Mayhem In the A.M: 12 Hours of Lodi Farm Race Report (Part 2)....

(Okay, on with the next pedantic exercise in literary self-apotheosis, sprinkled liberally with 25¢ words that are almost as efficacious as their 7¢ brethren. Believe at your own risk...)

Lap one is done and no amount of race-course revisionism is going to change my time. I didn’t wreck, I suffered no flats or mechanicals, I climbed all but a couple of steeps, I have a handle on the trail, and now this root-weary bag of bones heads back to camp along with Butch, who was kind enough to play spectator near the finish instead of grabbing some rest.

Back at camp, I chug the nearly full bottle of Accelerade I had neglected on my lap, washing down a Clif ZBar (49¢, moist, tasty, slim, all natural, no partially-hydrogenated test tube oil, sized right) for good measure. We haul the chairs up near the rear of Moby Dick, then throw our heels up on the bumper to let the blood drain back to the core. It's time to engage in a little glad it ain't me out there right now banter and to reflect on our laps. Butch is the old Butch again, risen from the dread; he of the Popeye Doyle grimace and monomaniacal focus has returned to show what he's made of—a damn fine thing, too. We share our experiences. Minutes later, I realize that the energy drink I took out on lap one wasn't the only thing I hauled around needlessly: My Camelbak is full of water; I barely touched it on the trail, preferring instead to keep both hands wrapped firmly around the grips. And the two packs of energy gel are still in my shorts pocket, unopened. I down one of these just to get rid of it.

We break out some food, something eminently forgettable, and sit there waiting, trying to keep warm. It's a ritual for me. Whenever I race Lodi, I never consider the weather conditions when packing. And it's always cooler than I expect. This year was no exception. I brought no leg warmers or long tights; just a couple pairs of baggy shorts, several pairs of socks, a long-sleeve woolie and another made of polyester, a sleeveless base-layer, and my old team race jersey. No down-time blanket—almost a sine qua non for lounging comfortably at race events. No sense crying about it now, just have to make do. I pull out my sleeping bag and wrap it around me. Much better. Too wound up to sleep, I close my eyes and think about the ride, re-running the route in my head. Scenes flash and flit across my mind, as indistinct and intractable as the tiny luminous ghosts that drift beneath my eyelids. They offer no meaningful input.

Some twenty or so minutes later, we hear DT call out, "the big meats!" as he rolls through mile three, close to camp. We reply in kind. It's a funny moment, at least for us, probably damn annoying to everyone else—if not now, then later when we use it repeatedly as a sort of clarion call to mobilize the next rider (this practice originated at Big Bear two years ago, where I caromed off a bridge rail while throwing up a hand to project my voice. I sport a nice little scar on my right shoulder as proof of this mishap. It is strangely impervious to ultraviolet rays). We suffer a burst of panic, as Butch seems to think DT is much closer to completing the lap than he really is (it wasn't till later that we marked the spot as mile three). We reason it all out and sit back again in our chairs, wrapped up like fat grubs dreaming of spring.

Night limps on. The first hour after your lap—this hour, for me—creeps by interminably; the second one has already passed: during a race, time's terms and conditions, experienced subjectively on and off the bike, obey no continuum and are subject to change without notice ("all rights reserved, all wrongs reversed"*).

The air is relatively quiet, the campsite soiree has settled down a bit and become serious. Under the glow of the rear dome light, I take some time to get a little deeper into Berryman's Dream Songs, which I'd been reading just before the race because it works. Butch readies himself for his next lap. He seems strong and focused and oddly eager to get back on the bike. We head over to the start. Gwadzilla is there early—towering like his eponym over most of the other riders—and ready to make amends for being tardy on his first lap and causing the lead rider to pull a double shift. (Seconds matter everywhere; they are the cells of lifetimes.)

Soon DT rolls in with a time of 1:08. This on a single speed with maybe 18-inches of hacked handlebar and only a front brake. It's a former fixie, a DIY 96er (I've ridden around on this bike before; the combination of big front wheel and stubby handlebar means the front end wants to flutter haplessly about like the tail of a landed fish), whose rear hub self-destructed months ago. No matter, a freewheel fits nicely and never mind the damn rear brake—no room on the bar for the lever anyway, not really. It's a counterintuitive strategy that works in his favor, as he's forced to swap stopping power for cornering prowess for a quicker lap time. It's not for me.

(An aside, indulge me here for a second: DT is a technical rider. Throw big-ass logs his way and he's over them like a gazelle, typically while straddling a fixed gear. He is by no means super fast, and climbs to him are anathema, but when the trail gets gnarly or points downhill over sketchy dreck, well, I'd put him up against anyone I know. Simply put, the boy is talented and either super-stupid or eternally fearless. Take your pick; it doesn't matter either way: in the end, you still get to see the show.)

Butch takes the "baton" and is off in a flash. I congratulate DT, and we wander back to camp, where I pretty much re-enact the last hour spent off the bike. This time, though, I'm amped up a little more as I know my turn is approaching quickly. I try to eat a bit, try to drain the lead from the legs, try to get motivated, try to stay away from the treasure chest that is our beer cooler, the bottle caps glinting in the moonlight like gold doubloons as I pull out and pound down a Monster Energy drink.

Soon we hear "the big meats!" as Butch zips through the mile-three point. DT and I return the call. It's my cue to take mental inventory of what I need to do before I'm up. I consider dumping the Camelbak in favor of the lone water bottle and a saddle pack, then abandon the idea, thinking this time I'll actually need the extra water. I swap my old team jersey for a long-sleeve polyester shirt to layer with the damp woolie I had on earlier. With time to spare, I sit down and relax a little longer.

Just after 4:00 a.m., I ride over to the starting line to wait. At 4:13, Butch comes hurling out of the darkness to snag a 1:00 lap time, same as his first one. I take the "baton" and hammer off, anxiety evaporating with every turn of the crank. Almost immediately, I catch and pass another rider, who seems all too willing to relinquish his place in this lemming line. I notice the things I hit on the first lap when my light was maladjusted, and manage to avoid them this time. At the mud fall, again I'm forced to dismount and charge up it, throwing a leg over the bike at the top and uglying my way down the other side unclipped.

The start of the lap goes well for the most part, though the roots that melted away beneath my tread earlier seem to have vitrified in the hours since. My tires bounce over them now, and the back end rebels against the rest of the bike on rooty corners. I make a note to lose some air for the next lap.

Somewhere around mile two, I glimpse a rider behind me coming directly towards me via the magic of an acute switchback. His failing headlamp is a feeble, piss-yellow glow and he's right on the ass of the rider in front of him. Then, unexpectedly, he passes the rider, catches up to me, and asks if he can hang on my tail for the rest of the ride. I tell him yeah, no problem, then proceed to describe the trail features as I encounter them, calling out "log over" and "sketchy downhill" and "whoopdee" by turns as they appear in the beam of my headlamp. We chat a bit (it's still free). The rider stays on my wheel; he's intrepid and skilled, and his presence pushes me a little harder. We pass several riders, and the tag-along tells me he's glad to have "finally found someone who can fucking ride." I pedal harder in response, determined to live up to this backhanded compliment.

Near mile-point three, I tell the tagger that I'm riding on a team called The Big Meats—a name I have to repeat—by way of warning him about my impending call-out, which happens seconds later. Butch and DT respond in kind. We roll on, passing riders when we can, the tagger so close I can't tell where my bike ends and his begins: my bike thwacks the trail on a dropoff and the echo behind me is almost concurrent. He sticks with me to the end, pushing all the way as I reach the start/finish line. I feel like I've pulled a much faster lap than my first one, but the results belie this impression: my time is 1:03—a mere two minutes quicker than my first lap. It's 5:16 a.m. Over a third of the race is no more than a memory now.

End, Part 2

*This clever phrase appears on a Pavement CD (I still want my "Who the fuck is Stephen Malkmus?" t-shirt, dammit!).

Mayhem In the A.M: 12 Hours of Lodi Farm Race Report (Part 1)....

The race has ended, the bike has been put to bed, and I still haven't settled up with Morpheus. The ol' reticular formation has been thrown for a loop and aphasia has kicked in, but my legs felt uncharacteristically strong on the commute this morning (Monday) and my ass offered no complaints. Not what I had been expecting after throwing it down hard for 30+ miles of dirt the day before. But hey, I'm not complaining.

Saturday afternoon saw The BIG MEATS pulling into an open field in Fredericksburg, Virginia, to set up camp for the 9th Annual 12 Hours of Lodi Farm race. If you're not familiar with the race, it's a bit unique in that the start time is midnight, meaning that it all gets underway beneath a blanket of stars and rolls on that way for about six hours. Then it's the dawn's turn for another six. Lodi is the yin-yang of the race world (here we go), the ideal mix of black and white, of dark and light, of good and evil, of love and hate, of malt and hop, celestial chiaroscuro. Get the picture? If you don't do much night riding, the idea can be a bit daunting. On the one hand, you'll be riding an alien trail in the dark (all trails grow alien at dusk, mutating with subtle shifts in the gloaming as Nyx steps out for the evening), the unknown rolling quicky toward you out of the inky void with the goal of separating rider and bike. On the other hand, your body is fresh for the challenge, your reactions quick and undiluted by fatigue, your senses sharp and focused. Half empty or half full, perspective can be everything.

We picked a decent spot, unknowingly pulling in next to Trevor (a sometime riding buddy), then set up the canopy just before the rain began. It wasn't long before we discovered the first mechanical of the race--Butch's Voodoo had sprung a flat while riding the rack on the way down. While Butch changed the tube and did his share of warranted bitching, DT and I began unpacking and getting things set up. Meanwhile, the rain began to fall harder as the sky grew overcast, prefiguring the weather to come almost right up until race time. I punched up the Royal Trux's Accelerator CD. With songs like "I'm Ready" and "Follow the Winner", it seemed the perfect choice to set the mood for the race, heroin associations nothwithstanding. Butch contemplated switching to some sketchy, worn-out 1.9s that resembled slicks more than knobbies—the center "tread" looked about as grippy as a five-o'clock shadow—but gave it up after a relentless bout of heckling.

We passed the intervening hours talking about the race, cooking our meals (Butch, they put expiration dates on food for a reason, man!), visiting other riders, checking out their bikes, and throwing down a few pre-race beers simply because they were there. RickyD was a couple spots over, lounging on a camp chair beneath a makeshift pavillion of his own creation. Just beyond him, Gwadzilla shared an elaborate camp with a couple other riders, the unintelligible drone of their portable television cutting through the surrounding chatter every now and then when conversations waned. Fatmarc was somewhere; I'd seen him earlier getting in a preride to fortify his already strong lock on a win. The three-person single-speed class was shaping up to be very competitive. Good, someone should take things seriously.

The temperature was holding on to the low fifties, the rain alternating between drizzle and deluge, but never really letting up. The trails at Lodi Farm are nothing if not root ridden, and the rain meant an extra tricky element to contend with. But all would face it equally, so on balance, it came as neither asset nor detriment. I felt my choice of tires was perfect for the developing conditions: a Geax Blade 2.35 (Big Meat!) would give guidance up front, a Kenda (team sponsor!) Nevegal 2.1 would offer thrust from the back.

We decided on the rider order: Butch would be first, I would take second, and DT would finish up. Doing the math, that meant DT would likely get the coveted sunrise lap, hitting the halfway point right as the first fiery rays began to bleach away the blackness. So be it. His bike light was the sketchiest, so it made sense. The best thing about a three-person team, a 12-hour race, and an average one-hour lap time is that a decent light will cover you for your night laps with no need for a backup.

We wandered over to the race start and registered, explaining the meaning of our team name to the volunteer at her request. Apparently, one half of the double entendre did not slip past her. We were assigned number 104, prompting the mnemonic, Ten-four, asshole! Easy to remember. The three of us had to sign a lone waiver because it was the last one left. Back at the camp, Erin and Becky rolled up, pulling a camper that looked like it would have a hard time finding a home among the dwindling spaces. They ended up in front of us and stopped by for a chat before setting up. They were doing a two-person open, sharing the same bike with little more than a quick tweak of the seatpost between laps. An interesting idea, to be sure.

Night fell. Everywhere, smoke from generators emulated fog, the chugging boxes creating a background din all their own, that rhythmic language of machinery that the ear quickly learns to ignore. Fires sprang up at random from grills scattered about the field; riders huddled around them like elegant tramps, hands thrust out to the flames as if in obeisance. The temps were sinking, and the falling rain took with it the hope that riding conditions might yet be salvaged before the zero hour arrived. We were all cold. Butch seemed to be bothered most by the chill, even going so far as to question what he was doing here and suggesting that maybe he was getting sick. That didn't sound good coming from our lead rider. But neither DT nor I was worried; we knew he'd snap out of it as soon as his ass hit the saddle.

And then, sometime late in the night, the rain stopped, almost on cue. At 11:30, the hosts called everyone together to give the lowdown on the race. The customary Le Mans start would be scrapped in favor of a less reckless parade lap. The digital timer would max out at 6:00, then start over—those rolling in at 7:00 and seeing 1:00 on the clock should not assume they'd hit a wormhole in time somewhere out in the woods. The mandatory "cross the line at or after noon" rule was explained, an obligatory stupid question came out of the crowd in response, and then it was time to race.

Butch rode off with the other first lappers. DT and I watched them disappear into the woods, waited, then shot some pix as they reappeared. After the last stragglers went by, we grabbed coffee and headed back to camp to wait.

At 12:40, I returned to the starting line after readying my light and making sure I had everything I needed. I decided to take a water pack along with a bottle of Acclerade, reasoning that more is better than less. DT came along too. We stood around a few minutes, chatting with RickyD and Gwadzilla, and generally trying to ignore the pre-race jitters creeping up our spines.

At 1:00, Erin rolled in, passing the baton on to Becky, and with it her bike. Immediately behind Erin came Butch, barreling out of the darkness like a rocket. They'd both managed to rack up a one-hour first lap—impressive, given the pile-up nature of lap one.

My turn.

(And now a change of tense—call it artistic license and work with me here, okay?)

Lap 1
I head off into the maw of the night, on the wheels of another rider who turns out to be Becky. Immediately I realize my first mistake. When I attached my light to my helmet earlier, I put it too far forward and now I can't tilt it up enough to give me advance notice of approaching trail features. It's a mistake I attribute to the paltry number of night rides I've done in the last six months and a memory rendered porous by a penchant for good beer. Obstacles roll up fast, and I have to crane my neck back abnormally and ride upright to make the adjustment, a move that carries it's own danger of increased fatigue. Fuck. I hit and ride out a few ruts that I would have avoided with enough notice, and manage to keep both wheels on a mini-bridge that pops up just around a blind corner. I'm less than a mile into the lap at this point. Something has to give. Then the trail gets tighter, slower, and my upright position becomes a little less of a factor.

I stay right on Becky for a while, until we both flub a short steep that is like a mudfall. Cargo Mike stacks up behind me, hustles past, and stomps it down the backside before remounting. I follow suit, and this is the last time I see Mike on the trail. It's okay, until this race, I'd only known of him in a virtual capacity.

Back on the bike, I throw down what I have and manage to pass a couple riders. At a clearing where the trail briefly slips the woods, I pull over, frustrated by the restrictive lighting situation. I begin fumbling with the overly long velcro strap, the fuzzy snot-wipes on my gloves sticking to the hook part of the velcro and making things difficult. Several riders pass, including Becky, who asks if I'm okay. I manage to adjust the light to its proper spot, then start off again, cursing my stupidity.

I catch and pass Becky, then move on to a couple of other riders, trying to recoup my lost ground. The trail is surprisingly solid in most parts, the moist earth incongruously grippy in the corners. Even with the varicose roots rising up like miniature speed bumps, I'm able to maintain a surprising degree of speed and control. Maybe it's the tires.

The route is tight and twisty, disappearing every few yards behind the boles of trees leaning insolently into the trail. There are bridge crossings, plenty of logs, several short-'n-steeps, a newly-constructed catwalk, whoop-dees stacked haphazardly against one another like bad alliterations, and ribbons of peanut butter mud every now and then. (Later, there's even an old heating oil tank that becomes a ramp with the addition of two discarded doors.) Entire sections are new; a crew has rerouted the path around some of the older parts. It is an improvement that the rider appreciates instantly, on the fly. This course, as compressed as it is, has a lot of flow, and there are sections where you gather a good amount of speed and then scrub it all in a 180 degree arc between chummy trees.

For the last third of the lap, I lock onto another rider's wheel. It's a chick, and she's finessing the bends as if on rails. Just smooth as silk. I catch her at every climb, an advantage I owe to the SS, then cede the lead, again and again. We begin talking—why not, it's free. Her name is Amy, and she's riding for Henry's Bikes out of Delaware, in a duo with another chick. She's on her second lap and hurtling through the night at a good clip. We continue on until a stick finds its way between my rear wheel and rear brake arm. I'm sufficiently annoyed by the dragging sound to pull over and have a look. I extract the offending dowel and head off again. In the meantime, another rider has passed me. I hop on his wheel, and eventually we catch up to Amy. We maintain this arrangement all the way to the camp area, where I pull ahead of the rider in front of me to finish. I pass the baton to DT, and he heads off. My time is 1:05. Lame, but I'm consoled by the thought that I lost a couple minutes between the light fiasco and the stick jam. The next lap would be better.

End, Part 1

In the Hopper...

(UPDATE: Looks like DmofoT has thrown up a race report here. Good reading.)

Lodi is done, over, finished, fully krausened, kaput. The BIG MEATS turned in a respectable performance, but faced some seriously stiff competition in the likes of Fatmarc and crew, RickyD, Cross Chris, ChrisP, and many more strong single speeders who rode to win and gave no quarter along the way.

Placment nothwithstanding, we did well. Bragging rights: I think we were the only three-person single-speed team riding fully-rigid rigs (okay, regular rigid riders know that's nothing to boast about, but please, let us bask unbothered in the dying light for a few minutes, even if it is only incandescent!).

Full write-up with pix coming soon...in the meantime, if you haven't already done so, go here and here and here and here. And for top-notch photographic evidence, try this, courtesy of local writer-of-light and budding uber-capitalist, Gary Ryan.

Nous Sommes du Soleil...

Another reason (beyond the exceptional taste) to give the lineup from Anderson Valley Brewing Company a try: seems the Boonville, California brewery has wrangled ol' Sol into rolling up his fiery sleeves to help with the brewing process. Every little bit helps.

Let's hope this is the start of a western trend that, like so many others, rolls eastward across the country, traversing the throngs of neoconservative craniums along the way.

On a similar note, check this out, stolen from this guy (not sure about his carbon footprint, but his carbon-fiber one has gotta be huge).

Feeling that peddling around everywhere isn't doing enough for the planet or your conscience? Wandering about with some free space in your cerebrum that hasn't been polluted by cop-culture dramas and formulaic sitcoms on teevee? I suggest checking out this vanguard local organization. Then decide whether the cost of a mere three-pints-plus-tip at your local pub is worth the opportunity to help change the planet in positive ways.

It's getting late. Ride your bike already.

Le Retour de Les Grandes Viandes...

The terminally tumescent BIG MEATS are back, with Lodi in the crosshairs...
...assuming we can put down the booze long enough to ride.