Goin' Postal...

Upon the chitinous spire of a snail glides my registration form, clinging tightly to the undulating mollusk as it makes the interminable journey westward to Durango, Colorado, where I hope the fine folks throwing the 2009 Single Speed World Championship shindig will deem it acceptable and see fit to welcome me into the fold. Guess we'll see.

Oh, by the way, if you haven't already sent in your registration form, please be aware that the envelope has to be postmarked no later than Friday, January 23—that's tomorrow—or it makes it no further than the waste basket. Good luck if you haven't already made the list!

Oh, and yes, I completed the required personal information before I mailed it. And included the check. Score one for me.

Update: I'm in!

SSWC08: Wine Country Worlds...

In which, in the interests of time, space, and a dwindling supply of creative juices, a recap of this year's Single Speed World Championship event (Napa, California edition) appears as a series of journal entries—recorded by an unreliable narrator—on pages flipped through at random by an impatient and rather dimwitted reader. Blame televison.

Page 2 - Lap 1
like overgrown insects, trundling our way up the loose earth and rock as if programmed by some ancient, unremitting instinct. The mandatory hike-a-bike section. This one is exclusive to the first lap, the hosts having routed it out and replaced it with a much longer, less steep, partially rideable "climb" for the last two laps.

There is no hurry, no worry, on the faces of the horde marching with me. We all push with the same determination, with the same smiles that threaten to decay into grimaces if the hill persists. It doesn't, leveling off somewhat at a sharp left turn, and more a little further ahead. It's hard to believe that this crowd—its members equalized only for the moment by the same plodding task—will soon thin out as feet are traded for wheels and speed and technical prowess become the orders of the day. At least for a while.

I reach the semi-peak, throw a leg over the saddle, and begin the first lap, confident that the pushing is over for a while. I stand on the pedals and rock the bike under me, back and forth in a mechanical rhythm as I climb, trying to put a little distance between me and the growing line of riders slowly stretching out behind me like the body

Page 4 - Lap 1
first lap's bonus loop. Before the start, it was described as being two miles long, technical, and loaded with tight switchbacks. The description doesn't disappoint. Like the steep hike-a-bike mentioned earlier, this is a first-lap exclusive, designed to pare away the posers and offer a good primer to everyone else as to the type of terrain we can expect for the remainder of the race.

After some tight, dusty singletrack, I start in on the choppy stuff behind a rather callypygean chick dressed comme un petit lapin. Already, riders are hopping off and walking the rocky switchbacks, along which onlookers gape and jape, hoping to catch a spectacular stack-up. She's a welcome sight, this lycra-clad bunny, amid the smattering of tighty-whitey wearing riders whose sartorial decision assures them plenty of room on the pass. She rolls well, keeping a good pace, but suddenly has a bit of trouble at a tight turn, taking the outside line and losing her balance over some baby heads. I sneak by her on the inside, careful to maintain enough speed to overcome the rocks, and close in on another rider.

Page 6 - Lap 2
catch up to the arguable godmother of mountain biking, Jacquie Phelan, who is dressed improbably (given the near triple-digit heat) in a brown tweed suit that has seen better days. A tie flaps from her neck like a flattened eel as she carves the occasional curve. I first met Jacquie last year at the World's in Aviemore, Scotland, where she mingled with riders at a pre-race event, chatting and dispatching any lulls in the conversation with a quick flip of her homemade skirt, from which launched a large and insistent paper-mache phallus (also homemade) to the sounds of snickers and gasps. Jacquie knows how to have fun.

We talk as we ride together, she in front, and between my own ebbing attempts at control, I manage to comment on her enduring grace over the rough stuff. Jacquie rides an old steel bike, painted pink and sporting drop bars—the same one, I think, that she rode on the course in Scotland. It is the oldest bike on hand today, and for this dubious quality its owner receives a healthy chunk of post-race shwag: a brand-new frame.

I stay on her tire, poaching her line as she leaves it behind like an invisible wake. We pick our way through a desertlike section of the course, where the soil, bleached by an imperious sun, is as dry and sterile as moondust. Leafless shrubs frame the trail-side, their roots clutch the infertile earth like twisted talons. It is here where the heat sets in, pulling sweat from our bodies as we wrestle the rocks. Nomadic dust-plumes, stirred to life by passing tires, settle on our dewy skin like a crusty coat of paint, or seek shelter in the hollows of our laboring lungs.

We remain in this formation, taking what comes along until we arrive

Page 9 - Lap 3
the moment when it all goes wrong. On the final technical switchback, on the final lap, less than a mile from the finish, it happens. (That whole freeze-frame arrest of motion seen so clearly in the rear-view mirror of the mind's eye is only a neural echo contrived as a mnemonic device. In reality, shit happens fast. Abracafuckingdabra!—present is past, and in a flash we are all rubes at our own little magic show, wondering what the hell just happened even as the afterimage fades, talking wildly among ourselves and, in our baseless conjecture, conjuring more than the magician could hope to muster.)

I take the worst line (a habit): several large rock slabs stacked helter-skelter as though under the guidance of an impetuous and emotionally disturbed child, and forming a crude, jagged staircase. In a word, ugly. The fact that I've already successfully cleaned this postage-stamp rock garden—this exact line—on the previous two laps does nothing to deter me or wizen me up. I'm on autopilot now, the switch thrown by an unknown agent...and this is the first mistake, the one that opens the floodgates for the others that pour through in rapid succession.

In my weariness, in the surge of confidence that comes with the knowledge that I'm almost finished, knowing that beer is waiting, I fail to (mere speculation)

Page 10 - Lap 3
slide back far enough behind the saddle, fail to adequately shift my weight against the imperious pull of gravity, and bike and rider rotate around the front hub like a broken coupling arm as the front tire taps the last slab-step. Shit happens fast.

Parody of a handstand. Parody of a somersault.

Inverted in mid-spin, I'm vaguely, impossibly aware that some of the spectators' cheers have turned into "whoa!"s. My left hand-wrist-arm-shoulder take the brunt, give way, and something comes perilously close to punching out my left eye, settling instead on the lens of my sunglasses for a trophy. I tumble to the rocks, bike on me like a predator. A more discriminating rider—a rider I just passed—passes me on the left, on the line.

I get up quickly and pull my bike as far off the course as seems prudent, given the border of poison oak on either side. Something is wet, and I notice that blood has begin to coat my left hand like a stylized latex glove, oozing slowly from the wound in wayward tributaries that meet again in the valley between thenar and hypothenar. The gash in my wrist is a flesh wound; there is no tell-tale spurt timed to the beating of my heart arcing onto the stone all around me, and l see right away that the arteries are unharmed. I

Page 12 - Post-race
has removed what seems like yards of compression wrap and is busily spraying Betadine on the wound from a needle-less syringe. I ask around from my seat at the picnic-cum-surgical table for a beer—a good beer—and am all but enjoined to accept a URC¹ from a gentleman at the Soulcraft tent next door. I take a sip of what turns out to be Lagunitas IPA and I'm happy. Happy enough to forget about the five or six riders who passed me just minutes ago as the field EMTs were wrapping me up post endo.

Heather punctures the area around the now-bloodless gash with a needle, numbing the skin in preparation for the sutures. She threads up what looks like a modified fishhook (an instrument with the rather disappointing name of "½ Circle Needle"), and I snap some pics as she plays seamstress, pulling the lips of the wound together and deftly knotting the monofilament. The beer tastes like another, and the boys at Soulcraft are only too happy to oblige.

I've got a knot on my shoulder², some stitches in my wrist, another cold beer in my hand, and thoughts of Durango, Colorado already whirling around my brain. This one's over. Damn, it was fun!


Photo credits: 1, 4 - ahbrooks; 2, 3 - ibikergal

1. Ubiquitous Red Cup.

2. Type II shoulder separation.

(Won't Be) Going to California with an Achin' in My Heart...

"Seems like the wrath of the gods..."

Thank you for your interest in SSWC08. Unfortunately your entry didn't make the time cut. We had over 800 people interested and only 350 spots to fill. We hope you will still consider coming out to Napa, CA for the race festivities and to cheer on your fellow single speeders. There will be various rides around the Bay Area the week leading up to the race and afterward too, so it should be a lot of fun. We will be posting a blog soon to keep everyone up to date on what's going on. Thank you.

SSWC08 Team

Wah. It appears I won't be "telling myself, it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems" this year.

Oh well. Guess I'll drop that brass on a custom single-speed instead...

SSWC07: Worlds Away in Scotland...

Note: I intended to capture all kinds of race pictures but, unfortunately, my Canon Elph s230 mysteriously crapped out on me the day before the race (pix don't appear to be writing to the card—who knows?). What follows are the pictures of others and some pre- and post-race shots I took using my Nikon D40. More pix can be found here.

“You’re going the wrong way!”

It’s a woman’s voice, a Brit if I’ve got my accents down. The tone is, impossibly, soothing and plaintive at the same time, a pleasant lilt that masks the dire message, a bomb in a gilded box. I glance back for an instant, a wink in time, and that’s all it takes. My front wheel plows a large rock near the side of the short, steep downhill I'm negotiating with some trepidation. The bike revolts with a jarring buck, and suddenly I’m airborne, pivoting around the bars in a classic endo. Instinctively, I thrust out both arms in a handstand-cum-tuck-and-roll that saves my head, neck, and spine, but can’t change the random trajectory of my left leg. My shin strikes a rock and drags along its pointy surface like a rudder in shallow water. My impromptu somersault leaves me flat on my back, staring up through the trees I narrowly missed in the tumble.

I reach for my fallen bike to drag it off the trail, mindful of approaching racers looking to avoid the same fate. And that’s when the Brit adds insult to injury.

“Could you do me a favor, love? Could you move your bike?”

In this context, "love" conveys all the affection of a well-placed kick to the groin. All the same, I pull my rig aside, and the single speed siren zips past me in a colorful blur, like I’m an old stump. I get up and quickly survey the damage: a long, pencil-thin gash that is just beginning to ooze blood overlays the anterior crest of the unlucky leg. Painful and ugly, but no show-stopper by any stretch. I look at my bike. The fork has spun around what seems like a half-dozen times and the brake cable is coiled about the stem clamp and spacers like an overzealous anaconda. I unwind the fork, assess the bike's health, then hop back on it to continue the race. It isn’t till later that it dawns on me the Brit chick was speaking to another rider the first time. The strategy was accidental, but she profitted from it nonetheless. I don’t mind. Give and take in racing is as ancient as the spirit of competition itself. It happens. And the way she was riding, it was likely only a matter of seconds before she would have overtaken me anyway.

It’s the Single Speed World Championship in Aviemore, Scotland—home of peat bogs and black pudding and left-hand drive and arguably the finest single-malt scotch available on this mortal coil. I'm halfway through lap two of a scheduled five-lap race, picking my way through a stretch of technical singletrack. I'm one of six SSOFTies who've made the long trip from the states, and who are now several rolling links in a colorful chain of other one-gear worshippers hellbent on finishing up in one piece. Aside from a total dearth of fallen trees and logs—features so ubiquitous back home in the Mid-Atlantic area that their absence here is almost surreal—the course has it all: rocks, roots, mud, drops, bridges, steep climbs, swift descents, and gravel-strewn fire roads. And at the margins, blanketing the ground between cliques of birch trees, is heather. Lots and lots of heather. It's the veritable skin of the Scottish motherland, and its purple flower clusters are the perfect accompaniment to the gun-metal gray mountains rising up all around in the dusky distance.

The bike behaves well beneath me, taking masochistic pleasure in all the random pounding my lack of finesse encourages. The rigid fork finds the right line—when there is one—almost on its own, the portly Geax Blade up front slices through brackish mud while the slimmer Kenda Nevegal in the rear resists the dreaded power-slide over the wet knuckles of roots skinned clean to the bone by the mashing of countless rubber knobs. I'm alone now, but I hear swifter riders approaching and, up ahead, I see another rider faltering in a rock garden.

Less than an hour ago, I joined a throng of other single speeders in a half-spirited Le Mans style start that took us up a fire road, around a stripped-to-the-skivvies Dr. Jon (one of three race promoters), and back down again to our waiting bikes. From there we rode downhill, then started the first climb, a long fire road peppered with loose gravel that soon began to force space between riders. Then it was a hard right into the woods and up another climb, steep and long and technical. Many riders began to push here. I got about a third of the way up and was forced to dismount after jamming up on a slower-moving rider ahead of me. Fine with me. My lungs were still warming up and the climb wasn't letting up anytime soon, from what I could see.

At the top, we dropped into a nice piece of sloppy singletrack. The conspiracy of mud and roots along this section was so slick that it almost—almost—made the rock slabs on the downhills that followed it a welcome relief. But the rock slabs themselves often made for moments where the choice of a bad line meant a nasty faceplant or, at the very least, the sordid prospect of bulls-eyeing one's britches on the way down. Riders began changing places as the more technically proficient of the lot blew past those who balked even for a second. Most segments of technical singletrack ended with a drop to a fire road for some more climbing. Spectators gathered at these transitional points because of easy accessibility. That, and the increased likelihood of carnage that comes with a high-speed descent over scabrous, rocky terrain that segues into a tight turn on gravel. Lap one went down well for me, with dismounts dictated by choice and not chance.

Back to lap two. At some point late in the lap I run into fellow SSOFT members Rick and Donna, who've stopped by the side of a fire road to refuel. Rick's on his second lap, and Donna is closing out her first. We chat about the prospects of the remaining laps, each of us wondering how much we've got left for the finish. Then we're off again, Rick pulling the lead and Donna dropping back. A sharp left turn has us leaving the fire road for another steep ascent over dirt and rock. Rick slowly disappears ahead of me as I try to keep up, my lungs threatening mutiny with every turn of the cranks. I lose Donna behind me as I chase after Rick. The climb tops out at a jeep trail—two narrow tire tracks sandwiching a forelorn swath of nondescript flora that lead down the mountain. I choose the left side and let it go, hoping to gain a little ground with the speed. Though the surface seems relatively smooth to the eye, the body learns the truth, as the rocks and ruts set upon the rigid frame and fork with the ultraviolence of a pack of leering droogs*. Most of the rocks are flat and level with the ground, but there is the occasional sun-bleached block that sits half in the trail like the skull of a Longhorn long since gone. The jeep trail quickly surrenders to another stretch of singletrack in the woods. I'm passed here by a couple of speedy racers who are looking much stronger than they have any right to. The singletrack ends with an easy transition down to the final fire road and, beyond the peak of its gentle slope, the start/finish line, where a huge crowd is milling about.

As I pass through the crowd, I notice that many riders seem to have hung up their cleats after only one or two laps, trading handlebar grips for cold cans of Tennents and the like. I head out for lap three without stopping, keenly aware that a pause now would have the legs feeling leaden in no time.

The third lap is the worst. Unlike other riders, I don't dial in on the laps very well, even after repeated passings. Consequently, I'm now more tired but with no offsetting eidetic benefit of what's to come at each turn. I manage to ride some of the more aggressive rocky drops I'd either passed on or scotched (there's your pun) earlier, perching my ass mere inches off the rear tire and stretching my arms to the bars for control. No yard sales, though it's ugly at times. Finishing up a double drop onto a fire road that had me all over the place, but with the bike still between me and a world of pain, I notice Rick up ahead, pulled off to the side. He's laughing aloud at my stellar form and technique. We chat again about the laps ahead. He tells me about the persistent muscle cramps in his legs that visit him every time he's off the bike and pushing.

I share a bite of an energy bar with Rick. Seconds later, we're back on the bikes, repeating the scene from lap two with little variation. It isn't long before I get my first cramp, a sharp, stabbing pain on the inside of my right thigh (the gracilis for you anatomy buffs). I notice it first when I dismount on a climb and swing my leg over the saddle. I pound on the muscles to break up the opposing contractions. But the fix is temporary, and the pain returns immediately the second I hop back on the bike. I pedal a bit, trying to ride it out, but it's no use. Up ahead, Rick seems to be having the same issue.

Eventually, we both seem to get past our problems, and Rick disappears again. It's the last time I see him until after the race. I move on, riding over the technical spots with the same lack of grace that's almost a strategy at this point. At times, I hear onlookers cheer and laugh at my persistent luck on the steep, sketchy patches. I come out of the woods and onto the last fire road, then climb toward the finish line, feeling physically capable of a fourth lap but wondering how long my luck can hold out on the technical sections.

The finish line is crowded. I mean, really crowded. I weave through groups of riders like a drunken sailor on his last day of shore leave. I wonder whether these people have forgotten that a race is going on. Then I notice Kera, Mike's wife, in the throng and decide to pass off on her the rain jacket and light woolie I'd been needlessly piggybacking all race long. As she's graciously accepting my stuff, some SSOFT members politely inform me that the race is over, called after the winners, Kelli Emmet for the women and Adam Craig for the men, wracked up their five laps in record time.

It's 2:30, the 2007 Single Speed World Championship is officially over, and I've got three laps to my name amounting to about 15 miles after discounting the 11-mile ride to the start. Worn, weary, and with the ghost-twinge of muscle cramps haunting both quads, I breathe a small sigh of relief as the thought of post-race pints at a local pub already begins to ease aches and pains that are only just beginning to emerge.

Thanks go out to Dr. Jon, Marty, and Chris for all their hard work in hosting a fantastic, fun, and very challenging event that will be hard to top next year in Napa!



*See A Clockwork Orange, by Anthony Burgess.

Trails and Ales in Pennsylvania...

(This one's for ssweetleaf.)

Last Saturday my girl and I packed up Moby Dick, hung the ess-esses on the back, and made our way along the super slab up to Champion, PA to have a go at the Seven Springs 24 hour race course, exactly one week before the race was set to begin. We had contemplated attending the One Gear & Good Beer rally in the City of Brotherly Love, but decided to forego that typically congested venue for something with a little more diverse terrain and a few less people. And with the Outlaw rubbing tires with the SBT at the SSWC in Stockholm, and others otherwise engaged, well, the rally just wouldn't be the same.

After dumping our bags at the hotel, we drove about 30 minutes to the resort. Because the day was getting late, we intended to get in an exploratory ride, maybe try out one of the shorter, non-race loops outlined on the resort map, with the idea that we'd get up early on Sunday and hit the 12 mile course.

We arrived, parked the beast, and biked down to the resort to grab a course map. A quick chat with the chick at the desk revealed a twist that would make this year's event a wee bit different from those of years past. This year, the route was set to run in the opposite direction.

After hearing this little scoop and looking over the map, I decided to scotch the earlier plan and head straight for the race course, figuring we still had plenty of daylight in which to knock out the 12 or so miles of trail.

So, eschewing the $12-a-pop lifts, we made an effort to bike up the gravel road that would take us to the start of the race course. I think I got about a quarter of the way up before caving in to the twin evils of steepness and loose terrain that pitilessly cut pedal-stroke efficiency in half. I knew there would be plenty of climbing ahead, so we walked this bit of boring preamble and weren't bothered too much by it.

We started the ride proper just under the ski lifts, skirting the edge of a mini lake and following the arrows that guided us into the copse. Under the foliage, we encountered a nice little rock garden growing out of the trail, the slabs tilted pell-mell like the broken headstones of some ancient bone orchard. I got my girl to give it a go, and she did surprisingly well for her first time on real rock, negotiating most of the rough stuff with the aplomb of a more experienced rider and only throwing down a foot when it was absolutely necessary.

Once past the rock garden, we hit some singletrack downhills that gave way into twisty flats before pitching us some short, loamy climbs. We rolled on, eventually coming to a long climb that refused to die as it bent in a switchback and continued heading skyward. A tough one, to be sure, and we took a minute at the bend to catch our breath.

After the long climb, we got the payoff in the form of a long doubletrack downhill that was laced with fist-sized rocks that wanted nothing more than to roll with the bikes. Fast and loose and exhilirating.

Not long after this downhill, my girl got her first taste of tree bark as her handlebar greased a huge bole, one of two that pinched the trail like massive chopsticks. She took a slo-mo and largely harmless fall to the left, narrowly missing the spear-shaped root of a fallen tree. I was ahead just off the trail, poised to take a pic as she threaded the needle. Alas, I waited too long and only caught the aftermath.

We hit a few more fast and windy downhills, doing our best to read the unfamiliar terrain without scrubbing speed, mindful of the fact that the occasional lessons I was giving and the pix and rest stops along the way were quickly eating up daylight. A typical situation with me; I've sort of just come to accept it.

Eventually we came to the last climb, a half-mile sloper that criss-crossed lazily over the verdant grounds beneath the ski lift, punishing us with its seeming endlessness. I remember being somewhat glad just then that I hadn't been able to put together some bastardized version of The Big Meats to run this race next weekend. At some point, we both bailed and did some pushing, hopping on and off till we reached the top, where the trail opened onto a gravel road.

Presently, we lost the trail, the gravel road trifurcating with no indication as to which path we should take. I climbed some more, looking for the once ubiquitous arrows that had guided us to this point. Soon, my girl found the race route tucked off the road between two thickets. We followed it, knowing that our proximity to the start now meant that our ride, like the waning sunlight, was almost over.

The course finished with a half-arc around another lake, a bookend like the uncanny double in the plot of a Nabokov novel. In the distance, trees stood on their heads across its gently shimmering surface.

We ended up at the car just as the twilight was surrendering the day to the darkness. We celebrated the ride with a Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale, perhaps the best of this style I've tasted to date. Pumpkin and spice up front, a nice hoppy tide in the finish; the perfect post-ride indulgence for this time of year.


POSTSCRIPT: The next day we headed out to Lancaster to visit the brewery of the same name. Had a couple pints and some dinner, then hit Square One Coffee to pick up a Red Eye for the road. As we left, I snapped a pic of this fixee, an old, fully lugged Basso, brought up to date with a modern parts mix. With its bare, almost staid tubing, it has a sort of understated elegance that's rare in this day of bike-as-bike-company-billboard—a trend that even Basso has since succumbed to.

POST-POSTCRIPT: On the post-ride ride back to our motel, in a desperate search to pick up more beer for the evening, we found a nondescript beer shack on the side of a poorly lit country road. Inside, amidst the Vegas-like glitter of neon signs and shiny commercial-beer packaging, we hit the jackpot when the owner directed me to the only real microbrew in the building: a stack of Appalachian Brewing Company's Hoppy Trails, conveniently assembled in packs of twelve. Can't seem to find this stuff down here in Virginia; even more odd considering that Victory, Troegs, Lancaster, and Weyerbacher all have a powerful shelf and tap presence here.

Needless to say, I picked up a case. Hoppy trails, indeed.