Hooptedoodle

Pierre's Hole 100

Finally my efforts get the attention of the “national” press are starting to pan out.  I got interviewed by a guy from Cycling News after the Race last week and I did my best to not sound like a doofus. 

See how I did - I don’t appear until 15:50.   One more NUE series race for me this summer, then I’m calling it a season, maybe even a career.

 

Read the article here

Litter bug

I have a confession to make.  It is something for which I feel deep shame and embarrassment.  So please bear with me while I get this off my chest:

Despite my environmental ethic, and everything I learned in elementary school and as a Boy Scout, I’ve lately developed a habit of littering.

This reprehensible behavior first manifest itself two weeks ago in the first round of the Mountain States Cup in Fruita, Colorado.  57 pros lined up for a 31-mile loop through the desert, all vying for a modest cash payout (that only paid three places deep) and a truckload of external validation, which most of us were competing for.  In preparation for such a long race, I put two bottles filled with CarboRocket on my bike and hoped it was enough. 

The start of the race went exactly like one would expect when 57 cyclists race down a sandy wash.  I saw two crashes and was in front of another that took out several riders.  About 15 minutes into the chaos I looked down and saw that both of my water bottles were gone.  The responsible thing would have been to go back and find them, but instead I bummed a drink from Charlie Gibson and kept going.

I was fortunate the neutral water stations hadn’t run out when I got to them, thus preventing a colossal meltdown in the desert, but I might have learned my lesson about littering if they had been out.  Instead I continued my irresponsible ways last weekend at the third Intermountain Cup race at Five Mile Pass.  Even though I got some new water bottle cages that held my bottles snugly I still found a way to spread my trash around the trail.  

At 44 miles, Five Mile Pass is another long race, so I figured I’d need some food along the way.  I put two packs of Clif Shot Bloks into my jersey pocket.  This race started more humanely, i.e. less chaos, than in Fruita, and I finished the first lap with the main group.   At the start of the second lap I enjoyed one of my Shot Bloks, but while putting the pack back in my pocket the vest I was wearing over my jersey got in the way.  After a bit of fumbling which led me to believe it was in my pocket I felt it bounce off my foot and onto the trail, which told me it wasn’t.  No worries, I thought, that’s why I packed two.

The next time I snacked on a Shot Blok I took extra care not to do it again because I didn’t want to run out of food less than half way into the race and because deep down I know that littering is wrong.  So you can imagine my surprise when on lap three I reached back for another snack and felt an empty pocket.  I had done it again.  Lack of control is a classic sign of compulsive behavior. 

I saw both of my packs on the trail during my third and fourth laps, and I am ashamed to admit that I never stopped to pick them up.   For all I know, they’re probably still out there, feeding the ants and lizards.  What has come over me?

There, now I've said it.  I hope this first step puts me on the path toward ending this vile behavior forever.  I feel so dirty. 

Race results are here and here. 

 

 

 

SoHo 10k and a race prediction

Mags and I did another ski race last weekend.  This one was a 10 kilometer race that was part of the Wasatch Citizens Series, which is to cross country skiing in what the Intermountain Cup is to mountain biking in Utah.   In other words, most people are just out having fun, but there are a few folks that take it far too seriously. 

Here’s a case in point.  Like the ICUP, there are categories for racing based upon skill level in the WCS.  Fast people should race in the open category, and beginners should race in the novice category, the rest of us race in what I call the age-grouper categories, where we race against people close to our same age.  I don’t know which age group started behind mine, but mid-way through my first lap some of them started to catch up to me.  On one particularly steep uphill I was trying to go around some slower skiers—effectively taking up the entire track—when a guy from behind me started to get impatient.   “Come on,” he said “we started a minute behind you.  Give us a break.” 

“I’m trying to pass these folks too.” I replied, but was thinking more along the lines of “If you’re so [expletive deleted] fast why aren’t you racing in the open category?”

Also like the ICUP, there were lots of people standing around before and after the race talking about their equipment.  I’ve never been very good about talking ‘gear’ and actually can’t think of a more vapid topic of conversation, but I felt even more out of place at the ski race.  People were talking about ski flex, special grinds, binding types, carbon fiber this and carbon fiber that, and how many fluorocarbons were in their wax.  Pshaw, high-flouro wax? Who do you think you are?  Should I call you Sven? Or Thor?  It’s not the arrow, it’s the Indian. 

Or maybe it is the arrow.   I got passed several times on descents by the same guy I’d just passed on the climb.  I’d like to blame that on my transcendent inability to go fast downhill in any sport, but there was clearly something more going on. 

But oh well, there’s only one more ski race for me this season and I’ll be using my same old hydrocarbon (aka zero-flouro) wax again, and I’m OK with that.  But I do think a prediction is in order.  My first race was 5 kilometers, the next one was twice that distance, and the race on Saturday is twice that again.  Not surprisingly, my time in the second race was not exactly twice that of the first race, but interestingly, it was less than twice my 5k time.  Clearly, this means that the longer the race is, the faster I’ll be.   Sure, some might argue that the race conditions were different, but I choose to ignore the fact that there was a blizzard at Snowbasin while the race at Soldier Hollow was under sunny skies on immaculately groomed trails.  [This also explains why my second lap at SoHo was 14 seconds faster than my first.]  So  I’ve decided to use the data from my races, consisting of exactly two data points, to predict my finishing time in Saturday’s 20 kilometer race.  As I've done in the past, I made a chart to help me: 

As you can see from the chart, I’ll be finishing in about 42 minutes.  Sochi, here I come. 

Snowbasin Nordic Challenge

For three years now, I’ve been threatening to try cross country ski racing.  I made good on that threat Monday morning.  The Snowbasin Nordic Challenge is a 5 or 15 kilometer skate ski race held to raise funds for a hospital in Guatemala that was nearly destroyed by a mudslide in 2005.  Sure it was nice to contribute to a worthy cause, but I was more excited that there was finally a cross country ski race held on a weekend where I would be in town.  

Getting to Snowbasin was not without incident.  Our car started overheating when we pointed it toward the mountains.  That, combined with the sputtering and misfiring we were experiencing earlier in the week, leads me to suspect the worst—head gasket failure.  We stopped three times to let the engine cool off so we had only 15 minutes to get ready when we got to Snowbasin.  

That was just enough time for Mags and me to get our bibs, click into our skis, Mags to lose her gloves, and me to figure out where our timing chips were supposed to go.  Then just like that the gun went off and the race was on.  Mass starts in ski races can be a little dangerous with all those sharp poles flying everywhere, but we both managed to get through it with both eyeballs intact and no new orifices.  

After a short downhill, the race turned uphill and I started moving up.  I started to get that sandbagger feeling after I passed a dozen or so racers.  I was wishing I’d signed up for the 15k race.  Then the trail got even steeper and I changed my mind again.  It had been a while since I’d felt that old familiar tinge of exercise-induced nausea, but there it was, in all its glory, starting from deep in my gut and getting stronger with every stride.  I looked to the side of the trail for a place to puke, but the top came before the barf did.  Phew! Chuckage contained. 

Mags had her own bout with nausea and she too was able to contain it.  She finished the 5k third among women and first in her age category.  I was second overall with a time of 17:55 and about 30 seconds behind the winner.  It was a well organized race, with lots of raffle prizes, great food and a good turnout.  Uh oh, cross country ski racing seems like something I could get into, but another expensive hobby is the last thing I need. 

'Cross round up

I’ve been doing a little cyclocross racing the past couple of weekends.   My first race was a sloppy mess but I did better than expected, which is pretty easy to do when you have expectations as low as I do.  I still can't get past the absurdity of riding a bike with skinny tires and drop handlebars on trails better suited for a mountain bike (or occasionally cross country skis).

 

My second race was on Halloween and rather than exert effort in putting together a new costume—I don’t exert effort in preparing for cyclocross, not even for a costume—I decided to dig out my Little Bo Peep costume again, which I must say was remarkably comfortable for racing in.

The short skirt was never in the way during my mounts and dismounts, and the ample bust was a perfect place to store the cash Chris was handing out mid-race.  I’m afraid to admit this because normally I tuck cash, wrappers, tools, etc. in my shorts but, wearing the dress, I instinctively put the dollar where my boobs were supposed to be.  What exactly does it say about me that I do this on instinct?

Shortly into the race, on my third time up the run-up, I felt a twinge in my right hamstring.  Argh!  Not again.  From then on I couldn’t pedal with much power.  I thought about dropping out, but remembered that I race cyclocross strictly for fun and to develop bike handling skills for mountain bike season.  Fortunately it was just a twinge and not a pull, so I soft pedaled my way around the course for the next 40 minutes.  Besides, I wanted to make sure there were plenty of pictures like these.  Don't you just love the perfect balance of strength and femininity? 

Speaking of strength and femininity, Mags raced on Saturday too.  In her first ever cyclocross race, she flew over the trails on her way to a second place finish on her heavy mountain bike.  Maybe it was the wings:

 

A race I can win

The last part of the Intermountain Cup race season was a bit of a blur.  I started out great in the State Championships at Solitude, but missed a turn in the first lap and lost about 7 positions.  I did it again in Jackson, this time leading two other riders off course in the third of four laps.  Sorry Brandon.  Sorry Rich.  Then at the series final at The Canyons Resort—By the way, who’s brilliant idea was it to start a race at high noon on the first day of August?—I had put in an effort I could feel good about and was coming down the final descent with Brandon Firth hot on my trail.  I was certain I could hold him off since I’ve been working on my descending and can now descent faster than my eight-year-old niece.   However, in typical fashion I was also letting my mind wander.  Gee, I thought, I’m going to make it through this entire season without a single flat tire.

Moments later I whacked my front wheel hard on a rock and heard the ominous burping sound of air escaping my tubeless tire.  I stopped and quickly gassed it up, surprised that it sealed, and hopped back on.  I had probably only lost about two minutes, but that was enough time for Brandon to pass me. 

My tire was flat again by the time I got to the bottom, I guess it didn’t really seal, and I nearly went down at the final hairpin turn before the finish line.  Rather than fight it, I just got off and ran the last fifty feet to the finish line.  I suppose finishing like that is some sort of metaphor, but I don’t like its implication so I’ll just leave it out there. 

So it’s been nearly three weeks since the final ICUP series race.  I finished in a respectable fifth place overall in the pro men field.  Not bad, I suppose, but I just don’t understand why the series has to end so soon, or more specifically, why there needs to be five races in May and only one in August.  The Mountain States Cup Series in Colorado runs through mid September.   The Wild Rockies Series in Idaho finishes in late September and the Wisconsin Off Road Series has two races scheduled for October. 

The end of the season has given me a case of the doldrums.  Normally by now I’m shifting my focus onto some longer distance races and my plans this year were no different.  I was really looking forward to racing the American Mountain Classic stage race again, and the 12 Hours of Bear Lake seemed pretty appealing too.   Then there was one more Pro XCT Tour series scheduled in Las Vegas in September where I was hoping to redeem myself after my lackluster performance in Colorado Springs.  But all three of those races have been canceled.

There was also the Leadville 100 last weekend, to which I was denied registration due to the Lance-factor.  Speaking of Lance Armstrong, he won that race this year, but he needed the help of some teammates to beat perennial winner Dave Wiens.  That speaks volumes about the 44 year old Wiens and what it takes to beat him, and about Lance, especially after he tirelessly worked to divide his own team at the Tour de France this year simply because he wasn’t the team leader.  

Lance’s use of team tactics to win at Leadville also says something about the race itself.  Mountain bike races aren’t team events.  The Leadville 100 is a dirt road race.

So no AMC, no Pro XCT, no 12 Hours of Bear Lake, and no (not ever?) Leadville for me.  To add insult to injury, Fish has scheduled his luau for the same day as the 12 Hours of Sundance.  I’m still wrestling over that decision.  

Maybe I’m just bitter but it’s not all bad.  There is one bright spot this time of year.  It is harvest season and the farmers’ markets are in full swing.  I try every August to eat my body weight in locally grown fruits and vegetables. 

 Last weekend Mags and I went to the People’s Market on the west side of SLC.  On the way back we came upon an older couple riding bikes in the same direction.  I was on our Grocery Bike, albeit with only partially loaded baskets, unlike in this picture.  The woman was on a fancy new bicycle.  It looked like one of those GoCycles.  It was Fancy because it was electric and new because she was proud of it, as evidenced by what she said to me as I came by:  

“Wanna race?” 

“You bet.” I said as I mashed the pedals.  She throttled her electric motor and the race was on. 

I pushed hard, wishing Mags hadn’t lowered the seat on the Grocery Bike.  The old woman and I were still even.  I pushed harder, and nosed into the lead, but my opponent countered by starting to pedal.  Oh that was ruthless, how was I supposed to compete with motor and muscle?  

My only chance was to shift gears, but the shifters are mounted on the stem, and reaching for them meant pulling one hand off the handlebar, possibly allowing my loaded basked up front to cause dangerous speed wobble—we were reaching speeds in excess of 10 miles per hour!—leading to the doubly embarrassing likelihood of crashing and losing to a gray haired woman on an electric bike. 

I risked it.   My hand shot like a flash to the stem, pulled the rear derailleur lever up two notches, and flashed back to the bar.  I gave my opponent a  Lance-inspired steely glare and rode on to victory.  As she rode by a few seconds later I heard the woman (remarkably clear despite all the wind noise from our high speeds) say to Mags “He’s faster than me.” 

Yes finally, a reason to feel good about my race season. 

Colorado Springs

I set myself up for the ultimate irony at the Sand Creek race in Colorado Springs a week ago, but first let me tell you about the course.  Most of it was smooth, hard packed, wide singletrack.  It was smooth enough that I joked with Ryan about how I should have saved some weight by bringing the rigid fork from my single speed.  

Then, as if to mock me, the trail led us into the first rock garden.  This one I could ride, but there were some sections I couldn’t.   A lot of the next mile consisted of rock gardens that I could ride during my warm up, but never under hypoxic race conditions.  To make a long story short, the course did not play to my strengths.  Put another way, my strengths do not play to finesse riding.  

My inability to descend gingerly notwithstanding, I had two aspirations for this race. The first was to not finish last, which was [relatively] easy.  I finished in front of 11 riders, and there were another 20 or so that didn’t finish at all.  By the way, when 90 racers are trying to get up the same trail and so are riding wheel to wheel, if one of the guys in the front dabs his foot everyone behind him gets stopped too.   So, to the guy behind me that yelled when I decided it was faster to run than wait for a literal traffic jam, if you’re reading this: Don’t be myopic, look up, look around, and quit staring at my hub. There’s a race going on.  

My other aspiration was to pee in a cup, or get tested for drugs.  I failed in that regard, or at least I hope so.

When I crossed the finish line I had only one thing on my mind, and it wasn’t to find out what place I’d finished or if I’d been randomly selected for drug testing.  No, I was thinking of getting to Coors Field and watching Ichiro Suzuki, the galaxy’s most gifted, graceful and gracious ballplayer, slap another base hit that doesn’t make it out of the infield.  

So Ryan and I loaded our bikes into the truck, and thanks to a 45 minute rain delay, we made it in time for the second inning.  It wasn’t until later that night, after the Mariners had blown two golden opportunities and thus the game, as I was finally drifting off to sleep, that I realized that I’d forgotten to check if I’d been randomly selected for drug testing.  

Missing a drug test is as bad as failing a drug test in the eyes of the USADA.  The irony of hoping to be selected, getting selected, and then skipping out on the test would be too much to bear.  So, to the USADA, if you’re reading this, and if I was selected: I’m sorry, but Ichiro is leading the American League in batting, and I hadn’t seen him play for five years. I’m begging for a little leniency here.  I’ll pee in that cup any time you ask.  I promise all you’ll find is some flax seed, chocolate milk, and if I’m desperate, maybe a bit of Mountain Dew.   

What am I thinking?

I’m leaving this afternoon, with pro license in hand, for Colorado Springs and the Carmichael Training Systems Sand Creek International Classic.  This will be my first race on the PRO XCT Tour so I only have two aspirations:

1)    Not finish last
2)    Be asked to pee in a cup

Cross your fingers. 

Sasquatch. Yeti. Red Beard. Cro-Magnon.

Sasquatch. Yeti. Red Beard. Cro-Magnon.  These were all names I was called at the Desert Rampage in St. George two Saturdays ago.  It seems I had forgotten to shave my face while shaving my legs in preparation for the first race of the 2009 season. 

I did finally get around to shaving, but I seem to have missed a few spots. 

There’s not much more to say about my race.   I prepared the way I usually do,  (by going bowling on the Thursday before), warmed up on the morning of the race, then relaxed until just before the start.  I raced well and finished 12th out of 27 pros and quasi-pros like me.  I was happy that I finished strong, my lap time on the fourth lap was only about a 90 seconds slower than my first lap time. 

There are, however, a few things that need to be said about Mags’ race on the same day.  There were 18 sport women racing against her, and she beat every one of them.  She was nervous at the start, but she has recently renewed her commitment to the hooptedoodle training plan: ride your bike to work.  She takes the commuter train to O-town every day, then pedals her very heavy commuter bike from the train station three miles up to the University where she works. 

So when she gets on her lightweight mountain bike with hand-me-down, gently worn in, and race proven parts she climbs like gas prices climb in the summertime.  I like to pretend that I taught her how to climb, but unfortunately, that would also mean I’ve taught her how to descend, and that’s like taking ethics lessons from an Illinois politician. 

Oh, there’s one more thing she’s been doing that helped her climb to the top of the podium.  Remember how I tried to convince people that you can in fact shop at Costco on your bicycle?   Well, apparently I have at least one follower. 

Dog days of winter

People have accused me of being a dog hater.  It’s not true, but much of the time perception is stronger than reality .  Truthfully, I’m not a dog hater, but I’m not a dog lover either.  I will admit that I hate interacting with unleashed dogs that I don’t know, especially when I’m approaching them rapidly on my bike or skis.  I think I’m pretty justified in this hatred.  Ryan is too.  

To prove I’m not a dog hater, or maybe because my therapist says I’ve got to make peace with the canine species, I did something Saturday morning that I never thought I’d do. 

I went Skijoring.  

More specifically, I participated in a Skijoring race.  The race was put on by Racer and his wife, Maren.  They told me I could borrow a dog and all the equipment I’d need.  Maren also promised to give me a dog that knew what he was doing, to make up for my not having a clue. 

So Mags and I waxed up our skis and made the drive to Park City Saturday morning.  We quickly met Amy and her two Malamute puppies, Wilson and Brutus.  Here’s a picture of Mags with eight-month-old Wilson.  I think Wilson outweighs Mags.

Mags and I spent about an hour trying to get Wilson and Brutus to pull us around, and had the most success when Amy ran in front of them.  Maren said I could use a second dog during the race that should work well with Brutus. 

Meanwhile, Aaron and I got interviewed by a reporter from Park City TV.  I think he was a bit disappointed when we told him this was our first experience skijoring.  I also doubt that clip will ever make it over to YouTube. 

One minute before the race started I was introduced to Zilla, my second and supposedly well trained dog.  We hitched her up alongside Brutus and they immediately started to wrestle.  They were more interested in playing than in pulling me around the two mile course. 

After about five minutes of trying to cajole them into working, I finally gave up on Brutus and sent him back to Amy.  Zilla and I then took off up the hill.  Zilla was a good worker as long as she didn’t get distracted, which initially was every 30 seconds. 

Eventually Zilla got the message and we started passing people.  She pulled us all the way into fourth place—good enough to win me a pair of socks. 

After the race, Zilla and I went out for another lap, just the two of us.  You might say we bonded. 

Cyclocross regression

It’s a beautiful, sunny December afternoon here in Salt Lake City.  I’m sitting here in bed with a clogged nose and gnarly cough instead of racing the final cyclocross race of the series at the Andy Ballard Equestrian Center.  Lately the weather’s been so nice, in fact, that I haven’t been wishing I was sliding through the woods on skinny skis instead of skinny tires during every race. 

Since I’m not racing today I figured I would do something I enjoy equally well.  You guessed it; I’m spending the afternoon doing regression analysis.  First I plotted my finishing place in each of the five cyclocross races I’ve done this season:

As you can see, the data indicate that I have clearly improved over the course of the season, but they also indicate a leveling off of my progress, as is evident by the 12th place finish the data predict for me if I had shown up for race number 11 today. 

Rather than get discouraged by these data, or write them off as an indicator of my level of enthusiasm for cyclocross this year, I next plotted the number of riders I finished in front of in each of my first four races.  I deemed race number 10 to be an outlier because I had a mechanical during the race (i.e. my handlebars slipped downward every time I rode on the hoods, then slipped back upwards when I shifted my hands to the drops.  I stopped to fix them after two laps, and after several minutes spent frantically searching for someone to loan me a multi-tool, I managed to tighten them in the downward position, so that even when I was on the hoods I felt like was riding in an aerodynamic tuck.  This, of course, clearly explains why I was able to ride fast enough to catch two competitors before the end of the race and not finish last.):

I must admit I find the upward trend of these data much more encouraging.  And look at that coefficient of variation—a whopping 0.85!  That’s pretty exciting, but what troubles me about these data is that they predict I would have finished in front 10 riders in race number 11 today.  Do the math if you must, but can you believe that?  Ten riders!?! The data don’t lie.  If, like last week, only 14 riders showed up to race in the ‘A’ Category, I would have finished in fourth place. 

Finishing fourth in a cyclocross race requires commitment.  It requires discipline.  It requires training, skills, desire.   It requires knowing how to get back on my bike after every barrier without hopping around like a fool.  No way.  I’m not ready to finish in fourth place. 

Sheesh.  It’s a good thing I stayed home today. 

My short-lived race against Lance Armstrong

If you had checked the Texas Mountain Bike Racing Association riders’ forum on Friday evening, you would have seen the following headline:

The Rumor is true, yes, Lance Armstrong was pre riding rhr

It’s OK if you didn’t see it.  I didn’t either. 

So it wasn’t until I was pre-riding the course myself on Saturday morning that I discovered that I would indeed be lining up against former world champion and seven time Tour de France Winner Lance Armstrong. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

I am in Texas this week for a conference on natural gas production and transmission systems.  When I found out I would be coming here I got online and did some searching for a bike race—just to make the trip meaningful.  What I found was the Rocky Hill Roundup; it’s the season finale of the fall season here in Texas, comparable to the ICUP’s Wolverine Ridge race.  

I arranged to borrow a bike because I broke mine at 12 Hours of Sundance.  I boxed up the borrowed bike and hopped on a plane to San Antonio.  I camped just outside of Smithville, Texas on Friday night, where I took in the halftime show at the high school football game.  The hometown Tigers were getting slaughtered in this episode of Friday Night Lights. 

The morning of the race I busied myself getting my bike and body ready.  I didn’t notice any additional hubbub that ought to be present when cycling’s biggest celebrity (at least in Texas) is getting ready to race.  In fact, I had almost forgotten that he was there until the race director, after calling the top ten in the series point standings to the front of the line, spoke the following words: 

“To honor a former world champion, we would also like to call Lance Armstrong to the front of the line.” 

I moved out of his way as he walked his bike (a Gary Fisher Superfly) right next to me.  He was wearing a Mellow Johnny’s Bike Shop of Austin jersey.  I lined up behind him and waited for the gun.  Yes, in Texas they use a real gun to start races. 

I’m not sure what to say about what happened next.  Immediately after the start, Lance swerved sharply to the right.  Apparently he could not get clipped into his pedal—typical roadie—and lost his concentration while he tried a second time.  That caused a domino effect, as the guy to his right also swerved right, causing the guy to his right to do likewise.  By the third or fourth domino the riders had run out of space and started going down.  I think at least five guys went down, right in the first fifty meters, and as far as I could tell it was all Lance’s fault. I suspect you'll be able to find video of it on YouTube soon. 

I should mention here that ten minutes before the race I got a flat tire in my back wheel.  I tried to get it to seal but didn’t want to risk it, so I raced back to my car and inserted a tube.  What I didn’t notice was that the flat was not in the seal between the tire and the rim, but I actually had small hole in the sidewall.  If I had seen the hole I would have done what any smart cyclist does in a pinch like this—insert a dollar bill between tube and tire.  The heavy duty, cotton-based paper works like a charm.  Hindsight is always 20/20. 

Anyway, back to the race.  After the crash at the start, I moved around a few guys and found myself right on Lance’s wheel.  A guy named Austin gave me the following pictures. 

A shot of Lance. 

My shadow (left) and Lance’s back wheel (right).  You’ll just have to trust me on this one. 

A shot of me. 

About fifteen minutes later, after I had passed three guys and was riding in seventh place, and with Lance still in view, I heard what I thought was a gunshot.  Incidentally, only Oklahoma leads Texas in per capita gun ownership.  In exactly 0.75 revolutions, my wheel was completely flat.  I changed my tube and filled it up again, but I broke off the valve stem, exactly like I had at the American Mountain Classic, is my Big Air valve to blame, or is it my adrenalin? 

I started pulling the tube out again when I finally noticed the hole in my sidewall, because it was now quite large and impossible to miss.  I realized my race was over so I started waking. 

Ahhh, there’s nothing like a walk in the woods to do some personal reflection. I was really racing with a living legend.  

P.S. Lance ended up winning, and the last guy I passed before I flatted finished ninth.  Could I have been on my way to a top ten finish?  Results are posted here.

I'm a doper. Again.

I did another cyclocross race last Saturday.  It was the second time in my life that I was a doper.  

I’ll tell you about that in a minute, bur first I need to ask you to do me a favor.  I’m going to be out of town all week, so can you please attend this open house for me?  It’s your opportunity to provide input on existing and potential bicycle corridors that connect communities throughout the state.

UDOT to host Bicycle Corridor Public Open House in Draper

(Salt Lake) -The Utah Department of Transportation (UDOT) will host a series of public open houses throughout the state to discuss existing and potential bicycle corridors. The Draper/Sandy open house will be held on Thursday, November 13, 2008, from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. at the Draper City Hall, Council Chambers, 1020 East Pioneer Road in Draper.        

In response to increasing demand for bicycle corridors in Utah, UDOT is preparing a statewide Bicycle Corridor Priority Plan. Key elements of the plan include: an assessment of current bicycle accommodations; a methodology for improving bicycle corridors; and public input and recommendations.

For more information, contact Amy Steinbrech at 801.364.0088 ext. 115 (amy@wfandco.com) or visit the UDOT Web site at www.udot.utah.gov.

So apparently the latest performance enhancing drug of choice for endurance athletes is Viagra.  I know this not because I pay attention to stuff like this, but because my buddy Leif, who studies this sort of stuff at the University of Utah, tells me so.  

Last Friday, Leif and I did a quick Halloween ride on the Bonneville Shoreline Trail.  We were riding past Red Butte—he was dinging his bell the whole way—when he asked me if I’d like to participate in a study he was doing.  

He wanted me to take 50 mg (half a pill) of Viagra before my race the next day, and fill out a survey describing any perceived effects.  

I consented, but only for the cause of science.  

So the race went pretty well for me.  I popped the pill about an hour before the start, warmed up as usual, then lined up on the back row where I belong.  For the record, Viagra is not currently a banned substance by the World Anti Doping Agency.  

Cyclocross may not be the best venue for me to test a drug.  The race course wasn’t overly technical, but I still suffered in the place where it was.   Part of the course was on the motocross course at Rocky Mountain Raceway, complete with whoops, tabletop jumps and high-banked corners.   Maybe a high octane beverage would have made me faster, the kind they advertise there at the Raceway.  

I suppose what I’m saying is that it’s not my fitness that holds me back in cyclocross, it my bike handling skills.  So a performance enhancing drug probably isn’t going to help me that much in this discipline.  In spite of this, I did finish better than I did the week before—14th this time—and I did feel a little stronger, but I attribute that more to this being my second race of the season.  I always feel a little better after the first race.  I did my best to tell Leif that when I filled out the survey.  

So when it comes to performance enhancement, I guess its back to flax seeds and maple syrup for me.  Viagra just doesn’t do it for me.  Yes, I realize that is a double entendre.  

Besides, if cyclists start using Viagra to get an unfair advantage it would be really easy to test for.  Picture this, scores of guys in skin tight spandex standing around after a race.  All it would take is one of the podium girls bending over to pick something up.  Every doper in the crowd would be HARD to miss.  

The point

Hooptedoodle reader and regular bicycle commuter Vincent G. of Phoenix sent me this email the other day.  He was one of the winners in his company’s incentive program to encourage alternate transportation and trip reduction. 

It’s great that the company is encouraging alternative methods of transportation, but I think the may have slightly missed the point.  

Look at the prizes Karen and Vincent won. 

Congratulations to Karen, Vincent and Chris.  They are the prize winners for our Trip Reduction/Alternative Mode Users Quarterly drawing.
 
Karen         $10 Danny’s Family Car Wash
Vincent      $15 Gas Card to Quick Trip
Chris         $25 Visa Gift Card

Thanks to all participants for doing your part to save gas and the environment.

I wonder if the prize for the winner of the company weight loss competition is a big slice of chocolate cake.  

Speaking of missing the point, it took an extra effort to not do so in my race last Saturday. 

This year’s cyclocross season is already a month old.  So I decided it was time to strip the fenders off and remount the knobby tires on my ‘cross bike.  I’ve been putting it off because my ‘cross bike is a great commuter.  I thought seriously about leaving the fenders on this year, so I wouldn’t finish another race looking like this:

I rolled up to the start line for my first race of the season last Saturday at Ft. Buenaventura.  I took my place at the back of the line, where they put riders who lack cyclocross skills.  I had one goal for the race, and no, it wasn’t to not finish last.  I would have been fine with coming in last place. 

No, my goal was to not get a flat tire.  See, last year my ‘cross season was hampered by flat tires, which is good for hiding a lack of skills, but can have a bitter aftertaste when you have to drop out of a race. 

I got worried while I was working the pit for Ryan.  He couldn’t finish a single lap without flatting, so I helped him change his wheel.  I got another scare about five minutes before my race when Rich pointed out a thorn in my front tire. 

“Oh well,” I thought, “there’s nothing I can do about it now.”  I left the thorn in place and hoped the sealant in my tubes would do its job. 

To shorten a boring story, I felt exactly the way I you’re supposed to feel in a ‘cross race if you haven’t raced in over a month.   I also crashed once and dropped my chain.  Three guys passed me before I got it back on so I thought for sure I was in last place.  

This is where I almost missed the point, but instead I reminded myself that I was there because I love riding my bike and not because I thought I could win. 

All week I thought I had finished last, but I was content because I didn’t get a flat tire.  Results were finally posted yesterday and I was tickled to see that there were two racers behind me. 

I’ll be at Rocky Mountain Raceway this weekend.  Maybe I can finish in front of three guys this time.  Maybe one day I can take cyclocross seriously, but then again, what’s the point?

One more thing.  Check out Racer's video of himself, Aaron and me in the race:

 

Doing the Dew at 12 Hours of Sundance

I’m never going to live this down. 

It all started about three years ago.  I had just gotten my first real job.  One of my co-workers was a goateed (goatees are the mullet of the new millennium) geologist (I would say quirky geologist, but that would be redundant) named Ryan who said he liked to ride bikes.  One day Ryan suggested we go for a ride. 

We arranged to meet at the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon.  I arrived there first and was horrified when Ryan showed up.  He was driving a 4WD truck (albeit foreign made) with what looked like oversized tires, he had a tricked out 'fool' suspension bike in the back, I think he was listening to a Meat Loaf album, and his goatee was bigger and bushier than ever. 

“Oh no” I thought, “The last thing I need is to get mixed up with the Mountain Dew crowd.”

Fortunately I was wrong about Ryan—mostly.  He’s not a weekend warrior-adrenaline junkie who pounds Mountain Dews by the six pack and subsists solely on Cheetos and Sour Patch Kids.  He’s actually a thoughtful, intelligent and sensitive guy.  He can speak an entire sentence without using the word “Dude”.  He may also be a public radio contributor.   

Ever since I told Ryan about that first impression I had we’ve been accusing each other of a Mountain Dew addiction.  We even have an ongoing competition to see who can do the most awesome maneuvers on our bikes.  Anytime one of us, for example, catches some air or drifts our back tire, we have to appeal for points by letting out a whoop, shout, yee-haw, or some other primal scream becoming of a highly caffeinated soda drinker.  If our buddies who witnessed it concur that it was indeed a “kick ass” move, we are awarded one Mountain Dew point.  Anybody who gains a six point lead over his competitors wins a six pack of Mountain Dew.  To this day nobody has ever won the prize, because we won't keep track of our scores.  If I ever did win the six pack of Mountain Dew I’d accidentally leave it in Ryan’s truck. 

It’s not just Mountain Dew.  An especially awesome maneuver warrants a Code Red Mountain Dew, because it is the only equal in awesomeness.  Ryan was the proud recipient of Diet Mountain Dew T-shirt I won as a raffle prize.   He’s since tricked me into taking it back.  Another time I caught him trying to hang an extreme sports calendar in my cubicle.  It depicted all the great gravity powered, caffeine fueled extreme sports. Truly awesome.

Other energy drinks are fair game too.  We were especially tickled to see that the Tuesday Night Mountain Bike Race Series at Solitude was sponsored by Full Throttle.   Ryan and I now have matching Full Throttle T-shirts. That’s some serious awesomeness. 

But I digress.  You want to know about my race at Sundance.  Aaron Stites and I teamed up to defend our title in the duo men category.  You may recall that last year we got rained out before we finished the full twelve hours. 

Saturday’s weather was much drier.  In fact it was perfect; sunny with temperatures in the high seventies.  Aaron and I had agreed to alternate seven mile laps, and give each other longer breaks by doing two consecutive laps twice during the race. 

The race started well.  By our third lap we had taken the lead, thanks to Chris’s clumsy crash in the first lap.   Chris went down, but he wasn’t out. He reeled me in before I finished the third lap.  He put a 2 minute gap on me before he handed it off to his wife KC.  Yeah, that’s right, we were getting beat by a girl, but she could probably ride circles around you too.

Aaron kept the pressure on KC.  He passed her in our fourth lap, but I couldn’t hold Chris off in the fifth lap.  Did I mention they were on singlespeeds with rigid forks?  I pointed out to Chris that I was hauling all those extra gears that were slowing me down, and asked him what his excuse was.  He responded by dropping me like an emo kid at a punk show. 

Sticking to our strategy, I stayed on for our sixth lap, assuming Aaron would do laps seven and eight.  When I came in he said he didn’t know if he had the legs for two laps.  At least I think that’s what he said, but since I didn’t completely understand him I didn’t know how long my break would be.  Would I have 40 minutes, or 80 minutes?  If I could get a longer break I could eat some more substantial food and get a deeper rest.  But since I didn’t know, I had to be ready in 40 minutes. 

When Aaron came through he said he couldn’t do two laps yet, but would do it later when it cooled off.  That hurt me.  My lap times increased by a minute or two over the next four laps.  I think my slowest lap was almost 45 minutes. 

By late afternoon we came to the conclusion that we only had time for three more laps.  Josh and Matt had passed us, and we were holding on for third place overall.  I was feeling deflated.  Before I set out on our 16th lap (my ninth of the day) I made a few changes to my rest routine.  First, I ate a big piece of watermelon that my mom had brought me.  Nothing ever tasted so good.  I washed it down with a cup of miso soup while my mom massaged my legs with some menthol gel.  A couple minutes before Aaron was expected to show up, Mags said—in jest—that I should drink some caffeine. 

“I’d drink a Coke.” I said, not expecting to get one.  But Rich, who was doing a marvelous job manning the pit zone for four teams, offered me an ice cold bottle of mountain dew. 

I took a few swigs—or should I say I slammed it down?—and headed out for my next lap. 

I wish I could say it was the watermelon, or the massage, or the soup, but it just doesn’t add up.  I’m afraid to admit that the Mountain Dew made me feel exactly like the dudes in the commercials.  I was unstoppable.  I did my first sub-forty minute lap since that morning.  When I came back to the finish area Aaron wasn’t expecting me so early and we kind of futzed our transition. 

I went back, had more watermelon, ate an energy gel and washed it down with more Mountain Dew.  My next lap, my tenth of the day, and surely our last of the race, was one of my fastest of the day.  Somewhere around 37 minutes.  We made up a little time on Josh and Matt, but couldn’t catch them. 

We were third overall, second in the duo men category.  We did 18 laps, 10 for me and 8 for Aaron.  I wonder what would have happened if I’d started drinking Mountain Dew earlier.  There’s always next year. 

Come on Ryan, don’t you think I deserve a sixer of Dew?