Radical Honesty

Southern trucking slogans.

Jane and Alex were swindled while Spooky kid's travel funds reached an all-time high. Intentions were good.


One to one. That's the ratio between how often I have remained motionless, sprawled under a tussle of morning covers, convinced that I could somehow compress an hour of preparation into the 3 minutes before my carpool's ETA, and how often I have actually accomplished such a proposed hurdle of time. Despite previous attempts at superhuman speed preparation, this Saturday morning was no exception to the resultant trend. Knowing very well that Jane and Alex (plus one, Kenny) were going to arrive in Oakland at 7am, my body seemed to remain in space cadet mode until I heard the actual, physical, halt of car tires outside my house. For the record, the caravan actually arrived at 6:55, thus ruling out the fact that I just might have made and eaten breakfast, stretched, brushed my teeth, and gathered various last minute articles, all in less than five minutes. The Gordian Kot remains yet to be untied.

Our trip down to Virgina consisted of A.) Jane and I passed out in the back seat; B.) Frequent pee breaks, some rain, and a peppering of references to my sleeping habits; C.) Dollar store, retina-burning, mod sunglasses; D.) An incessant search for Starbucks to appease Jane's addiction (hey-o, Perry Farrell), something she admits to, which is the first step to recovery; and E.) Radical Honesty and Alex's Alaskan glory days. In other words, we laughed a lot and it was a damn good time.

Arriving at the Massanutten venue sometime after noon, we changed into spandex, rationed water, and relieved our bladders in the purple and yellow Port-O-Jons lining the start/finish area (at first step inside my mind drew a parallel to what, perhaps, the inside of a dinosaur egg might be like: humid, glowing, and dank with a mixture of excreted smells; a steamy violet terrarium). The proposed chill, one hour pre-ride turned into a 2.5 hour investment involving sweat, mud, dehydration, flat tires, and much beating sun. The course was, however, gorgeous--agreeably, collectively, and undeniably stellar. For sure a new favorite. To start, a respectable climb writhed through a thick, pre-summer forest, ascending the Blue Ridge Mountains like neatly laid twine. Occasional shelves of engineered stonework sliced across the trail, eventually melting into a rock gardened ridgeline overlooking the expanse of hazed valley below. The downhill was just as enjoyable as the climb, with bermed turns that culled hoots and hollers of pure joy from within as I tested the limits of my Nevegals on each arching trajectory--The curved motion is maintained so long as the net force provides the centripetal force requisite to the motion. My point exactly.

After the longer than desired pre-ride, we packed up the car and shuttled off to the hotel located "just across the street"Right. Within a half hour we arrived at the building allotted for the congregation of boring timeshare tours and lodging check-in. From there it was a circuitous route of three or so miles to our actual place of rest: a standard, cleanly, condo-looking string of housing units, each with their own welcome packets containing soap, toothpaste, Pepto Bismol tablets, and obscure murder mystery novels.

Heading into town in search of grains, at my request, and Taco Bell, at Kenny's request, we settled upon an eatery holding neither grains nor processed taco meat--a bustling brew pub adjacent to the local bike shop. Apparently Alex is still not accustomed to driving on the right-hand side of the road, as he drove clear over the sidewalk in order to park in a metered lot. That's the Brits for you.

After fueling for the next day's race we set out on a quest to find the missing link in Jane's Sidi shoes: Duct tape. While on line at the self-checkout we observed a young lad diligently and determinately weighing a plastic bag of meticulously chosen, toasted marshmallow Jelly Bellys over and over again. Dubbing in witty dialogue as the cashier on duty searched his three-ringed binder of laminated PLU codes, a brow of bewilderment inhabiting his forehead, there was no holding back the laughter. Originally created to simplify the experience of the average supermarket shopper, self-checkout has since proved itself not only to be a source of counter-productivity, but also one of great amusement. Despite the queue of self-checkout-ers growing behind him, the earnest young man held his own, pressing buttons, lifting his goods, waiting, pushing more buttons, and then re-weighing his counted beans beyond any Northeasterner's point of patience. Clearly, he was from the South. As we exited the store with Duct tape in hand, we were left to ponder the fate of our enduring young friend, his girlfriend in support at his side, and whether or not he would at last receive the satisfaction of his toasted marshmallow treat. It's a jungle out there; but as we witnessed one clear summer night in Harrisonburg, persistence, precise placement of weighable goods, and a variation of PLU codes just might be the clincher against the ineptitude of technological advancements plaguing our contemporary world today--Go for it.

Turns out persistence and determination, more often than not, also work well in other situations, such as mountain bike racing. After three hours of hard pedaling, the following day saw Jane take third in the Pro class and myself secure second overall for Cat 1 ladies. Way to get our bag of beans.

Rewind to the start line. It was not until the gaggle of racers took off, and my friend Janice and I were left scrambling to get on our bikes, that we found out the Massanutten Hoo Ha would be a mass start. Oh well. The first 45 minutes or so were fairly clogged, unless of course you were at the front of such a rushing movement of gears and cleats and sweating, heaving bodies. I was not; but after some time Janel and I settled into the climb, with one girl ahead and the rest at our heels. The course consisted of two 12.2-ish mile loops, with my total time lasting about 3.5 hours. Lap one felt ok, even with the heat, and I simply made it a point to keep Demeter within earshot while fending off the others and keeping fluids flowing in. Atop the ridgeline, despite starting to feel the affects of the 90+ degree day, I managed to scoot around Demeter and settle in for some sweet descending. And sweet it was. Recall to mind those bermed turns of perfect trajectory mentioned earlier? Yup, the good ones. Well, I could not help from yipping all the way down, a trail of two Roanoke racers (as we exchanged places of origin in between breaths) getting all riled up as a result of my unquestionable enthusiasm, which in turn made me push the opposition of those centripetal and centrifugal forces even more. Energy feeding energy, feeding energy. We live for it.

After some time I did manage to take a good biff, over the bars, although it happened so fast I cannot quite recall how. Regardless, I lost one spot in that spill, but knowing the start/finish area was close at hand, I hauled it towards the purple and yellow dinosaur eggs, and twenty minutes before entering lap number two, took back the spot I had momentarily lost. The climb for lap number two was S-L-O-W, as my body flipped between the urge to throw up and the sensation of chills. Dehydration at its best. Not enough fluids could be held down and so the first long climb of the second lap I entered survival mode. My goal was to keep a pace, even if walking, that would be equivalent to riding in, say, granny. My aim was also to disallow the girl behind me, whom I think I could hear the voice of, from seeing my slowness. A lot of racing is mental, and if she could see my sloth-like state, she might feel as though she could catch me, which was just not acceptable.

With about a half hour to go I caught up to Felicia, a sweet girl and solid racer whom I met last year at Mount Snow. She recently upgraded to Pro and had done a 24 hour solo race, and won, the weekend before and so was also in survival mode. It was really nice to see her, really nice, and so I waited the extra few minutes after finishing in order to spin the legs out in her company.

In the end, Jane picked up some cash flow, I picked up a Surly chain tensioner (images of poison ivy, zip ties, and malfunctioning singulators resurfaced from last weekend's Single-Speed-a-Palooza), and we all picked up a collectible series of memories and experience, minus the player trading cards.

Cramping back into the car we set out on our journey northward, searching along the way for a descent roadside eatery that was not also selling Realtree camo and rifles. After passing up several viable options, mine and Jane's hands streaking the inside of the car's windows as possibilities grew smaller with distance, we knew that Alex was holding out for something good. Sure enough he found a gem, the fine dining establishment he had been waiting for, Shoney's Buffet. I will not say much, only the understatement that roadside buffets are never a good idea for the satiation of hunger. For some reason or another one is almost always certain to overhear conversations concerning death, illness, or hospitalization when eating at a roadside buffet such as the one we landed, which may or may not be a drawback for paying customers. I will say thank you to Jane, though, for footing the bill with her day's winnings. And Alex, I am just busting on you, as your treating us to dinner at the pub in Harrisonburg was more than appreciated.

ByeKyle.com

A ways back I submitted some scribblings to the art department of Dirt Rag Magazine and, lo and behold, they were published in sidebar on one of their many glossed pages. From this publishing I was contacted by Kyle (of ByeKyle.com) who was in the fledgling stages of launching his own product, Simple Straps, which are used for cyclists to hold various objects (tubes, CO2, tire levers, gu flasks, and so on) to the seat posts, top tubes, and frames of their bicycles. Neat-o. Kyle asked if I would create some pieces for his site, and so after two months in Ecuador I returned and began to do exactly that. Since my old computer has since bit the dust, I do not currently have the software to upload any new creations to my website (humblecoalition.com) and so I have decided to share them here, in this bump-on-a-pixelated-log blogging world. Until software has been obtained and installed, I shall be sharing my scribblings right... here. Interesting how our lives are a series of seemingly unrelated yet highly interconnected (and very related) series of events. Enjoy.

P.S. Look forward to an August show at Jersey City's LITM (litm.com), as well as some collaborations with artist, climber, and debuting deejay extraordinaire, TKNY (timkeenan.net).

Leaves of Three, Let it Be

I swear I was racing. (Photo courtesy of GTLuke)

Easy E. I swear she was racing, too. (Photo courtesy of GTLuke)

This past weekend's first ever Singlespeed-a-Palooza (Sponsored by Darkhorse Cycles) started off with the following: one gear, one chain tensioner, two Gu packs, and one bottle of water. The same race was finished with one gear, one chain tensioner fastened to the frame with one black ziptie, no Gu packs, no water, and far too much urushiol. The consistent variable?--one gear.

Exiting the fireroad descent and entering the first section of singletrack I tucked in behind powerhouse Linscott. She had slightly taller gearing and so it was on the first climb that I managed to squeeze by on her left and settle in for some mano y mano singletrack time. Now one would think that using less gears translates to less mechanicals, right? Wrong, truth is there are no favorites here, and after some alone time with the trails, I lost the only gear I had. Bummer. Turns out the chain tensioner did not want to stay in place, and so neither did the chain. After repositioning the chain tensioner, and thus reinstating the chain, not but two minutes down the road did they decide to set themselves free again, and again, and, hmmm, then again. Persistent little contrabands, eh?

Standing along the flanks of Stewart's beautiful singletrack trails, watching riders whir past, one by one, I wondered how I could rig something that would put me back in the good stuff. Let me rephrase that--I stood, bathing in a pile of poison ivy, watching people whiz by in contentment, while trying to figure out how I could finish the race. Miraculously, I stood gaping as one of the last female racers slowed down to meet me and my patience--what was she up to? Turns out she was a downhiller, just out for a change in pace; also turns out her chain tensioner was a stubborn little rebel as well, and that she had the key component to help make my race: a sleek, black, riveted zip tie. Yes, please.

No outside help in a race, I know, but desparate times call for desperate measures, and I knew I was no longer in the running for placement. I simply wanted to enjoy the remaining twists, whoops, and berms, play some high speed catchup, and finish the can of worms I had opened up. Thanks to Allie, a regular ol' MacGyver/Velo Bella downhiller, I was able to just that.

Although I would have like to have had a working singlespeed (la culpa mia, entirely), it was satisfying to watch my teammate, Ellen, zip by at a good clip and pull out a solid third place finish. The first annual Singlespeed-a-Palooza was a day of lessons, some of which I am still scratching at the surface of (literally, each day since has been a test of willpower against the spreading urushiol across the inside of my left arm). Apparently, singlespeed does not necessarily translate to more simple, as Wendi also found out when her pedal came off (still attached to her foot) and Jocelyn saw when someone ran into her from behind and burped any chance of finishing out of her tire. Good thing we know how to roll with the punches, and when to punch back. Thanks to Hawaiian Mike and the whole crew up at Darkhorse for a great course and new annual event for singlespeeding.

Logic

Several weekends ago I participated in the Saturday morning group road ride out of Park Ridge; I also participated in not using logic. The results are as follows.

Being out of the house and on your bike by seven am--thin strips of rubber peeling from pavement to sky and then back again in fractions of a second, the early sun yawning across an undulating and car-less land--provides a rather distinct sense of satisfaction, something almost inexplicable. If you have ever been the recipient of such an early morning ride experience, you know exactly what I mean.

Gliding into the center of Park Ridge, I encountered a simmering congregation of cyclists on the brink of turning into a rolling boil of departure. My intentions had been to get in a good three+ hour ride (including the return trip home), which did indeed occur, despite failing the day's test in logic and reasoning.

Although I did not know the route we were set to take, one piece of information I did know was that wherever we ended (back in Park Ridge) there would be a sprint finish, something which I had been looking forward to (having lost by one second in a sprint down at Greenbrier, it has been on my list of things to improve). Evidently, like searching for town borders to sprint across, the finish was at the forefront of my mind and thus impeded any and all possible use of common sense.

On a long downhill the group splintered, leaving me alone, with a pack off the front and a pack off the back. I could hear the breath of a man bridging to me and so I decided to turn on the pistons for my own good, and push it out on the proceeding section of flat. I did not want to miss out on the sprint. After trading a few pulls back and forth, still feeling strong, I motored away in search of the rest of the peleton.

And there they were, on the other side of the road, facing the opposite direction, lining up for a final sprint finish. So, I came to a full stop, changed direction, and joined the idling peleton. As we started to roll I could see several blurs pumping past my peripheral vision, moving steadily in the direction I had previously been headed. Logically, one would question why a group ride would stop momentum, pull a u-turn, and wait on the other side of the road--which initially I did wonder, but then decided to ignore. Word of obvious advice: always go with your first instinct, it is usually correct. Slowly, feeling as though I was going against the grain of a giant force, I began to comprehend and eventually accept the illogicality of my decision. The jerseys surrounding me began to come into focus and, of course, I did not recognize any of them; followed by the riders wearing those jerseys, none of which I recognized either. As blindly as I had entered my tunneled vision did I exit it, and within a matter of seconds the dam witholding my lake of pooling logic finally broke, sending a flood of comprehensive reasoning and flowing thought process into the rivers of my veins and, at last, into the cerebral cortex of my brain.

An exclamation of strung choice words, followed by two sets of fingers each pulling back sharply on two sets of brake levers, ejected themselves from my mouth and my bike was once again changing direction. In order to catch up with the group I had commenced with, imagine that, I started up the pistons again, struggling to catch a glimpse of anyone pedaling into the horizon. Fortunately, two Park Ridge riders, bewildered by my sudden turnaround and accompaniment of an entirely different group, had waited for me at the subsequent turn. Oh how I felt the hue of my hair show itself with gleaming pride. Apparently, blondes do have more fun, or get made fun of more, whichever way you look at it the word fun is involved.

Often we learn more by backpedaling through the steps of an illogical decision than from actually making the most obviously logical decision in the first place; such situations are what add flavor to the fruition of one's intentions, provide grounds for personal revelation and strengthening of vital decision making skills, and most importantly offer a platform from which to laugh at one's self. After all was said and done, I did get my sprint finish, albeit alone, and after losing and un-losing myself during the return ride home, ended up with around three hours of ciruitously solid riding. Another good day made all the more interesting by the absence, or moreso momentary blockage of skills in logic--I'll take it.