did not ask them to "trust me" on this. Read on and I will explain.More...
I suppose I have brought this upon myself as a proponent of gnarly hill climbing. I talk it up in the forums, I design rides around it, and, depending upon the crowd, occasionally do a Flashcut in the middle of a ride to tackle a radically pitched slope. In the forums some of us get gleeful hyping up the hill hysteria with words like "ill", "sick", "deathly"; we exaggerate for effect. And it's not just me, I have co-conspirators as well and we challenge each other. It's all in fun. So something of a reputation is formed around all this.
I admit that I am an admirer of P.T. Barnum and as such have become my own public relations department, creating the Flash(TM) brand as it were, coming up with catch words or phrases, and generally just running with it and having fun building the ride persona. The core of the Flash brand is not about long distance rides, or scientific training, or exotic bike adventures abroad, no, its about exploring local side routes and gnarly hill climbing. Therein lies the problem, and from this springs the trust issue. There is a regular contingent that just wants to do the regular rides, the same routes, the tried and trusted, the comfortable, the known, and this is all they need. My problem is that sometimes I get excited, think I know what they need more than they do, and I start in with the "let's do this, let's do that" routine on other people's groups, forgetting that sticking with the posted plan serves the less able or less adventurous in the group. We need to support the less experienced riders, and God Forbid they get sucked into the black hole at the foot of a man-eating MoFo, never to be seen again.
It hit me some time back when I posted in a forum and ended with the phrase "trust me". A reply shot back from a very sober young man who stated that he immediately distrusted anyone who used that phrase, and I got the gist, although unstated, that that meant me especially. That gave me pause because I have had this issue with my wife Cathy for years. She reacts the same way as the young man--- immediate wariness--- even when I am 100% sincere in my plea for trust. This distrust stems from her need for evidence that I know what I am talking about, and not just me demanding blind faith from her. Secondly, she needs to know that asking her to trust me is serving her best interests, not my own. I think that maybe all of us have been burned at one time or another by putting our trust in someone and having it been broken. That leaves a lasting impression. It's also something of a dark joke in our culture and media, in movies and television the person who utters this phrase is usually suspect in their motives. So, who can you trust?
Ok, I have to admit that I like to persuade people to do challenging things on the bike. It's like a dare--- there is the boy inside the man that comes out to play, and I like to see people's eyes widen, their pulse speed up, their faces flush a bit in anticipation. And in all the times this has happened, not one person has said "Flash, you're full of shit--- I HATED it!" Most people are amazed and thrilled when they make it up a Moeser, a Hiller or a Vollmer--- the feeling of accomplishment is awesome. Even if, as a last resort (the indefatigable Rickenbacker comes to mind here) they had to walk their bikes up a formidable hill, several rides later they even look back on that fondly. At the very least, it makes a damn good story. That's all I am trying to put out there; I don't want to make someone suffer for the sake of suffering, I want the suffering to provide a commensurate reward.
If you read my last blog you know I've been mentoring Cathy/Flashette with rides up to the foothills and flats of Berkeley, basically Sunday type rides. I mentioned this trust issue to her and she surprised me yesterday by saying that when she rides along with me she trusts me implicitly, listens intently, and unquestioningly does what I say. She said her trust is 100%. Wow... wow. That gives me pause. That means a lot. It means I am doing it right, at least that I know how to do it right, so now it's just a matter of demonstrating to people in my rides that that is what I'm about.
So I'm not quite ready just yet to start throwing out "HEY, TRUST ME!(s)". But know that, if, on a ride I spontaneously present a Flashcut to the group, that I know what I'm doing. I've ridden it before, I've assessed the group, I've concluded they can do it. I only randomneur unknown routes with the most capable riding companions, and I always ask them anyway.
Trust me on this.
Ride on my friends.
**************************
I suppose I have brought this upon myself as a proponent of gnarly hill climbing. I talk it up in the forums, I design rides around it, and, depending upon the crowd, occasionally do a Flashcut in the middle of a ride to tackle a radically pitched slope. In the forums some of us get gleeful hyping up the hill hysteria with words like "ill", "sick", "deathly"; we exaggerate for effect. And it's not just me, I have co-conspirators as well and we challenge each other. It's all in fun. So something of a reputation is formed around all this.
I admit that I am an admirer of P.T. Barnum and as such have become my own public relations department, creating the Flash(TM) brand as it were, coming up with catch words or phrases, and generally just running with it and having fun building the ride persona. The core of the Flash brand is not about long distance rides, or scientific training, or exotic bike adventures abroad, no, its about exploring local side routes and gnarly hill climbing. Therein lies the problem, and from this springs the trust issue. There is a regular contingent that just wants to do the regular rides, the same routes, the tried and trusted, the comfortable, the known, and this is all they need. My problem is that sometimes I get excited, think I know what they need more than they do, and I start in with the "let's do this, let's do that" routine on other people's groups, forgetting that sticking with the posted plan serves the less able or less adventurous in the group. We need to support the less experienced riders, and God Forbid they get sucked into the black hole at the foot of a man-eating MoFo, never to be seen again.
It hit me some time back when I posted in a forum and ended with the phrase "trust me". A reply shot back from a very sober young man who stated that he immediately distrusted anyone who used that phrase, and I got the gist, although unstated, that that meant me especially. That gave me pause because I have had this issue with my wife Cathy for years. She reacts the same way as the young man--- immediate wariness--- even when I am 100% sincere in my plea for trust. This distrust stems from her need for evidence that I know what I am talking about, and not just me demanding blind faith from her. Secondly, she needs to know that asking her to trust me is serving her best interests, not my own. I think that maybe all of us have been burned at one time or another by putting our trust in someone and having it been broken. That leaves a lasting impression. It's also something of a dark joke in our culture and media, in movies and television the person who utters this phrase is usually suspect in their motives. So, who can you trust?
Ok, I have to admit that I like to persuade people to do challenging things on the bike. It's like a dare--- there is the boy inside the man that comes out to play, and I like to see people's eyes widen, their pulse speed up, their faces flush a bit in anticipation. And in all the times this has happened, not one person has said "Flash, you're full of shit--- I HATED it!" Most people are amazed and thrilled when they make it up a Moeser, a Hiller or a Vollmer--- the feeling of accomplishment is awesome. Even if, as a last resort (the indefatigable Rickenbacker comes to mind here) they had to walk their bikes up a formidable hill, several rides later they even look back on that fondly. At the very least, it makes a damn good story. That's all I am trying to put out there; I don't want to make someone suffer for the sake of suffering, I want the suffering to provide a commensurate reward.
If you read my last blog you know I've been mentoring Cathy/Flashette with rides up to the foothills and flats of Berkeley, basically Sunday type rides. I mentioned this trust issue to her and she surprised me yesterday by saying that when she rides along with me she trusts me implicitly, listens intently, and unquestioningly does what I say. She said her trust is 100%. Wow... wow. That gives me pause. That means a lot. It means I am doing it right, at least that I know how to do it right, so now it's just a matter of demonstrating to people in my rides that that is what I'm about.
So I'm not quite ready just yet to start throwing out "HEY, TRUST ME!(s)". But know that, if, on a ride I spontaneously present a Flashcut to the group, that I know what I'm doing. I've ridden it before, I've assessed the group, I've concluded they can do it. I only randomneur unknown routes with the most capable riding companions, and I always ask them anyway.
Trust me on this.
Ride on my friends.
**************************
THE ORIGINS OF FLASH---THE 90'S 042408
Greetings. Thanks for mousing over here to Flashblog. I realize you must be out of the habit by now. I've been suffering from a bit of writer's block in that I've not been able to complete any blogs. I've actually got several drafts sitting on the virtual back burners like cheap cuts of pot roast, eternally marinating in their own insipid juices, the slow flames breaking down the proteins and gristle until an edible product is formed, and with enough salt, can be gagged down.
So I decided, the hell with trying to be new, improved, and relevant, I'll just go with a stream-of-consciousness type blog and let it be what it is. One idea I've been spritzing myself with is the Origins of Flash series. Flashette gets credit here: she came up to me one day and said " Who is Flash anyway? I'm married to you, but who the hell are you?" A classic line if I must say so myself.
Its easy to write about, I know the subject well, and its slightly relevant. At least the blog gets updated, so here goes!More...
I will start with the 90's for one simple reason: Nothing Happened then. At least as far as my bike life is concerned. I didn't have one. Although I do recall one incident when I needed to get something quick from Long's Drugs, which is three blocks away. I jumped on my bike, pedaled hard, and my legs cramped up before Oak St. My quads just seized up. I remember my exact words "Man, am I pathetic!" This episode cemented the notion in my mind that I was too old to ever ride any distance on the road ever again, and that was a notion that kept me off the bike for many good years. That's it. End of story. Thanks for reading!
Just kidding...so the question begs to be asked, "Well, what did you do during this decade?" The answer is simple: I built scale models. I know, I know, the first reaction most people have is that "that's for kids". Well, I can tell you that there were very few kids present at the level I found myself at, which was at the competitive level of the International Plastic Modeler's Society- the IPMS. (cue Dark Star theme)
Of course, I didn't start there. I started by building a model in the late 80's. Model building is a very sedate activity, and I found that I could tune out the world for hours at a time constructing intricate little details of a ship's funnel or the wing rigging of a World War One Albatros fighter plane. I had a little detached closet off the back hallway of the Victorian I was renting out of, and it was very pleasant in the summer, but cold in the winter. I created my own little fantasy world in this 6'x4' room, and escaped there whenever I could. It was a burrow insulated from the outside world, and I made many models and was very happy.
Then one day I got the urge to share my models with other modelers. This was a watershed moment, for it changed everything. I found the other modelers through a good friend I had met at the hobby shop, and he turned me onto the crack known as the IPMS. The IPMS, you see, holds model competitions where judges rate models by their level of flawlessness, and trophies are awarded. Let me tell you, when you win a trophy, you start seeing things differently. I won a lot of them quickly, and became addicted to winning trophies. So I started building ever more intricate models so that I could win bigger and better trophies, and I did including several 1st place awards at the 1998 IMPS National Convention in Santa Clara. Best in the nation in my category, pretty high accolades.
But then came the downside. How could I possibly hope to surpass that? I couldn't. Lesser contests didn't cut it anymore. Modeling became meaningless to me- I had a wall covered with award plaques that meant nothing. I no longer did it for the pleasure it once gave me, but rather for the transient, fleeting high of a temporary award fix. I had lost the innocence and magic that had once made this pastime so compelling.
So I turned to the internet. Digital cameras were just coming out, and with this new technology my friend created a modeling internet site, imaged my models, and posted them along with build stories I would write up to accompany the photos. So you see, this is a seminal origin point for Flash- the writing of the model stories is exactly analogous to writing the Team Alameda ride reports which got the whole Flash thing going in the first place. Some of these model articles are still out there, here's one, a good representative sample:
http://steelnavy.com/Yamato%20JG.htm
But even this new internet fame grew tiresome over the next year or two. I found myself building for the internet and an invisible audience that might throw me a positive bone now and then, which for a time renewed my interest in the hobby, but ultimately I knew I had made my mark and had nothing more to say, and the modeling just petered out, went totally fallow. Today, I have a closet full of kits and accessories, and know these will never get built. I have boxes upon boxes of completed models in the closet, and now and then I open them up and marvel at the skill I had then. When I look at them I am reminded of what a powerful influence is competition and awards, its a drug, its addictive, and it ruins simple pleasures.
I recall at one competition I had the crystallizing realization that countless hours had gone into every model on the display tables, guys had poured their hearts as souls into these tiny replicas, and how subjective is it to say that one is better than another? Why do we have to critique, demerit and dismiss one guy's work so that the other guy can get a shiny award? It doesn't make sense, but its at the heart of our culture. So what I took away from all this is that competitions are, in essence, bogus. Winners or losers, is that what it boils down to? Sure, its better to win, but even that will surely mess with your mind almost as certainly as losing will.
So the end of the 90's period finds me in between interests- the past of modeling, and the near future of my third bicycling incarnation. Looking back I can see there was still some momentum from the modeling era that influenced my new bike life, but that would not come into play until I found Team Alameda, and that my friends, I will leave to the next installment in this series.
Thanks for reading and keep on riding.
***************************
So I decided, the hell with trying to be new, improved, and relevant, I'll just go with a stream-of-consciousness type blog and let it be what it is. One idea I've been spritzing myself with is the Origins of Flash series. Flashette gets credit here: she came up to me one day and said " Who is Flash anyway? I'm married to you, but who the hell are you?" A classic line if I must say so myself.
Its easy to write about, I know the subject well, and its slightly relevant. At least the blog gets updated, so here goes!More...
I will start with the 90's for one simple reason: Nothing Happened then. At least as far as my bike life is concerned. I didn't have one. Although I do recall one incident when I needed to get something quick from Long's Drugs, which is three blocks away. I jumped on my bike, pedaled hard, and my legs cramped up before Oak St. My quads just seized up. I remember my exact words "Man, am I pathetic!" This episode cemented the notion in my mind that I was too old to ever ride any distance on the road ever again, and that was a notion that kept me off the bike for many good years. That's it. End of story. Thanks for reading!
Just kidding...so the question begs to be asked, "Well, what did you do during this decade?" The answer is simple: I built scale models. I know, I know, the first reaction most people have is that "that's for kids". Well, I can tell you that there were very few kids present at the level I found myself at, which was at the competitive level of the International Plastic Modeler's Society- the IPMS. (cue Dark Star theme)
Of course, I didn't start there. I started by building a model in the late 80's. Model building is a very sedate activity, and I found that I could tune out the world for hours at a time constructing intricate little details of a ship's funnel or the wing rigging of a World War One Albatros fighter plane. I had a little detached closet off the back hallway of the Victorian I was renting out of, and it was very pleasant in the summer, but cold in the winter. I created my own little fantasy world in this 6'x4' room, and escaped there whenever I could. It was a burrow insulated from the outside world, and I made many models and was very happy.
Then one day I got the urge to share my models with other modelers. This was a watershed moment, for it changed everything. I found the other modelers through a good friend I had met at the hobby shop, and he turned me onto the crack known as the IPMS. The IPMS, you see, holds model competitions where judges rate models by their level of flawlessness, and trophies are awarded. Let me tell you, when you win a trophy, you start seeing things differently. I won a lot of them quickly, and became addicted to winning trophies. So I started building ever more intricate models so that I could win bigger and better trophies, and I did including several 1st place awards at the 1998 IMPS National Convention in Santa Clara. Best in the nation in my category, pretty high accolades.
But then came the downside. How could I possibly hope to surpass that? I couldn't. Lesser contests didn't cut it anymore. Modeling became meaningless to me- I had a wall covered with award plaques that meant nothing. I no longer did it for the pleasure it once gave me, but rather for the transient, fleeting high of a temporary award fix. I had lost the innocence and magic that had once made this pastime so compelling.
So I turned to the internet. Digital cameras were just coming out, and with this new technology my friend created a modeling internet site, imaged my models, and posted them along with build stories I would write up to accompany the photos. So you see, this is a seminal origin point for Flash- the writing of the model stories is exactly analogous to writing the Team Alameda ride reports which got the whole Flash thing going in the first place. Some of these model articles are still out there, here's one, a good representative sample:
http://steelnavy.com/Yamato%20JG.htm
But even this new internet fame grew tiresome over the next year or two. I found myself building for the internet and an invisible audience that might throw me a positive bone now and then, which for a time renewed my interest in the hobby, but ultimately I knew I had made my mark and had nothing more to say, and the modeling just petered out, went totally fallow. Today, I have a closet full of kits and accessories, and know these will never get built. I have boxes upon boxes of completed models in the closet, and now and then I open them up and marvel at the skill I had then. When I look at them I am reminded of what a powerful influence is competition and awards, its a drug, its addictive, and it ruins simple pleasures.
I recall at one competition I had the crystallizing realization that countless hours had gone into every model on the display tables, guys had poured their hearts as souls into these tiny replicas, and how subjective is it to say that one is better than another? Why do we have to critique, demerit and dismiss one guy's work so that the other guy can get a shiny award? It doesn't make sense, but its at the heart of our culture. So what I took away from all this is that competitions are, in essence, bogus. Winners or losers, is that what it boils down to? Sure, its better to win, but even that will surely mess with your mind almost as certainly as losing will.
So the end of the 90's period finds me in between interests- the past of modeling, and the near future of my third bicycling incarnation. Looking back I can see there was still some momentum from the modeling era that influenced my new bike life, but that would not come into play until I found Team Alameda, and that my friends, I will leave to the next installment in this series.
Thanks for reading and keep on riding.
***************************
INTO THE PASSES OF DEATH THEY RODE 060808
I've always been fascinated with mountain climbing documentaries, especially those focusing on Mt. Everest Expeditions. I begrudgingly have to admire those men and women who climb into the "death zone", where oxygen is scarce, the cold can freeze off your appendages, apocalyptic storms threaten survival, and yes, where some sportsmen give it their all--but all is not enough--and on the side of the mountain they lie, freeze dried for eternity in their neon '70s climbing garb. I admire them because they cast away their better judgment, their guaranteed safety, to put themselves in certain danger, just to stand on top of a mountain for 30 minutes, just to say they have done it. You could say it makes no sense.More...
Back in the '90s, my wife Cathy and I settled into camping in the Hope Valley/ Markleeville area of the Sierra Nevadas every summer. We found this location to be tucked away from the bustle of Lake Tahoe, a quiet area with little signs of civilization save for the town itself and a few stores along the roadside here and there. On several of our camping trips we noticed the throngs of bicycle riders converging on the area, and posters in Markleeville revealed that this was the pre-Death Ride happening. I recall admiringly observing all the cyclists and thinking "I used to be one of them. I could have done this. Wait- Naw! No way would I have done this. This is crazy!" I may even have referred to them as nutcases.
But there were vestigial indications even way back then, back when I was not riding at all. I recall driving both sides of Ebbett's pass. On the western side, at the summit, I was smitten by the beauty of the spot and imagined myself standing there with my bicycle, what a nice fantasy. Driving back up the eastern side, my Taurus wagon's motor knocking in the summer heat up the switchbacks, I marveled that people pedaled up this road, and again I imagined myself in my '80s incarnation doing just that. My inner cyclist was dormant but still alive, he knew what adventures existed, but my mind just overruled the thoughts with " It's too late, I'm too old, I could never do that."
So here I am, four and half weeks away from certifying myself as a crazy nutcase, trying to prepare for this ride---a ride which will take me further away from my nice, comfortable ride boundaries than I have ever been before. People have asked my why I am doing it, I ask myself the same question everyday--- because I know there will be much suffering to endure.
I suppose I could say I'm doing it on a whim. I entered the Death Ride Lottery just to see if I would get picked. I didn't, and I have to admit a pang of disappointment when that happened, and that surprised me. But with the rejection came a sigh of relief as well. Then, with only 48 hrs left to register, they sent me an email saying I was in. I had to decide fast and Cath said, "You're in the best shape you've ever been in; do it now," so I jumped on it, thinking I could always sell the spot if I wanted.
But then something changed. Having made the decision to do this ride changed the way I think about riding. My usual regimen no longer seemed adequate, so I found myself pushing the envelope of my usual rides. They now became "training" rides. I never thought of them that way before. Last week I had a day off and went out for a training ride, and I found myself pedaling up Claremont Ave. in Berkeley up to Grizzly Peak. Normally one of these climbs is enough. On this day I turned around and rode down to Peet's at the bottom of the hill, did a U-turn, and rode back up the same way to the peak. Still feeling pretty good, I then rode south to Tunnel Rd, over to Claremont, and up it again to the Crossroads. I never, ever considered a 3X Claremont/Grizzly training ride before. Even after having done it, I was asking myself if it was enough. There is a 3X Diablo ride coming up, and I am fearing that. "They" say doing this is a necessary test of ability to complete the Death Ride, but to me it seems pretty deadly in itself. Some of the suggested training programs are nearly as fearsome as the event itself!
So... why am I doing this? I am doing it because I can. It's that simple. I've managed to persevere and ride for a year straight through and keep my condition tuned. My mileage is the best its been this time of year, as is my climbing stats, currently at just under 200K'. My recovery time has quickened and I'm finding that the harder I ride, the less wasted I feel after. Its strange but a gladly accepted anomaly right now. If I don't do the Death Ride this year, then when? True, I might be in even better shape next year, but the opposite can just as easily hold true--- something could happen to keep me off the bike for good, and that is the main impetus for me right now--- this is the time, this is the place, I may not get another chance.
Another important reason is that I'm going to be in splendid company- camping with Fred and riding with no less than Death Ride Dan, 5 time completer, Brian Aldrich, 2 time Triple Crown Winner and sick, sick hill climber, Warren---our Team mountain goat and first timer, as well as John Williams and Tim Cotter, also DR virgins. So we get to share the experience, bond through trial by fire.
Everyday I imagine my ride number with 5 stickers framed behind glass, hanging on the wall, with all our signatures, and maybe a Carson Pass group photo in the corner. I want to look at this thing 20 years from now, a reminder that maybe it makes no sense and I may be a nutcase, but I pulled myself out of middle-aged decrepitude, pedaled hard and joyfully for years, and finally, finally, climbed my Mt. Everest.
*************************
Back in the '90s, my wife Cathy and I settled into camping in the Hope Valley/ Markleeville area of the Sierra Nevadas every summer. We found this location to be tucked away from the bustle of Lake Tahoe, a quiet area with little signs of civilization save for the town itself and a few stores along the roadside here and there. On several of our camping trips we noticed the throngs of bicycle riders converging on the area, and posters in Markleeville revealed that this was the pre-Death Ride happening. I recall admiringly observing all the cyclists and thinking "I used to be one of them. I could have done this. Wait- Naw! No way would I have done this. This is crazy!" I may even have referred to them as nutcases.
But there were vestigial indications even way back then, back when I was not riding at all. I recall driving both sides of Ebbett's pass. On the western side, at the summit, I was smitten by the beauty of the spot and imagined myself standing there with my bicycle, what a nice fantasy. Driving back up the eastern side, my Taurus wagon's motor knocking in the summer heat up the switchbacks, I marveled that people pedaled up this road, and again I imagined myself in my '80s incarnation doing just that. My inner cyclist was dormant but still alive, he knew what adventures existed, but my mind just overruled the thoughts with " It's too late, I'm too old, I could never do that."
So here I am, four and half weeks away from certifying myself as a crazy nutcase, trying to prepare for this ride---a ride which will take me further away from my nice, comfortable ride boundaries than I have ever been before. People have asked my why I am doing it, I ask myself the same question everyday--- because I know there will be much suffering to endure.
I suppose I could say I'm doing it on a whim. I entered the Death Ride Lottery just to see if I would get picked. I didn't, and I have to admit a pang of disappointment when that happened, and that surprised me. But with the rejection came a sigh of relief as well. Then, with only 48 hrs left to register, they sent me an email saying I was in. I had to decide fast and Cath said, "You're in the best shape you've ever been in; do it now," so I jumped on it, thinking I could always sell the spot if I wanted.
But then something changed. Having made the decision to do this ride changed the way I think about riding. My usual regimen no longer seemed adequate, so I found myself pushing the envelope of my usual rides. They now became "training" rides. I never thought of them that way before. Last week I had a day off and went out for a training ride, and I found myself pedaling up Claremont Ave. in Berkeley up to Grizzly Peak. Normally one of these climbs is enough. On this day I turned around and rode down to Peet's at the bottom of the hill, did a U-turn, and rode back up the same way to the peak. Still feeling pretty good, I then rode south to Tunnel Rd, over to Claremont, and up it again to the Crossroads. I never, ever considered a 3X Claremont/Grizzly training ride before. Even after having done it, I was asking myself if it was enough. There is a 3X Diablo ride coming up, and I am fearing that. "They" say doing this is a necessary test of ability to complete the Death Ride, but to me it seems pretty deadly in itself. Some of the suggested training programs are nearly as fearsome as the event itself!
So... why am I doing this? I am doing it because I can. It's that simple. I've managed to persevere and ride for a year straight through and keep my condition tuned. My mileage is the best its been this time of year, as is my climbing stats, currently at just under 200K'. My recovery time has quickened and I'm finding that the harder I ride, the less wasted I feel after. Its strange but a gladly accepted anomaly right now. If I don't do the Death Ride this year, then when? True, I might be in even better shape next year, but the opposite can just as easily hold true--- something could happen to keep me off the bike for good, and that is the main impetus for me right now--- this is the time, this is the place, I may not get another chance.
Another important reason is that I'm going to be in splendid company- camping with Fred and riding with no less than Death Ride Dan, 5 time completer, Brian Aldrich, 2 time Triple Crown Winner and sick, sick hill climber, Warren---our Team mountain goat and first timer, as well as John Williams and Tim Cotter, also DR virgins. So we get to share the experience, bond through trial by fire.
Everyday I imagine my ride number with 5 stickers framed behind glass, hanging on the wall, with all our signatures, and maybe a Carson Pass group photo in the corner. I want to look at this thing 20 years from now, a reminder that maybe it makes no sense and I may be a nutcase, but I pulled myself out of middle-aged decrepitude, pedaled hard and joyfully for years, and finally, finally, climbed my Mt. Everest.
*************************
GIVING IT ALL TO THE BIKE 062308
I gave it all to the bike this week. This is a phrase coined by my perceptive wife Cathy, aka, Flashette, and usually used in a less than positive fashion, when she doesn't get what she wants because I got what I wanted. So I try to avoid this and save something for the old homestead, and I've been pretty good lately, but slipped up this week.
I realized this Sunday afternoon when I chose to pass out in bed rather than feed my family by doing my weekly Safeway shopping run. I used to joke about when the checker at the market asked me for "help out to the car", and how I would rate the difficulty of the weekend's rides by how close I came to saying yes to that offer, but never did. Yesterday I didn't even make it to the market. I blame the Death Ride.More...
If you read my last blog you know I'm training for this epic ride, and have been pushing my personal envelope into places I haven't gone before. Such as the 3X Diablo ride I mentioned in that last blog. You're asking yourself, "Say, how did that go anyway?" Thanks for asking. It went pretty well. I managed 2.5X climbs, 3 summits, on a very warm day. Trouble was, I was hungover that day. Not really fair as I only had three beers over the course of a long evening. I drank way more than this at my own birthday party and felt fine, albeit a little fuzzy the next day. Drinking for me is like spinning the roulette wheel. Most of the time the ball lands on a "feel fine" slot and life goes on. But sometimes it lands on "instant, nauseous headache" and the suffering begins, usually all night long, and sometimes after only one drink. Dreadful times.
So I awoke that day at 4am with this pounding headache, but looked at it as an increased degree of difficulty and just pushed through it as I really wanted to do this ride. Solid training, not pleasant, but I think it provided me with a mental armoring- I found I could climb 8,200' in the heat with a pounding head, over and over. I swear I am not going to drink before the Death Ride- but its good to know if such a headache arises then I can deal with it.
This last week I had some days off midweek and on Wednesday I went out for a training ride in the local hills, almost 7000 feet of climbing, then on Saturday, another 6700 feet over to Mt. Tam, and a "casual" Sunday ride of almost 4000 feet. 17000 feet in five days. Riding up Tunnel Rd yesterday I entered a Twilight Zone place rarely visited, I was riding in some alternate reality, brought on by low blood sugar I think, and had no more food with me, and I thought, this is good, I need to explore this place of deep, deep reserves where I mistakenly replaced carbs with caffeine and was now experiencing a cycling Lost Weekend. I recall reading somewhere that the the Death Rider has little consciousness left towards the end of the ride, and I got a glimpse of that yesterday.
So I skipped Safeway. Flashette was also wasted from a hard four days previous, early mornings, late nights, and we grumbled and moaned together about how we gave it all to other things or people instead of each other. Its a temporary condition. Its a process of transformation. One must sacrifice to achieve loftier goals. When we improve, we feel awesome, and we want to share that with others.
On July 12th I will utterly, completely, absolutely give it all to the bike. I will be completely annihilated, thrown whole into the fires to burn to ash and smoke, and from those glowing embers my Phoenix shall take wing, eyes glowing red, beak smiling wickedly, and there will be a new Summer of Love unlike any since 1967! Flashette: Prepare thyself!
Ride on my friends.
***********************
I realized this Sunday afternoon when I chose to pass out in bed rather than feed my family by doing my weekly Safeway shopping run. I used to joke about when the checker at the market asked me for "help out to the car", and how I would rate the difficulty of the weekend's rides by how close I came to saying yes to that offer, but never did. Yesterday I didn't even make it to the market. I blame the Death Ride.More...
If you read my last blog you know I'm training for this epic ride, and have been pushing my personal envelope into places I haven't gone before. Such as the 3X Diablo ride I mentioned in that last blog. You're asking yourself, "Say, how did that go anyway?" Thanks for asking. It went pretty well. I managed 2.5X climbs, 3 summits, on a very warm day. Trouble was, I was hungover that day. Not really fair as I only had three beers over the course of a long evening. I drank way more than this at my own birthday party and felt fine, albeit a little fuzzy the next day. Drinking for me is like spinning the roulette wheel. Most of the time the ball lands on a "feel fine" slot and life goes on. But sometimes it lands on "instant, nauseous headache" and the suffering begins, usually all night long, and sometimes after only one drink. Dreadful times.
So I awoke that day at 4am with this pounding headache, but looked at it as an increased degree of difficulty and just pushed through it as I really wanted to do this ride. Solid training, not pleasant, but I think it provided me with a mental armoring- I found I could climb 8,200' in the heat with a pounding head, over and over. I swear I am not going to drink before the Death Ride- but its good to know if such a headache arises then I can deal with it.
This last week I had some days off midweek and on Wednesday I went out for a training ride in the local hills, almost 7000 feet of climbing, then on Saturday, another 6700 feet over to Mt. Tam, and a "casual" Sunday ride of almost 4000 feet. 17000 feet in five days. Riding up Tunnel Rd yesterday I entered a Twilight Zone place rarely visited, I was riding in some alternate reality, brought on by low blood sugar I think, and had no more food with me, and I thought, this is good, I need to explore this place of deep, deep reserves where I mistakenly replaced carbs with caffeine and was now experiencing a cycling Lost Weekend. I recall reading somewhere that the the Death Rider has little consciousness left towards the end of the ride, and I got a glimpse of that yesterday.
So I skipped Safeway. Flashette was also wasted from a hard four days previous, early mornings, late nights, and we grumbled and moaned together about how we gave it all to other things or people instead of each other. Its a temporary condition. Its a process of transformation. One must sacrifice to achieve loftier goals. When we improve, we feel awesome, and we want to share that with others.
On July 12th I will utterly, completely, absolutely give it all to the bike. I will be completely annihilated, thrown whole into the fires to burn to ash and smoke, and from those glowing embers my Phoenix shall take wing, eyes glowing red, beak smiling wickedly, and there will be a new Summer of Love unlike any since 1967! Flashette: Prepare thyself!
Ride on my friends.
***********************
DEATH RIDE '08 071608
I gave it all to the bike this week. This is a phrase coined by my perceptive wife Cathy, aka, Flashette, and usually used in a less than positive fashion, when she doesn't get what she wants because I got what I wanted. So I try to avoid this and save something for the old homestead, and I've been pretty good lately, but slipped up this week.
I realized this Sunday afternoon when I chose to pass out in bed rather than feed my family by doing my weekly Safeway shopping run. I used to joke about when the checker at the market asked me for "help out to the car", and how I would rate the difficulty of the weekend's rides by how close I came to saying yes to that offer, but never did. Yesterday I didn't even make it to the market. I blame the Death Ride.More...
If you read my last blog you know I'm training for this epic ride, and have been pushing my personal envelope into places I haven't gone before. Such as the 3X Diablo ride I mentioned in that last blog. You're asking yourself, "Say, how did that go anyway?" Thanks for asking. It went pretty well. I managed 2.5X climbs, 3 summits, on a very warm day. Trouble was, I was hungover that day. Not really fair as I only had three beers over the course of a long evening. I drank way more than this at my own birthday party and felt fine, albeit a little fuzzy the next day. Drinking for me is like spinning the roulette wheel. Most of the time the ball lands on a "feel fine" slot and life goes on. But sometimes it lands on "instant, nauseous headache" and the suffering begins, usually all night long, and sometimes after only one drink. Dreadful times.
So I awoke that day at 4am with this pounding headache, but looked at it as an increased degree of difficulty and just pushed through it as I really wanted to do this ride. Solid training, not pleasant, but I think it provided me with a mental armoring- I found I could climb 8,200' in the heat with a pounding head, over and over. I swear I am not going to drink before the Death Ride- but its good to know if such a headache arises then I can deal with it.
This last week I had some days off midweek and on Wednesday I went out for a training ride in the local hills, almost 7000 feet of climbing, then on Saturday, another 6700 feet over to Mt. Tam, and a "casual" Sunday ride of almost 4000 feet. 17000 feet in five days. Riding up Tunnel Rd yesterday I entered a Twilight Zone place rarely visited, I was riding in some alternate reality, brought on by low blood sugar I think, and had no more food with me, and I thought, this is good, I need to explore this place of deep, deep reserves where I mistakenly replaced carbs with caffeine and was now experiencing a cycling Lost Weekend. I recall reading somewhere that the the Death Rider has little consciousness left towards the end of the ride, and I got a glimpse of that yesterday.
So I skipped Safeway. Flashette was also wasted from a hard four days previous, early mornings, late nights, and we grumbled and moaned together about how we gave it all to other things or people instead of each other. Its a temporary condition. Its a process of transformation. One must sacrifice to achieve loftier goals. When we improve, we feel awesome, and we want to share that with others.
On July 12th I will utterly, completely, absolutely give it all to the bike. I will be completely annihilated, thrown whole into the fires to burn to ash and smoke, and from those glowing embers my Phoenix shall take wing, eyes glowing red, beak smiling wickedly, and there will be a new Summer of Love unlike any since 1967! Flashette: Prepare thyself!
Ride on my friends.
My Death Ride started at 3:30am inside of a very dark tent pitched in a clearing at Grover Hot Springs campground. Or had it? As I lay there in my down bag, the fog slowly lifting from my brain, it occurred to me that this was merely the day of the event. The ride had started many months ago, perhaps even years ago. At what point did I decide to do this? That I could do this? I pondered the point for 15 minutes then dressed and crossed the chilly meadow to the picnic table where I would proceed with priority One: make a strong cup of coffee.More...
That accomplished, I stumbled around with a flashlight trying to get myself and gear together at this ungodly hour. Who in their right mind exercises this early? Evidently a lot of people, as the sound of bikes whizzing nearby in the pitch blackness told me that some people were already ahead of me. I could see the stars clearly, so I knew that my wish for a miracle had occurred and the smoke had blown out overnight, did that ever lift my spirits as I had had a lot of anxiety over the lack of air quality. I ate a quick bowl of cereal, took a hike up to the bathrooms, stuffed a banana in my pocket along with gels and Clifbars, turned my lights on, and rode out of the campgrounds at 4:50. Its about 4 miles to town so I knew I was running late for a 5am meeting with the other guys. I hadn't heard that the start time had changed to 4:30. The sky was a not quite black, rather, very dark blue, and I was riding downhill, the 51 degree temperature seeming much cooler. I took it easy because even with the light I couldn't see holes and cracks in the road. I had a sense of exhilaration that it was finally happening.
In Markleeville, at 5:10am, I stopped at the T intersection and marveled at all the white and red lights streaming down the hill from Turtle Rock, the official start point. Its a fast descent into town, so I had to merge carefully. I scoped out the gas station and didn't see any TA riders so I figured they waited 5 minutes then left. Two large pelotons of riders came into town and I latched onto the rear group, bedazzled by the long line of red blinking lights ahead of me. The pace out of town was what Johnny H. would classify as humane, everyone just spinning and warming up it seemed. It was gradual uphill along the east fork of the Carson River for a few miles, nice work for the legs to get the blood flowing and an easy start.
Pass 1, west side Monitor (The Toxic Daquiri of Death)
Soon we reached the junction of Monitor and Ebbett's passes, and were directed left up Monitor. I thought the early parts were not unlike Tunnel Road, but a harder version, no doubt due to the altitude. The altitude makes a difference, oh yes. My first climb in these parts on Thursday had been a shock. It felt as if my bike wheels were filled with sand and I had aged about 10 years. I was alarmed, but on Friday I felt better as we took some pass descents and I got some altitude miles under my belt. But this early in the morning I just felt adequate, and climbed on autopilot with various groups, then alone, stopped a few times at roadside trees to free that coffee, and generally tried to find the groove. The climb seemed to just go on and on over its 7 miles or so. It seemed as if almost everyone was passing me, even a guy on a recumbant. That's a first. My strategy was not to get caught up in the excitement and go too hard early on, as many studly young guys seemed to be doing. They mostly rode Cervelos and Looks. I stuck to the plan. I glanced at their gear setups as they passed by, mostly standard compact gearing, but a few people like myself were sporting big mountain cassettes in back, sitting back and spinning.
All around me, there was much huffing and puffing near the summit, but I felt relaxed. It was getting light. I looked at my watch: 6:57am. Everyone came to a screaching halt in the summit saddle as the sticker appliers in their orange DeadHead T shirts did their thing right in the middle of the road. I didn't expect that. The rest stop was in full swing but I still had plenty of liquid for the descent down the backside. Somewhere on the climb I had eaten the banana so I wasn't hungry, so I skipped the stop, rode the small grade up the saddle, passed the official granite pass monument, then started the awesome 10 mile descent towards Nevada.More...
I took stock. I felt OK, warmed up, but not really in the groove. One pass in the bag, it wasn't all that bad so far. As I picked up speed and dropped down the other side, I marveled at the breathtaking panorama that lay in front of me. Spectacular jutting mountain ranges and flat, low lying valleys, far below. But not much time to take it all in as I was overtaking a lot of riders, constantly yelling LEFT!, concentrating on my lines, when I noticed this guy ahead in orange and blue that looked very familiar, and as I pulled around him, I saw TA rider Bruce Bothwell! Sporting TA colors as I was to boot! Yes! I was delightfully surprised, I didn't know he was in this ride. I yelled "howdy stranger!" and he looked as delightfully surprised as me, and we descended together to the Topaz Lake rest stop at highway 395, where we did a hasty meet and greet while reprovisioning supplies. Time: 7:35am. This was a crowded stop, let me tell you. I wandered to the food tent and was disappointed by the cuisine. Packages of Fig Newtons were everywhere, Clif bars, fruit wedges, Cytomax, water, pretty basic stuff. I guess I was expecting Wine Country Century fare, man, that ride spoiled me. Not even hot coffee at this place. My one cup was wearing off, so I ate a caffeine gel along with a half banana, two Newtons, a Tums tablet from Bruce for sodium, and some electrolyte drink. Still not hungry yet. I took off my leg and arm warmers and bagged them for delivery to Turtle Rock. In my pockets I had 3 gels, 4 Clifbars, 1 Fig Newton, 2 suncreen wipes, ibuprofens, a course map, money and ID, and a yellow vest. Despite the warming day, and stuffed pockets, I kept my wind vest, as Brian had advised, saying you never know what the weather will do up there.More...
Pass 2, east side Monitor (know to the locals as Mt. Meat Grinder)
Proudly displaying two stickers on our ride numbers, we set off up the big Monitor climb sometime before 8am. Lots of people were ahead of us, and still lots of people were coming down to Topaz. We tried to find the highest entry number we could, and I found one that said 3279- that seemed really high, I thought the ride was limited to 2500? It was a long slog along the valley floor, then the real climb began. Bruce was having some sore back issues, and I had to water a grateful bush, so we made a quick stop off the side of the road. We were approaching the midway watering service in which young guys, I believe track runners, run down to you as you climb, take your bottle, run up to the stop, fill it, then run after you and deliver it! I wanted to take full advantage of this rare service so I dumped my water bottle and handed it to a fit kid in purple. He sprinted up the hill, filled the bottle and handed it to me as I went by- he was so fast he didn't have to run after me. It was a much appreciated treat and I poured some of the cold water into my helmet as it was getting warm. I wore a cotton cycling cap all day to pour water into to make a helmet "swamp cooler" as it were. It worked great and kept my head temperature down.
Bruce and I worked a steady pace and found we weren't getting passed all that often. The hardest pitch is near the top and many people were balking at this point, but we kept the pace for a long, long time, and soon summited pass 2. Big smile on my face at this point as I knew that was the longest climb, and I had seen the costs it had extracted upon Fred the day before. We coasted down to the mid saddle rest stop for some food. I think it was a around 9:20. The cuisine had improved to cream cheese and bagels, and PBJ sandwich chunks, except that they had run out of peanut butter, so it was just PJ. I requested jam on the cheese bagels, and the DeadHeads happily complied, and I ate three of those, more water, and topped off the yellow water bottle of chemical supplements. Bruce reported his stomach had soured and he couldn't face eating, but he forced down something anyway, and just then he exclaimed "hey, over there- the Pink Lady!" and there she was, a neon pink nucleus in a sea of rainbow electrons swirling around her. I got excited and ran right over and greeted her- I considered this a very fine omen! Alison Stone herself, the Apostle of pink bricks and 85lb bikes, my out-of-the-box heroine of cycling, standing there as if grounding the entire madcap chaotic event with the sheer weight of her combined panniers. Awesome! She had started from Hermit Valley on the backside of Ebbett's and was doing the Monitors, then back up Ebbetts. Again, out of the box, totally doing the ride her way, against the gear mashing throngs making their way upstream like desperate spawning salmon. We checked in for a while, then it was time to go our separate ways. I took stock and concluded all systems were go-Bruce concurred-lets DO IT!More...
We now had a thrilling descent ahead of us, and timed it right as there were few ahead of us at that particular moment of departure, so we had little passing to contend with going down. This was my favorite descent with long, sweeping turns, the pavement was good, and I managed a high of 47mph with an easy 40 for the most part. Believe me, your gears are not nearly big enough to pedal these roads going down. This drop was sheer fun and did much to improve my overall sense of well being, and when we got down to the junction and made left for Ebbett's our spirits were pretty high.
Pass 3, east side Ebbett's, around 10am (Col du Carnage Asada)
We rode south along the Carson River, gently rolling tarmac before us, it was gorgeous, the weather was perfect, the sky was blue, it couldn't get any better. I rode along hands free to stretch my back and neck, ate a 100mg caff Clifgel, and prepared mentally for what lay ahead. This part was the big unknown for me, but I knew it was probably the hardest climb of the day, but I found the terrain was much more to my liking, river, trees, cool breeze, and more twisty, turny. Soon we encountered a rest stop along the river and we stopped to make adjustments. Suddenly, the sound of bagpipes split the air, and standing in the middle of the road was one of the orange clad DR staff proudly playing some Scottish anthem. I have to tell you that this stirred some deep DNA in my Gordon Highlander blood and I suddenly felt ready for battle! I don't know what came over me, but I had the sudden urge to shout at the mountain "BRING IT ON!". I got emotional and almost teary. It felt like a perfect moment, that short burst of bagpipes along the river. But what was that repetitive cheering up the road? As we struck out again, we soon saw the source- eight or ten ladies dressed in period clothing as, um, comfort ladies, cajoling the riders, sexy sirens, lusty bike groupies in their colorful dresses on the hillside. Amazing! I rode by and waved, which got a lusty response, then got the idea to take a photo, so turned around, and this got an even better response as they tried their best to lure us into their den, but my darned camera fritzed out. That is the one photo I really regret not getting. Those ladies were fantastic and did much to improve spirits before the hill carnage to come.
We soon passed the lunch stop tent on the left, and I knew it would be a long, painful haul before I was back here again. There were already a few intrepid riders milling around there. Could these guys really have gone out and back already? I put it out of my mind as the road tilted upward. Again, Bruce and I set a steady pace and now, on this third climb, things had changed and it was we who were doing most of the passing. Sure, there were always hot shots doing their best TDF impressions going by, but the two of us had the measure of the mountain and I felt like I was finally running on all cylinders, the altitude factor had dissipated, and I was going at my best climb rate. We crossed a cattle guard, which takes your full attention, and when we looked up we were faced with a MoFo pitch that had people moaning and groaning. It was beautiful and I think I said, fairly loudly, so others could hear, " Finally- a REAL hill!" I dropped down to my 28x32 and just sat and spun my way up the hill, we passed everyone and kept going, and encountered some really pitched hairpin corners which had Bruce exclaiming that its a good thing we do upper Pinehurst regularly. Indeed. All the ill hilling we do locally is fine preparatory work for this pass. In fact, we do steeper climbs in the east bay hills regularly, its just that none of them are 8 miles long and at 8000' altitude. I pushed it on this pass, probably kept it at 160+HR the whole length, and at one point I started to get dizzy, so I backed off a bit and then felt better. All the while, people were bombing down the other lane at 40mph, passing each other on turns, oh man, its kind of crazy and harrowing to think of what could happen, but nothing did. This is when we saw Warren descending, and I was shocked that he was that far ahead- maybe 2 hour ahead! I kept an eye on my altimeter, and as it crept up over 8,200 I knew we had this one in the bag, only 500 to go, and it went quickly, past a gorgeous lake, which Bruce wanted to take a swim in on the return leg. There was one final steep mini MoFo before the top and then we were there. Wow! What a great feeling, like being on top of the world.More...
I forgot to check the time. At this stop they had ice cold Cokes, and I grabbed one and chugged it down. Ah!!! Never tasted better. Bruce was still having stomach issues and tried the Coke, as I thought the carbonation might help him. We didn't linger too long, the sun was out, the weather mild, time to descend to Hermit Valley. I have to admit I was feeling nervous about the next leg. It felt like the Point of No Return as in, what if I went all the way down there and couldn't climb out? I stifled those thoughts and we rolled down, down, down, seemingly forever.
Pass 4, back side of Ebbett's
"Annihilation Jim: total, complete, utter annihilation", Spock to Capt. Kirk
It reminded me of a never ending ski slope, roughly a blue diamond pitch, constant slope, in fact, it would be fantastic to ski this road in the winter. I was heavy on the brakes, being moderate, and Yahoos were just bombing past at 40+mph, not calling out. It pissed me off. Eventually we bottomed out in the valley at a dry, dusty stop, where there was more Coke, bagels, and fruit. And of course, cases of Fig Newtons. I was starting to crave some real food, but had another bagel, a banana, and watermelon. So there we were at the bottom. I fiddled with my camera and fixed the problem. We sat under a shade tree and talked to a guy who seemed real apprehensive about the climb out. After 20 minutes or so we rolled out. My right brake/shifter had somehow been cocked inwards a few degrees during this stop but I didn't feel like fixing it so I rode it that way. Then began the most unrelenting climb. I mean, virtually no leveling off, nothing to catch your breath on, 1700' of pure uphill grinding. Except for those of us with low, low gears, I sat and spun away in my 28 or 32 cog, stood occasionally to relieve the saddle pressure, but just dug in. Bruce would get well ahead then stop and wait for me to catch up, to help his back. I did the whole thing in one piece, tried to converse with various people, yell encouragement. One young woman was walking up and I shouted "c'mon 1179, you can do it!" She looked at me with ashen face and replied that no, she couldn't, she was having pains in her chest. Ohhh, sorry! Bruce commented that he loved the cloud cover that was forming and the cooling effect it was having. I agreed, it was much appreciated. Somewhere around here my altimeter hit 10,000' elevation gained and I reported this to the mass sufferers around me. No one even commented. Then the sound of thunder. We speculated we might get a rain shower, and how good that would feel. Soon, drops started falling, and I realized we were right below the summit! Huzzah! BOOM! a big crack of thunder and suddenly ice started raining from sky! "This is so cool, just the drama I need for a good story!" I thought. Riders at the summit looked dumbfounded as they peered into the clouds. We ducked under the massage tents nearby.
Ian, the massage guy Cathy and I had met the day before, wryly commented that we probably didn't want to be standing under his tent, which was erected with a structure of steel poles, and that sobering thought drove me back out into the hail, which was now turning to cold rain. We waited around a while, not sure what to do, and finally we knew what we had to do: we had to descend Ebbett's pass in a downpour. Bruce had a jacket and leggings in his Camelback that he put on, and I had my yellow wind vest, which I was grateful for, but it didn't feel like much of anything, really. We grimly set off down the mountain.More...
A few pitches down and I was soaking wet. My tires were throwing wet rooster tails up my back, into my helmet, and down my neck. My shoes were soaked, my shorts were a giant dirty water sponge, or so it felt. The water was dark and grimy, probably soot from all the fires that had settled on the road. The sky darkened further, and the color was lost from the trees, all things settled into shades and tones of grays and black. I was in the drops, grabbing my brakes for all they were worth, trying to keep my speed down. Trying to avoid other riders ahead of me, gingerly passing when I could to avoid their filthy rooster tails in my face. Then someone would come bombing down the hill, clad in a flapping garbage bag, going at an insane rate of speed, disappearing around a sharp corner. Frightening. My hands were going numb from the constant braking effort. My thighs were spasming from the wind chill. I looked at my bare arms and they were bright red. "That's not good" I thought to myself, "I have to somehow not get hypothermia, but how?" A glance in my mirror revealed nobody behind me. What happened to Bruce? I kept going, there was no other alternative. I came to those sharp Pinehurst corners and barely kept the speed down to make the turn. My rear brake handle was getting closer and closer to the handlebar- what was going on? I later found out the rear brake pads were getting wet sanded down to the pad holders- there was barely any pad left at the end of the ride. I was thinking of the survival shows I watch on Discovery channel, and what would Bear Grilz do in this situation. "Keep your core warm, move your body, generate some heat" is what he would say. But I couldn't move, it was all downhill. My teeth were chattering, I was shaking in the saddle, I had to do something. It wasn't just my ride that was in jeopardy, I felt my life might be in danger if I lost control and crashed.More...
Then the rain let up and up ahead in the gray expanse, a beacon of neon pink shone out to me. I couldn't believe my eyes! I thought I was hallucinating. It was the Pink Lady riding back up Ebbett's! I called out to her and she looked at me but at first didn't recognize the apparition hailing her. "Its me, Flash!" I croaked. I crossed the road to her side and she looked alarmed and started pulling clothing out of her panniers. "Take these gloves, take these arm warmers, take this neon pink jacket". It was too generous and I tried to decline but then I knew she was right, and she helped me get the gloves on, my hands were not working too well. When I got all the gear on I suddenly felt a new lease on life, felt warmth, and knew I could press on. I thanked my guardian angel, promising to return her gear, and set off down the mountain. What is it about the Pink Lady? How is it that our paths are intertwined? First she inspired me, then she saved me. Is she an actual person, or a divine cycling being? I am beginning to believe its the later. Thank you Alison.
I rode ahead of the storm front and made it to the lunch tent. It seemed like eons had gone by since I passed it the opposite way. I parked the Lemond and staggered into the tent. I grabbed a cold roast beef sandwich and had a devil of a time putting condiments on it, I was shaking and my hands were still not working right. I saw miserable, quivering people under the canvas, who only an hour ago were confident, exultant riders on their way to pass 5. Someone said there was hot soup and I found the DR Soup Guy outside with the huge pot of minestrone, oh man, did that ever taste good! I ate the cold sandwich surprisingly quickly, and downed another steaming cup of soup. My strength was returning, but the rain had caught up, and soon everyone was under the tent shivering, talking about soup and cut off times, or bagging the whole thing. Some were begging SAG rides back to town. Where was Bruce? Just as I was about to go, he came rolling in clad in a green trash bag. How or where he got that I don't know. It actually looked good on him. One woman said my pink jacket looked good on me. (So, Harold is not the only one who can pull this off!) Bruce looked dazed and confused and when I said hot soup he darted over there to the growing soup line. It looked sad and pathetic, like a depression era photo of brightly appareled spandex hobos and bums clad in plastic wrap clammering for a hot meal. I looked at my watch and knew the fifth pass was in jeopardy, so I rolled out of there hell bent for Turtle Rock.More...
I was riding briskly down the Carson River, making good time, the road was dry, and things seemed to turn around. My plan was to stop at Turtle Rock to check in with Cathy, who was doing free massages at the bike expo. A sign on the road said cut off time was 4pm at TR. I rolled into Markeeville at around 3:45 to a cheering squad in front of the courthouse. I raised my pink arm into the air and yelled YAAAAH! They cheered back and I pushed on through town, past the Team Alameda poster we had tacked to a tree just outside town that read "GO FOR PASS FIVE!". The grade felt pretty tough at this point, but I passed all riders up this hill, and was feeling good, when the thunder started, and I knew the storm had caught up with me. I was hot, with jacket open and flapping, when I turned into TR just before 4pm. I rode up to the expo and quickly found my other Guardian Angel Cathy massaging a finished 5-passer under the lone tree there. It was starting to rain lightly. She told the guy on the table I was there and his time was up and he hopped off the table. I asked her to rub my neck and shoulders, and when I layed down on the table I knew that this was a great way to end my ride on a high note. The alternative was to ride another 40 miles in the wind, rain, and cold. My choice was made. Envious roadies stood around the table asking if they could get massaged too but it was all for me at that moment. Bruce showed up shortly after and we agreed we would do the fifth pass another day. Warren appeared and we compared notes. We ate some in the dining hall, then packed Bruce's bike and gear onto my car and we drove up to Pickett's Junction where his wife was waiting. I got to see what I missed out on, the long line of Hefty bag refugees coming down from Carson, looking cold and miserable, unable to wait until it was over with. I felt good with my decision as we said goodbye to Bruce. Driving back to TR I had to be a driver passing all these Death Riders, and it was hard, the road is narrow, it was wet, riders were passing into the whole lane, it made me real nervous. I got to see both sides of it. I finally saw and passed Brian after Woodfords, but if I had honked he wouldn't have gotten it, so I just admired him and drove on.
We were all handed a wild card by Mother Nature that day, and it pushed us to our limits. I wanted extra drama to write about, but, that was a bit much, thank you. Even without Carson I felt I got the complete Death Ride experience, not the way they planned it, but by virtue of unforeseen elements that day. I felt really good on this ride and like the Wine Country Century, I felt that the longer I was out there, the better I felt. No mistake about it, it is hard, but it need not be the Sufferfest feared if the savvy rider uses the right mix of smart training, low gears and rest stops. It was the best ride I've ever taken, hands down. Beautiful, challenging, dramatic, inspiring, and even funny at times.
Simply epic. See you there next year!
I realized this Sunday afternoon when I chose to pass out in bed rather than feed my family by doing my weekly Safeway shopping run. I used to joke about when the checker at the market asked me for "help out to the car", and how I would rate the difficulty of the weekend's rides by how close I came to saying yes to that offer, but never did. Yesterday I didn't even make it to the market. I blame the Death Ride.More...
If you read my last blog you know I'm training for this epic ride, and have been pushing my personal envelope into places I haven't gone before. Such as the 3X Diablo ride I mentioned in that last blog. You're asking yourself, "Say, how did that go anyway?" Thanks for asking. It went pretty well. I managed 2.5X climbs, 3 summits, on a very warm day. Trouble was, I was hungover that day. Not really fair as I only had three beers over the course of a long evening. I drank way more than this at my own birthday party and felt fine, albeit a little fuzzy the next day. Drinking for me is like spinning the roulette wheel. Most of the time the ball lands on a "feel fine" slot and life goes on. But sometimes it lands on "instant, nauseous headache" and the suffering begins, usually all night long, and sometimes after only one drink. Dreadful times.
So I awoke that day at 4am with this pounding headache, but looked at it as an increased degree of difficulty and just pushed through it as I really wanted to do this ride. Solid training, not pleasant, but I think it provided me with a mental armoring- I found I could climb 8,200' in the heat with a pounding head, over and over. I swear I am not going to drink before the Death Ride- but its good to know if such a headache arises then I can deal with it.
This last week I had some days off midweek and on Wednesday I went out for a training ride in the local hills, almost 7000 feet of climbing, then on Saturday, another 6700 feet over to Mt. Tam, and a "casual" Sunday ride of almost 4000 feet. 17000 feet in five days. Riding up Tunnel Rd yesterday I entered a Twilight Zone place rarely visited, I was riding in some alternate reality, brought on by low blood sugar I think, and had no more food with me, and I thought, this is good, I need to explore this place of deep, deep reserves where I mistakenly replaced carbs with caffeine and was now experiencing a cycling Lost Weekend. I recall reading somewhere that the the Death Rider has little consciousness left towards the end of the ride, and I got a glimpse of that yesterday.
So I skipped Safeway. Flashette was also wasted from a hard four days previous, early mornings, late nights, and we grumbled and moaned together about how we gave it all to other things or people instead of each other. Its a temporary condition. Its a process of transformation. One must sacrifice to achieve loftier goals. When we improve, we feel awesome, and we want to share that with others.
On July 12th I will utterly, completely, absolutely give it all to the bike. I will be completely annihilated, thrown whole into the fires to burn to ash and smoke, and from those glowing embers my Phoenix shall take wing, eyes glowing red, beak smiling wickedly, and there will be a new Summer of Love unlike any since 1967! Flashette: Prepare thyself!
Ride on my friends.
**********************
Death Ride, 2008
My Death Ride started at 3:30am inside of a very dark tent pitched in a clearing at Grover Hot Springs campground. Or had it? As I lay there in my down bag, the fog slowly lifting from my brain, it occurred to me that this was merely the day of the event. The ride had started many months ago, perhaps even years ago. At what point did I decide to do this? That I could do this? I pondered the point for 15 minutes then dressed and crossed the chilly meadow to the picnic table where I would proceed with priority One: make a strong cup of coffee.More...
That accomplished, I stumbled around with a flashlight trying to get myself and gear together at this ungodly hour. Who in their right mind exercises this early? Evidently a lot of people, as the sound of bikes whizzing nearby in the pitch blackness told me that some people were already ahead of me. I could see the stars clearly, so I knew that my wish for a miracle had occurred and the smoke had blown out overnight, did that ever lift my spirits as I had had a lot of anxiety over the lack of air quality. I ate a quick bowl of cereal, took a hike up to the bathrooms, stuffed a banana in my pocket along with gels and Clifbars, turned my lights on, and rode out of the campgrounds at 4:50. Its about 4 miles to town so I knew I was running late for a 5am meeting with the other guys. I hadn't heard that the start time had changed to 4:30. The sky was a not quite black, rather, very dark blue, and I was riding downhill, the 51 degree temperature seeming much cooler. I took it easy because even with the light I couldn't see holes and cracks in the road. I had a sense of exhilaration that it was finally happening.
In Markleeville, at 5:10am, I stopped at the T intersection and marveled at all the white and red lights streaming down the hill from Turtle Rock, the official start point. Its a fast descent into town, so I had to merge carefully. I scoped out the gas station and didn't see any TA riders so I figured they waited 5 minutes then left. Two large pelotons of riders came into town and I latched onto the rear group, bedazzled by the long line of red blinking lights ahead of me. The pace out of town was what Johnny H. would classify as humane, everyone just spinning and warming up it seemed. It was gradual uphill along the east fork of the Carson River for a few miles, nice work for the legs to get the blood flowing and an easy start.
Pass 1, west side Monitor (The Toxic Daquiri of Death)
Soon we reached the junction of Monitor and Ebbett's passes, and were directed left up Monitor. I thought the early parts were not unlike Tunnel Road, but a harder version, no doubt due to the altitude. The altitude makes a difference, oh yes. My first climb in these parts on Thursday had been a shock. It felt as if my bike wheels were filled with sand and I had aged about 10 years. I was alarmed, but on Friday I felt better as we took some pass descents and I got some altitude miles under my belt. But this early in the morning I just felt adequate, and climbed on autopilot with various groups, then alone, stopped a few times at roadside trees to free that coffee, and generally tried to find the groove. The climb seemed to just go on and on over its 7 miles or so. It seemed as if almost everyone was passing me, even a guy on a recumbant. That's a first. My strategy was not to get caught up in the excitement and go too hard early on, as many studly young guys seemed to be doing. They mostly rode Cervelos and Looks. I stuck to the plan. I glanced at their gear setups as they passed by, mostly standard compact gearing, but a few people like myself were sporting big mountain cassettes in back, sitting back and spinning.
All around me, there was much huffing and puffing near the summit, but I felt relaxed. It was getting light. I looked at my watch: 6:57am. Everyone came to a screaching halt in the summit saddle as the sticker appliers in their orange DeadHead T shirts did their thing right in the middle of the road. I didn't expect that. The rest stop was in full swing but I still had plenty of liquid for the descent down the backside. Somewhere on the climb I had eaten the banana so I wasn't hungry, so I skipped the stop, rode the small grade up the saddle, passed the official granite pass monument, then started the awesome 10 mile descent towards Nevada.More...
I took stock. I felt OK, warmed up, but not really in the groove. One pass in the bag, it wasn't all that bad so far. As I picked up speed and dropped down the other side, I marveled at the breathtaking panorama that lay in front of me. Spectacular jutting mountain ranges and flat, low lying valleys, far below. But not much time to take it all in as I was overtaking a lot of riders, constantly yelling LEFT!, concentrating on my lines, when I noticed this guy ahead in orange and blue that looked very familiar, and as I pulled around him, I saw TA rider Bruce Bothwell! Sporting TA colors as I was to boot! Yes! I was delightfully surprised, I didn't know he was in this ride. I yelled "howdy stranger!" and he looked as delightfully surprised as me, and we descended together to the Topaz Lake rest stop at highway 395, where we did a hasty meet and greet while reprovisioning supplies. Time: 7:35am. This was a crowded stop, let me tell you. I wandered to the food tent and was disappointed by the cuisine. Packages of Fig Newtons were everywhere, Clif bars, fruit wedges, Cytomax, water, pretty basic stuff. I guess I was expecting Wine Country Century fare, man, that ride spoiled me. Not even hot coffee at this place. My one cup was wearing off, so I ate a caffeine gel along with a half banana, two Newtons, a Tums tablet from Bruce for sodium, and some electrolyte drink. Still not hungry yet. I took off my leg and arm warmers and bagged them for delivery to Turtle Rock. In my pockets I had 3 gels, 4 Clifbars, 1 Fig Newton, 2 suncreen wipes, ibuprofens, a course map, money and ID, and a yellow vest. Despite the warming day, and stuffed pockets, I kept my wind vest, as Brian had advised, saying you never know what the weather will do up there.More...
Pass 2, east side Monitor (know to the locals as Mt. Meat Grinder)
Proudly displaying two stickers on our ride numbers, we set off up the big Monitor climb sometime before 8am. Lots of people were ahead of us, and still lots of people were coming down to Topaz. We tried to find the highest entry number we could, and I found one that said 3279- that seemed really high, I thought the ride was limited to 2500? It was a long slog along the valley floor, then the real climb began. Bruce was having some sore back issues, and I had to water a grateful bush, so we made a quick stop off the side of the road. We were approaching the midway watering service in which young guys, I believe track runners, run down to you as you climb, take your bottle, run up to the stop, fill it, then run after you and deliver it! I wanted to take full advantage of this rare service so I dumped my water bottle and handed it to a fit kid in purple. He sprinted up the hill, filled the bottle and handed it to me as I went by- he was so fast he didn't have to run after me. It was a much appreciated treat and I poured some of the cold water into my helmet as it was getting warm. I wore a cotton cycling cap all day to pour water into to make a helmet "swamp cooler" as it were. It worked great and kept my head temperature down.
Bruce and I worked a steady pace and found we weren't getting passed all that often. The hardest pitch is near the top and many people were balking at this point, but we kept the pace for a long, long time, and soon summited pass 2. Big smile on my face at this point as I knew that was the longest climb, and I had seen the costs it had extracted upon Fred the day before. We coasted down to the mid saddle rest stop for some food. I think it was a around 9:20. The cuisine had improved to cream cheese and bagels, and PBJ sandwich chunks, except that they had run out of peanut butter, so it was just PJ. I requested jam on the cheese bagels, and the DeadHeads happily complied, and I ate three of those, more water, and topped off the yellow water bottle of chemical supplements. Bruce reported his stomach had soured and he couldn't face eating, but he forced down something anyway, and just then he exclaimed "hey, over there- the Pink Lady!" and there she was, a neon pink nucleus in a sea of rainbow electrons swirling around her. I got excited and ran right over and greeted her- I considered this a very fine omen! Alison Stone herself, the Apostle of pink bricks and 85lb bikes, my out-of-the-box heroine of cycling, standing there as if grounding the entire madcap chaotic event with the sheer weight of her combined panniers. Awesome! She had started from Hermit Valley on the backside of Ebbett's and was doing the Monitors, then back up Ebbetts. Again, out of the box, totally doing the ride her way, against the gear mashing throngs making their way upstream like desperate spawning salmon. We checked in for a while, then it was time to go our separate ways. I took stock and concluded all systems were go-Bruce concurred-lets DO IT!More...
We now had a thrilling descent ahead of us, and timed it right as there were few ahead of us at that particular moment of departure, so we had little passing to contend with going down. This was my favorite descent with long, sweeping turns, the pavement was good, and I managed a high of 47mph with an easy 40 for the most part. Believe me, your gears are not nearly big enough to pedal these roads going down. This drop was sheer fun and did much to improve my overall sense of well being, and when we got down to the junction and made left for Ebbett's our spirits were pretty high.
Pass 3, east side Ebbett's, around 10am (Col du Carnage Asada)
We rode south along the Carson River, gently rolling tarmac before us, it was gorgeous, the weather was perfect, the sky was blue, it couldn't get any better. I rode along hands free to stretch my back and neck, ate a 100mg caff Clifgel, and prepared mentally for what lay ahead. This part was the big unknown for me, but I knew it was probably the hardest climb of the day, but I found the terrain was much more to my liking, river, trees, cool breeze, and more twisty, turny. Soon we encountered a rest stop along the river and we stopped to make adjustments. Suddenly, the sound of bagpipes split the air, and standing in the middle of the road was one of the orange clad DR staff proudly playing some Scottish anthem. I have to tell you that this stirred some deep DNA in my Gordon Highlander blood and I suddenly felt ready for battle! I don't know what came over me, but I had the sudden urge to shout at the mountain "BRING IT ON!". I got emotional and almost teary. It felt like a perfect moment, that short burst of bagpipes along the river. But what was that repetitive cheering up the road? As we struck out again, we soon saw the source- eight or ten ladies dressed in period clothing as, um, comfort ladies, cajoling the riders, sexy sirens, lusty bike groupies in their colorful dresses on the hillside. Amazing! I rode by and waved, which got a lusty response, then got the idea to take a photo, so turned around, and this got an even better response as they tried their best to lure us into their den, but my darned camera fritzed out. That is the one photo I really regret not getting. Those ladies were fantastic and did much to improve spirits before the hill carnage to come.
We soon passed the lunch stop tent on the left, and I knew it would be a long, painful haul before I was back here again. There were already a few intrepid riders milling around there. Could these guys really have gone out and back already? I put it out of my mind as the road tilted upward. Again, Bruce and I set a steady pace and now, on this third climb, things had changed and it was we who were doing most of the passing. Sure, there were always hot shots doing their best TDF impressions going by, but the two of us had the measure of the mountain and I felt like I was finally running on all cylinders, the altitude factor had dissipated, and I was going at my best climb rate. We crossed a cattle guard, which takes your full attention, and when we looked up we were faced with a MoFo pitch that had people moaning and groaning. It was beautiful and I think I said, fairly loudly, so others could hear, " Finally- a REAL hill!" I dropped down to my 28x32 and just sat and spun my way up the hill, we passed everyone and kept going, and encountered some really pitched hairpin corners which had Bruce exclaiming that its a good thing we do upper Pinehurst regularly. Indeed. All the ill hilling we do locally is fine preparatory work for this pass. In fact, we do steeper climbs in the east bay hills regularly, its just that none of them are 8 miles long and at 8000' altitude. I pushed it on this pass, probably kept it at 160+HR the whole length, and at one point I started to get dizzy, so I backed off a bit and then felt better. All the while, people were bombing down the other lane at 40mph, passing each other on turns, oh man, its kind of crazy and harrowing to think of what could happen, but nothing did. This is when we saw Warren descending, and I was shocked that he was that far ahead- maybe 2 hour ahead! I kept an eye on my altimeter, and as it crept up over 8,200 I knew we had this one in the bag, only 500 to go, and it went quickly, past a gorgeous lake, which Bruce wanted to take a swim in on the return leg. There was one final steep mini MoFo before the top and then we were there. Wow! What a great feeling, like being on top of the world.More...
I forgot to check the time. At this stop they had ice cold Cokes, and I grabbed one and chugged it down. Ah!!! Never tasted better. Bruce was still having stomach issues and tried the Coke, as I thought the carbonation might help him. We didn't linger too long, the sun was out, the weather mild, time to descend to Hermit Valley. I have to admit I was feeling nervous about the next leg. It felt like the Point of No Return as in, what if I went all the way down there and couldn't climb out? I stifled those thoughts and we rolled down, down, down, seemingly forever.
Pass 4, back side of Ebbett's
"Annihilation Jim: total, complete, utter annihilation", Spock to Capt. Kirk
It reminded me of a never ending ski slope, roughly a blue diamond pitch, constant slope, in fact, it would be fantastic to ski this road in the winter. I was heavy on the brakes, being moderate, and Yahoos were just bombing past at 40+mph, not calling out. It pissed me off. Eventually we bottomed out in the valley at a dry, dusty stop, where there was more Coke, bagels, and fruit. And of course, cases of Fig Newtons. I was starting to crave some real food, but had another bagel, a banana, and watermelon. So there we were at the bottom. I fiddled with my camera and fixed the problem. We sat under a shade tree and talked to a guy who seemed real apprehensive about the climb out. After 20 minutes or so we rolled out. My right brake/shifter had somehow been cocked inwards a few degrees during this stop but I didn't feel like fixing it so I rode it that way. Then began the most unrelenting climb. I mean, virtually no leveling off, nothing to catch your breath on, 1700' of pure uphill grinding. Except for those of us with low, low gears, I sat and spun away in my 28 or 32 cog, stood occasionally to relieve the saddle pressure, but just dug in. Bruce would get well ahead then stop and wait for me to catch up, to help his back. I did the whole thing in one piece, tried to converse with various people, yell encouragement. One young woman was walking up and I shouted "c'mon 1179, you can do it!" She looked at me with ashen face and replied that no, she couldn't, she was having pains in her chest. Ohhh, sorry! Bruce commented that he loved the cloud cover that was forming and the cooling effect it was having. I agreed, it was much appreciated. Somewhere around here my altimeter hit 10,000' elevation gained and I reported this to the mass sufferers around me. No one even commented. Then the sound of thunder. We speculated we might get a rain shower, and how good that would feel. Soon, drops started falling, and I realized we were right below the summit! Huzzah! BOOM! a big crack of thunder and suddenly ice started raining from sky! "This is so cool, just the drama I need for a good story!" I thought. Riders at the summit looked dumbfounded as they peered into the clouds. We ducked under the massage tents nearby.
Ian, the massage guy Cathy and I had met the day before, wryly commented that we probably didn't want to be standing under his tent, which was erected with a structure of steel poles, and that sobering thought drove me back out into the hail, which was now turning to cold rain. We waited around a while, not sure what to do, and finally we knew what we had to do: we had to descend Ebbett's pass in a downpour. Bruce had a jacket and leggings in his Camelback that he put on, and I had my yellow wind vest, which I was grateful for, but it didn't feel like much of anything, really. We grimly set off down the mountain.More...
A few pitches down and I was soaking wet. My tires were throwing wet rooster tails up my back, into my helmet, and down my neck. My shoes were soaked, my shorts were a giant dirty water sponge, or so it felt. The water was dark and grimy, probably soot from all the fires that had settled on the road. The sky darkened further, and the color was lost from the trees, all things settled into shades and tones of grays and black. I was in the drops, grabbing my brakes for all they were worth, trying to keep my speed down. Trying to avoid other riders ahead of me, gingerly passing when I could to avoid their filthy rooster tails in my face. Then someone would come bombing down the hill, clad in a flapping garbage bag, going at an insane rate of speed, disappearing around a sharp corner. Frightening. My hands were going numb from the constant braking effort. My thighs were spasming from the wind chill. I looked at my bare arms and they were bright red. "That's not good" I thought to myself, "I have to somehow not get hypothermia, but how?" A glance in my mirror revealed nobody behind me. What happened to Bruce? I kept going, there was no other alternative. I came to those sharp Pinehurst corners and barely kept the speed down to make the turn. My rear brake handle was getting closer and closer to the handlebar- what was going on? I later found out the rear brake pads were getting wet sanded down to the pad holders- there was barely any pad left at the end of the ride. I was thinking of the survival shows I watch on Discovery channel, and what would Bear Grilz do in this situation. "Keep your core warm, move your body, generate some heat" is what he would say. But I couldn't move, it was all downhill. My teeth were chattering, I was shaking in the saddle, I had to do something. It wasn't just my ride that was in jeopardy, I felt my life might be in danger if I lost control and crashed.More...
Then the rain let up and up ahead in the gray expanse, a beacon of neon pink shone out to me. I couldn't believe my eyes! I thought I was hallucinating. It was the Pink Lady riding back up Ebbett's! I called out to her and she looked at me but at first didn't recognize the apparition hailing her. "Its me, Flash!" I croaked. I crossed the road to her side and she looked alarmed and started pulling clothing out of her panniers. "Take these gloves, take these arm warmers, take this neon pink jacket". It was too generous and I tried to decline but then I knew she was right, and she helped me get the gloves on, my hands were not working too well. When I got all the gear on I suddenly felt a new lease on life, felt warmth, and knew I could press on. I thanked my guardian angel, promising to return her gear, and set off down the mountain. What is it about the Pink Lady? How is it that our paths are intertwined? First she inspired me, then she saved me. Is she an actual person, or a divine cycling being? I am beginning to believe its the later. Thank you Alison.
I rode ahead of the storm front and made it to the lunch tent. It seemed like eons had gone by since I passed it the opposite way. I parked the Lemond and staggered into the tent. I grabbed a cold roast beef sandwich and had a devil of a time putting condiments on it, I was shaking and my hands were still not working right. I saw miserable, quivering people under the canvas, who only an hour ago were confident, exultant riders on their way to pass 5. Someone said there was hot soup and I found the DR Soup Guy outside with the huge pot of minestrone, oh man, did that ever taste good! I ate the cold sandwich surprisingly quickly, and downed another steaming cup of soup. My strength was returning, but the rain had caught up, and soon everyone was under the tent shivering, talking about soup and cut off times, or bagging the whole thing. Some were begging SAG rides back to town. Where was Bruce? Just as I was about to go, he came rolling in clad in a green trash bag. How or where he got that I don't know. It actually looked good on him. One woman said my pink jacket looked good on me. (So, Harold is not the only one who can pull this off!) Bruce looked dazed and confused and when I said hot soup he darted over there to the growing soup line. It looked sad and pathetic, like a depression era photo of brightly appareled spandex hobos and bums clad in plastic wrap clammering for a hot meal. I looked at my watch and knew the fifth pass was in jeopardy, so I rolled out of there hell bent for Turtle Rock.More...
I was riding briskly down the Carson River, making good time, the road was dry, and things seemed to turn around. My plan was to stop at Turtle Rock to check in with Cathy, who was doing free massages at the bike expo. A sign on the road said cut off time was 4pm at TR. I rolled into Markeeville at around 3:45 to a cheering squad in front of the courthouse. I raised my pink arm into the air and yelled YAAAAH! They cheered back and I pushed on through town, past the Team Alameda poster we had tacked to a tree just outside town that read "GO FOR PASS FIVE!". The grade felt pretty tough at this point, but I passed all riders up this hill, and was feeling good, when the thunder started, and I knew the storm had caught up with me. I was hot, with jacket open and flapping, when I turned into TR just before 4pm. I rode up to the expo and quickly found my other Guardian Angel Cathy massaging a finished 5-passer under the lone tree there. It was starting to rain lightly. She told the guy on the table I was there and his time was up and he hopped off the table. I asked her to rub my neck and shoulders, and when I layed down on the table I knew that this was a great way to end my ride on a high note. The alternative was to ride another 40 miles in the wind, rain, and cold. My choice was made. Envious roadies stood around the table asking if they could get massaged too but it was all for me at that moment. Bruce showed up shortly after and we agreed we would do the fifth pass another day. Warren appeared and we compared notes. We ate some in the dining hall, then packed Bruce's bike and gear onto my car and we drove up to Pickett's Junction where his wife was waiting. I got to see what I missed out on, the long line of Hefty bag refugees coming down from Carson, looking cold and miserable, unable to wait until it was over with. I felt good with my decision as we said goodbye to Bruce. Driving back to TR I had to be a driver passing all these Death Riders, and it was hard, the road is narrow, it was wet, riders were passing into the whole lane, it made me real nervous. I got to see both sides of it. I finally saw and passed Brian after Woodfords, but if I had honked he wouldn't have gotten it, so I just admired him and drove on.
We were all handed a wild card by Mother Nature that day, and it pushed us to our limits. I wanted extra drama to write about, but, that was a bit much, thank you. Even without Carson I felt I got the complete Death Ride experience, not the way they planned it, but by virtue of unforeseen elements that day. I felt really good on this ride and like the Wine Country Century, I felt that the longer I was out there, the better I felt. No mistake about it, it is hard, but it need not be the Sufferfest feared if the savvy rider uses the right mix of smart training, low gears and rest stops. It was the best ride I've ever taken, hands down. Beautiful, challenging, dramatic, inspiring, and even funny at times.
Simply epic. See you there next year!
A LONG WEEKEND, TURKEY, AND MELDERING 112308
(Greetings Flashblog reader. Here for your reading pleasure is one of the fabled lost Flashblogs, written one year ago, recently discovered under the bed, covered in dustbunnys and cat hair. It is especially relevant considering the Mt. Hamilton ride will commence once again in two weeks)
Part 1, The Context
One gray Sunday about two years ago I geared up and rode down to the local Peet's for a cup of Joe. This was before the idea of the casual Sunday ride had been conceived, and around this period of time in its place existed the Sunday Drop Ride, and the Team Alameda "racer" types could be regularly seen milling about getting jacked up on go-juice before the 8:30 ride.
This particular day only three of us showed up, and I wasn't even there to go on the drop ride. The other two riders were Keith Beato and John Melder. Keith has since gone on to great accomplishments like completing the unbelievable Paris-Brest-Paris ride, but back at this time he was just getting into the sport so I hardly knew him. John was TA Ride Captain at the time and had a firm reputation as "The Hammer" for his hard charging, no waiting style of riding. I found him as intimidating as he was inscrutable.More...
Nobody else showed up so I decided to ride with these guys. I was a 25 -30 mile rider at the time, an average climber at best, certainly not fast, but I knew how to suck wheel. Things went well- that is to say we rode together- through Oakland around Lake Merritt, and up Wildwood to Piedmont. As we finished the Highland traverse through downtown Piedmont, we came up to the intersection at Moraga Ave., where after a right turn there is a nice climb to Montclair.
It was at this point that John upshifted, turned the corner, and rocketed off- he was out of sight within seconds, and he never reappeared. Keith and I looked at each other in stunned amazement- why did he do that? He didn't need to do it with such authority, he could have just casually rode away from us. It was at that moment that a seminal concept entered my mind and started incubating. We had not just been dropped, we had been hammered in a singularly distinct fashion- we had been Meldered.
So a new verb entered my ride lexicon-
Melder: verb, 1. to drop your riding partners with absolute authority and disappear for the remainder of the ride. 2. To remain a Team member but go underground, riding solo, or forming your own unpublished rides with your close riding buddies.
On the wall at Alameda Bicycle, above the jersey rack, is a round photo of John with an inspirational blurb beneath about how he created Team Alameda, was the first Ride Captain, and here's the fascinating part, "fought hard for the no-drop ride policy". The no-drop ride policy...hmm.
At any rate, he passed on the second year Ride Captaincy to Greg, who in turn passed the third year position to Mark, who still currently holds the title. John in the meantime went under the radar forming his own fast training rides. This group was sometimes glimpsed in passing up in the hills and I thought of these as "rare Melder sightings". These sightings formed the basis of the second definition of Meldering, which is that you improve to the point that regular group rides don't cut it anymore so you go off on your own harder or faster rides, taking your close friends with you.
It is this definition that I've been wrestling with myself lately as I've gone off and searched out ever more obscure and steeper side route climbs- asking myself if I have been Meldering the Team for my own ends.
Part 2, Mt. Hamilton
2006, Thanksgiving Day, I was delayed a moment exiting the school parking lot and chasing after our group, missed the big light at the intersection and had to stop and watch everyone else ride away. Pedro and I never caught them, but we had our own nice ride along with "El Doble", Brian Aldrich, King of the Double Centuries and did the ride in around 2 and a half hours. I recall briefly seeing Melder up ahead, a rare sighting, then he was gone for another year.
2007 was almost an exact repeat of '06, but I made the yellow light and latched onto a mixed group of about 15 riders, more than half of them Team Alameda. This first section is hard as it is uphill with no warm up, and my cold legs were balking. Tim Cotter was out front setting the pace for the first miles, looking quite strong. I began to get the feeling that I was having a good day, so I sped up with a group of four guys and we made good time.
Descending into the first park, who should I see waiting on the side of the road but David (TA's sweet'n'sourbkr) and a rare sighting indeed- John Melder. I knew John's new wife was on the road behind me, I had chatted with her briefly, so I figured he was making nice and waiting for her so that he could inform her that he was going to Melder her on the next part.
So I passed these two and started the real climb, and realized that surprisingly, I was now the leading TA rider! I hardly had time to savor the thought before I was absorbed by a small group which included John and a buddy. Melder was starting to ride away. The whole Melder enigma was swirling through my mind as I watched The Man 10' ahead of me, and I sped up alongside him to take the rare opportunity to ride with him, which made him do a double take.
So up we rode. We chatted some, he told me how he met his wife- and let me tell you, its a good story! But that is for him to tell. Ride with him sometime and ask him. The miles rolled by and I was still there, and I was wondering if he was holding back, but I was pushing harder than usual, so maybe not, I was beginning to convince myself that I was having a great day. Eventually David and Jason Poindexter caught up and of course the pace ticked up a notch and I was struggling to hang on, didn't want to talk anymore. The odometer showed 17 miles and I thought maybe, just maybe I could hang on with these guys to the top, but at mile 18, with the observatory oh-so-close- my legs just died, just like turning out the lights, and that nice fantasy evaporated as they rode away. So I pulled off the road, sucked some gel, and slow pedaled until I got my energy back, and finished the climb, those guys giving me a nice encouraging yell from the parking lot above.
At the top John provided a very classy, invigorating Scottish refreshment. We stood there looking down on the riders coming up the road, and I realized that I had formed a new appreciation of Melder. John is what the Europeans call a Hard Man. He is a fine specimen for his age, and rides hard, pushes hard. On this day I once again got Meldered. And I was quite pleased about it.
*****************
Part 1, The Context
One gray Sunday about two years ago I geared up and rode down to the local Peet's for a cup of Joe. This was before the idea of the casual Sunday ride had been conceived, and around this period of time in its place existed the Sunday Drop Ride, and the Team Alameda "racer" types could be regularly seen milling about getting jacked up on go-juice before the 8:30 ride.
This particular day only three of us showed up, and I wasn't even there to go on the drop ride. The other two riders were Keith Beato and John Melder. Keith has since gone on to great accomplishments like completing the unbelievable Paris-Brest-Paris ride, but back at this time he was just getting into the sport so I hardly knew him. John was TA Ride Captain at the time and had a firm reputation as "The Hammer" for his hard charging, no waiting style of riding. I found him as intimidating as he was inscrutable.More...
Nobody else showed up so I decided to ride with these guys. I was a 25 -30 mile rider at the time, an average climber at best, certainly not fast, but I knew how to suck wheel. Things went well- that is to say we rode together- through Oakland around Lake Merritt, and up Wildwood to Piedmont. As we finished the Highland traverse through downtown Piedmont, we came up to the intersection at Moraga Ave., where after a right turn there is a nice climb to Montclair.
It was at this point that John upshifted, turned the corner, and rocketed off- he was out of sight within seconds, and he never reappeared. Keith and I looked at each other in stunned amazement- why did he do that? He didn't need to do it with such authority, he could have just casually rode away from us. It was at that moment that a seminal concept entered my mind and started incubating. We had not just been dropped, we had been hammered in a singularly distinct fashion- we had been Meldered.
So a new verb entered my ride lexicon-
Melder: verb, 1. to drop your riding partners with absolute authority and disappear for the remainder of the ride. 2. To remain a Team member but go underground, riding solo, or forming your own unpublished rides with your close riding buddies.
On the wall at Alameda Bicycle, above the jersey rack, is a round photo of John with an inspirational blurb beneath about how he created Team Alameda, was the first Ride Captain, and here's the fascinating part, "fought hard for the no-drop ride policy". The no-drop ride policy...hmm.
At any rate, he passed on the second year Ride Captaincy to Greg, who in turn passed the third year position to Mark, who still currently holds the title. John in the meantime went under the radar forming his own fast training rides. This group was sometimes glimpsed in passing up in the hills and I thought of these as "rare Melder sightings". These sightings formed the basis of the second definition of Meldering, which is that you improve to the point that regular group rides don't cut it anymore so you go off on your own harder or faster rides, taking your close friends with you.
It is this definition that I've been wrestling with myself lately as I've gone off and searched out ever more obscure and steeper side route climbs- asking myself if I have been Meldering the Team for my own ends.
Part 2, Mt. Hamilton
2006, Thanksgiving Day, I was delayed a moment exiting the school parking lot and chasing after our group, missed the big light at the intersection and had to stop and watch everyone else ride away. Pedro and I never caught them, but we had our own nice ride along with "El Doble", Brian Aldrich, King of the Double Centuries and did the ride in around 2 and a half hours. I recall briefly seeing Melder up ahead, a rare sighting, then he was gone for another year.
2007 was almost an exact repeat of '06, but I made the yellow light and latched onto a mixed group of about 15 riders, more than half of them Team Alameda. This first section is hard as it is uphill with no warm up, and my cold legs were balking. Tim Cotter was out front setting the pace for the first miles, looking quite strong. I began to get the feeling that I was having a good day, so I sped up with a group of four guys and we made good time.
Descending into the first park, who should I see waiting on the side of the road but David (TA's sweet'n'sourbkr) and a rare sighting indeed- John Melder. I knew John's new wife was on the road behind me, I had chatted with her briefly, so I figured he was making nice and waiting for her so that he could inform her that he was going to Melder her on the next part.
So I passed these two and started the real climb, and realized that surprisingly, I was now the leading TA rider! I hardly had time to savor the thought before I was absorbed by a small group which included John and a buddy. Melder was starting to ride away. The whole Melder enigma was swirling through my mind as I watched The Man 10' ahead of me, and I sped up alongside him to take the rare opportunity to ride with him, which made him do a double take.
So up we rode. We chatted some, he told me how he met his wife- and let me tell you, its a good story! But that is for him to tell. Ride with him sometime and ask him. The miles rolled by and I was still there, and I was wondering if he was holding back, but I was pushing harder than usual, so maybe not, I was beginning to convince myself that I was having a great day. Eventually David and Jason Poindexter caught up and of course the pace ticked up a notch and I was struggling to hang on, didn't want to talk anymore. The odometer showed 17 miles and I thought maybe, just maybe I could hang on with these guys to the top, but at mile 18, with the observatory oh-so-close- my legs just died, just like turning out the lights, and that nice fantasy evaporated as they rode away. So I pulled off the road, sucked some gel, and slow pedaled until I got my energy back, and finished the climb, those guys giving me a nice encouraging yell from the parking lot above.
At the top John provided a very classy, invigorating Scottish refreshment. We stood there looking down on the riders coming up the road, and I realized that I had formed a new appreciation of Melder. John is what the Europeans call a Hard Man. He is a fine specimen for his age, and rides hard, pushes hard. On this day I once again got Meldered. And I was quite pleased about it.
*****************
WHY WE DO IT 121408
The veins in my right leg are itching. I had an ongoing case of this as I was training for the Death Ride this year---just weeks and weeks of throbbing, itchy leg veins. I think the leg muscles get so pumped up they push outward on these vessels, and since there is no good place for them to go, they protest mightly with these symptoms. At any rate its a good indicator of how hard the ride was as only the hardest rides make this occur, and it occurred yesterday on our 60 mile, 6000' climbing expedition.More...
I keep thinking about this ride and its eerie similarities to my and Dr. Bruce's Ebbott' pass Death Ride experience last July---the way the weather turned on us and completely changed the aspect of the ride. Indeed, an Expedition Level ride, and considering the circumstances I fully agree with Brian's label of a qualified smaller scale Death Ride simulation.
It was probably just the endorphins talking, and I was talking to the endorphins yesterday, asking them where they were and what was taking them so long to get there. But perhaps mya conversation with them on the climb was evidence that they were already there? At any rate, when the light, almost snowy hail started falling, I was as giddy as a school child. It was perfect timing. I felt as if I were acting in a Hollywood film and the Holiday special effects had just kicked in. Its A Wonderful Life! It was so delightful. Until we had to ride down the hill. This time there was no Pink Lady guardian angel to rescue me. (See July'08 entry)
The dark, drenched descent down Ebbott's pass was the worst conditions I've ever cycled in, treacherous rain slicked hairpin corners and the onset of early hypothermia had me seriously, at the time, questioning my survival odds. Yesterday, perhaps because of having come through the Sierra ordeal intact, I did not fear the cold, wet descent. I knew it would be a trial but the outcome was certain. What I did not anticipate was my body's instinct to shunt blood flow to the core at the cost to the extremeties, and my hands and feet received the worst, the most painful freeze I've ever endured, including alpine skiing in sub-freezing conditions. The wetness of the gloves, the socks and shoes, amplifies the loss of precious body heat. My shins were not covered, and burned with the cold, turning bright red. At one point, descending the lower part of Snake road I was screaming at full volume, but only inside my head, the pain of unrelentingly squeezing the brake levers was so great. Once at home, I under went the immediate ritual of trying to warm up- hot shower, hot food, warm clothes, a shot of brandy (for feel good effect). I thought of the image of a deep sea diver who has been down really deep and has to enter a decompression chamber before returning to normal atmosphere. It was analgous- we had been out there riding harder, higher, and longer than perhaps we should have. So it begs the question: Why do I do it? Why do we do it?
Although there was advanced duress inflicted on body due to route profile, and elemental suffering due to cold and wind chill, overall the ride gave much more than the sum of its parts. Its difficult to explain, but by riding longer, harder, attaining ever higher levels of elevation, and battling the elements, we are pushing ourselves into a sustained place of hardship and suffering so that we "pass through" to a different place. Its a place of altered time, where there is only the moment, nothing else exists but you, your bike, and your co-riders, sharing the same groupthink, the same groupfeel, living life at the edge as if there is no other reason for our being. We cast off our work selves, our family selves, even "ourselves" evaporate, there is no right, no wrong, we just..."are"...everything is set in place for us to ecstatically dance naked upon a tiny pinhead of time.
Ride on my friend.
I keep thinking about this ride and its eerie similarities to my and Dr. Bruce's Ebbott' pass Death Ride experience last July---the way the weather turned on us and completely changed the aspect of the ride. Indeed, an Expedition Level ride, and considering the circumstances I fully agree with Brian's label of a qualified smaller scale Death Ride simulation.
It was probably just the endorphins talking, and I was talking to the endorphins yesterday, asking them where they were and what was taking them so long to get there. But perhaps mya conversation with them on the climb was evidence that they were already there? At any rate, when the light, almost snowy hail started falling, I was as giddy as a school child. It was perfect timing. I felt as if I were acting in a Hollywood film and the Holiday special effects had just kicked in. Its A Wonderful Life! It was so delightful. Until we had to ride down the hill. This time there was no Pink Lady guardian angel to rescue me. (See July'08 entry)
The dark, drenched descent down Ebbott's pass was the worst conditions I've ever cycled in, treacherous rain slicked hairpin corners and the onset of early hypothermia had me seriously, at the time, questioning my survival odds. Yesterday, perhaps because of having come through the Sierra ordeal intact, I did not fear the cold, wet descent. I knew it would be a trial but the outcome was certain. What I did not anticipate was my body's instinct to shunt blood flow to the core at the cost to the extremeties, and my hands and feet received the worst, the most painful freeze I've ever endured, including alpine skiing in sub-freezing conditions. The wetness of the gloves, the socks and shoes, amplifies the loss of precious body heat. My shins were not covered, and burned with the cold, turning bright red. At one point, descending the lower part of Snake road I was screaming at full volume, but only inside my head, the pain of unrelentingly squeezing the brake levers was so great. Once at home, I under went the immediate ritual of trying to warm up- hot shower, hot food, warm clothes, a shot of brandy (for feel good effect). I thought of the image of a deep sea diver who has been down really deep and has to enter a decompression chamber before returning to normal atmosphere. It was analgous- we had been out there riding harder, higher, and longer than perhaps we should have. So it begs the question: Why do I do it? Why do we do it?
Although there was advanced duress inflicted on body due to route profile, and elemental suffering due to cold and wind chill, overall the ride gave much more than the sum of its parts. Its difficult to explain, but by riding longer, harder, attaining ever higher levels of elevation, and battling the elements, we are pushing ourselves into a sustained place of hardship and suffering so that we "pass through" to a different place. Its a place of altered time, where there is only the moment, nothing else exists but you, your bike, and your co-riders, sharing the same groupthink, the same groupfeel, living life at the edge as if there is no other reason for our being. We cast off our work selves, our family selves, even "ourselves" evaporate, there is no right, no wrong, we just..."are"...everything is set in place for us to ecstatically dance naked upon a tiny pinhead of time.
Ride on my friend.
