Like the Inferno, but without the layers.

Mental Toughness.

2011-06-10T02:14:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned in my last post: I've been racing a lot this year. When you're training daily, and racing nearly every weekend, your mind looks for any release possible. Your outlook on things changes. Personally, I've noticed a lot of alterations. I used to have a quick temper; now I have an on-off switch. I can do zero to furious in a syllable. I really don't like a lot of my old music any more (this is attributable to cyclic changes in taste; I change phases every few years). I'm living in a near-constant state of frustration lately. Nothing is good enough, and that's before the results are even considered. When group riding it's a near constant source of embarrassment.

My coach likes to perpetuate the myth of mental toughness. I know lots of others who preach the same prescription of cerebral fortitude. Standing in sharp contrast to these messages, is the doctor-to-be who taught my Exercise Physiology classes. I give his words credence and consideration because of his stature in academia as well as his experience in the realm of personal training and coaching. Lastly he's also completely transformed his body from a meager teenager, to a, current 270lbs, power lifting giant.

If there is a myth out there, chances are good there is a modicum of truth to it, with enough digging and stretching. Often, what makes sense on the surface fails to hold to proper examination. Example: taking practice swings, in baseball, with a weighted bat. The idea is after swinging the heavy lumber, a normal bat will feel easier to swing. That's certainly the case and it's an excellent mental trick. However, physiologically speaking you couldn't chose a worse warm-up activity. The extra weight preps the muscles in the wrong order, changes their firing sequence and actually worsens performance by a large margin. That said, there must be an inkling of truth to mental toughness.

It has been suggested that the measure of "true mental toughness" is how closely an athlete follows a training plan. Most competitors get a foul taste in the mouth when goals aren't met, and the only way to be rid of that taste is with a victory, or to accomplish the next goal. Some athletes are chomping at the bit after a bad event to prove themselves, and they'll take any opportunity to get it. To the mind driven for vindication, and success, which is the easier choice: A.) I'm going to follow my training plan and rest so I can properly recover for the next event. B.) If I go slaughter the Wednesday Night Worlds, I'll prove that last weekend really was a fluke and feel better! Personally, I run in to this a lot (Not that'd be ABLE to crush the Wednesday Night Worlds, for a variety of reasons mind you.). The constant reminders "This isn't you're forte, don't sweat it." "This is your first year, don't sweat it." (This one is a personal favorite as I watch other beginner/newer riders kill it.) "You aren't supposed to be fast this time of year, remember? Don't sweat it." Knowingly spending money on a bike race that will yield specifically squat, except a training effort, is beyond frustrating. Getting your teeth kicked in two or three times a month for six months will chafe even the most staunch of people. In this context mental toughness is very applicable. However, this is rarely the context in which mental toughness is discussed.

Cycling has been described thusly: "Runners train so they can run a long way, without hurting. Cyclists train so they can ride a long way, and suffer the entire time." It is under this guise that mental toughness is most commonly discussed. "Oh man, that kid can really suffer! He just puts his head down and locks himself in the pain cave!" Two dumb statements I've personally made. Does it really hurt that bad? How do we know he isn't simply a superior athlete? Certainly you must push the envelope of your ability and pushing that far requires a degree of discomfort. Years of physiology research have shown this mythical ability to push above and beyond one's limits to be more or less bunk. The old adage is appropriate: You'll never make a mule a race horse. Despite a freakish pain tolerance your body will betray your efforts, when the byproducts of energy production out-pace their regulation mechanisms. In short, your muscles require energy to function and when this energy runs out, or can't be supplied fast enough, you slow, or shut, down.

According to convention, if you're mentally stronger than the other guy, it won't matter what your muscles are doing. You're going to win, because your tough! A poor example: Rider A holds 350 watts for 15 minutes and 315 watts at 20 minutes.at his maximal exertion. Rider B holds 335 watts for 15 minutes and 330 for 20 minutes at maximal exertion.Rider A will punish Rider B on a 15 minute or shorter climb, no matter how "prepared to suffer" the latter is. His genetics simply prohibit Rider B from matching that power output. However, if we take our two hypothetical racers to a longer climb, Rider A will be punished by his rival. Again, muscle fiber type (genetics) determines your ability to create power for various durations. Thus, races are not won or lost based on a micro level of mental toughness. When we apply the concept of mental toughness to a macro level, however there is a significant correlation. Athletes that train better compete better.

In summary, mental toughness is bunk. Coaching for mental toughness is extra bunk. By the time a human is old enough to begin organized sports, their "mental toughness" is already established. A coach may have a small percentage effect in teaching mental toughness, but this is very unlikely. None of this is to discount the mental side of sport. The mental aspects of cycling are more tactical and timing than any sort of mental toughness. Are you keeping yourself near the front? Are you keeping an eye out for breaks to leave? Do you know who is strong enough to make a break stick? Perhaps in multi-day events, stage races etc. when stress management becomes paramount, mental toughness earns an inkling of respect. Giving a maximal effort repeatedly is very draining. However, the basic physiology is, and will always be, the limiting factor in performance.

I wish this was a better title.

2011-06-10T00:28:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make. I have an acoustic guitar, and I play it. I've considered writing love songs in an effort to get laid. I am the most obnoxious kind of douchebag. But that's cool, because you already knew that. Unfortunately, I'm like the vast majority of "America's Got Talent" and "American Idol;" I can't sing worth a flip. Despite seven years of school band, nearly a decade of guitar playing and another handful of years playing piano, I couldn't move a pile of tune with a front-end loader. It's embarrassing. That said, so is my guitar playing. I wonder if the two are related. Have no fear ladies, even if I fix the other two, I'll never figure out poetry. I'm not completely sure if women or iambic pentameter create more nausea.

As I posted on Twitter, when I actually sit down to write pieces for your consumption, I can't get anything to come out. I have a writing version of prostate cancer. If I have no way of making a record of my thoughts, such as while driving around, words flow. Beautiful words no less, unburdened by the misery I wield across this tongue. I can cover a few thousand words worth of joy and happiness in a 30 minute drive. Were I to scribe perched stop my saddle, this would be the "Unicorns'n'Glitter present Happy, Happy, Happy Fun Times, Bliss and Pleasure!" blog. God, that's a nauseating thought. The background would have to be pink, with glittery buttons. Let's all go take a break and go vomit.

World's fastest race summary: The TCRC Omnium was miserable. I sucked out loud both days.

I find it hard to believe that with all the opportunities presented by Colorado's Front Range that only ONE school offers a Master's degree in Exercise Science. Are you serious?! The bloody Olympic training center is RIGHT THERE! How do you not have professors with even a modicum of interest in athletic superiority?! My dreams are being quashed slowly, and agonizingly. Now I have to find another escape plan. That said, it would appear that I'm leashed to the East Coast for another two years (assumptive I get in to either of my other choice schools). That number could double, too.

I'm a very cold-adapted person. I hang on to heat easily. I'm know that's a remnant of being fat for 20-something years. Oh, and the fact that all my ancestors are from Northern Europe, that is of some importance, too. "Now what is he blabbering about?" I hear you asking, vitriol dribbling from your lips. It's hot outside, and I'm dying here, people. The average temperature the last two weeks has been right about a billion Celsius. I can walk from my front door to my car, approximately 3 meters, and I'll soak a cotton shirt. Agony.

Before my first two summer classes ended, one of my classmates raised the point that we're halfway though 2011. He then claimed that when asked what they'd done in six months, most people will instinctively say "Nothin'." I think that's crap. I couldn't give you a day-by-day, or hour-by-hour recap of what I've done this year, however I could do a pretty good job. I sucked at the state championship in January. I earned another 15 credit hours all spring. I spent so many weekends in South Carolina that I should apply for residency during February and March. Why was I there? Because I was sucking, out loud, in road races. I had a great mountain bike race in May. The road trip to get there was pretty fun, too. You must really suck if "nothing" is your answer.

Not unlike a short-order cook...

2011-05-30T20:41:00.000-04:00

... I take requests. There has been a request that I blog with greater frequency. Nay, there has been a demand, per say, for a variety of fiber that moves words. A type of insoluble dietary intake that creates larger, more satisfying blog posts. And verily, it shall come to pass. Just not today.

I am completely cooked. I tested on Thursday and sucked. I threw a Gu down before the effort, and threw a Gu back up afterward. Nice. Hard effort/day counter - 1

Friday was the spectacularly fun Asheville cyclocross race. On the start line I always entertain myself by cracking jokes, or acting obnoxious. Usually this gets a smile or two, if not an out right giggle or guffaw. Flash Gordon instructed us to make one lap around the Mellow-drome, then exit the track on to the rest of the course. "So we're going to do a parade lap, then punch it in to the course, right guys?" I asked, thinking my vocal inflection was bleeding sarcasm. The fast guy on my left was mute. The fast guy on my right, (I think the Mars Hill Cycling team coach) gave me a disapproving sneer, followed by the reassuring words "Sure, buddy. Sure." and gently patted my thigh. The Lees-McRae coach, Luke "I'm-not-that-80s-band" Winger, with genuine worry in his eyes, displayed his finest "Are you fucking serious, dude?" Obviously we weren't in Kansas anymore, Toto. The rest of the race was about the same. The extra lap was designed to string the race out, to get the fast to the front and lower the chances of crashes in the stupidly-narrow track egress. Mission failed. I rolled in to the three foot-wide corner with about 20 of my closest compatriots. I decided to hang out, May isn't the time to be banging bars on pavement, in fun a fun race. Hard effort/day counter - 2

Saturday was PedalFest, the ETSU fundraiser. It's certainly a fun event. I tried to stay with the lead group, because I'm a fucking idiot. I didn't climb the Watauga climb with the leaders; I'm not a climber. Coming back down, I easily caught the group. My new catch phrase: I'm a one-trick pony, and that's my trick. We hit some of the false flats and I had my nose glued to my top tube trying to find some way to keep pace. My legs were tired. I jumped in the car and headed to Greenville South Carolina that afternoon. Hard effort/day counter - 3

Sunday was the SoCar state road race. Waking up one of my hotel mates was inspecting my bike, and noticed two patches of shredded rubber that should be smooth tread. Lots of profanity later, we were fed, packed and rolling to the venue. A mobile Triathlon shop was set up; in exchange for a night's rent, I had a tire purchased for me. It was hot. Warming up was something of a sick joke. I was moving at a snail's pace. I didn't have what you'd call "a hitch in yer giddy-up." The fours rolled out, and a group of three IMMEDIATELY attacked and went up the road. About 10 minutes later, one of the trio popped and returned to the pack. I hung out around the front of the field. Surprisingly, I felt pretty good. One lap down, two to go. The break got reeled in about a third of the way through the second lap. The numbers claim otherwise, but the pace felt faster. I was hanging mid-pack and feeling worn down. The only hills of note on the course got my pretty good. I was tail-gunning, and hurting. I lost concentration rolling on a false flat; the wheels on my bus weren't going round and round. Apparently right as I spaced out, someone at the front decided they absolutely HAD to get away. While I was conversing with my alter-ego, the wheels in front of me slid further and further away. Alter-ego told me to bridge up and my legs responded in kind with a caustic "Fuck off, alter-ego." Great race guys, totally glad I got talked in to this. Pop goes the weasel and what not. Hard effort/day counter - 4

Monday morning I rode the US PRO championship course with "the fastest two teenagers alive." Taffy and wet noodles are probably the best way to describe how I felt. At the bar Sunday night, I stood up to leave the table. I nearly pitched myself in to the floor, not from the beer, because my legs almost gave out. The kiddos didn't bring their PowerTap wheels, which apparently means they can't monitor their efforts at all. I was nearly cross-eyed at one point keeping a wheel. All variety of profanity rocked the synapses of my brain. Finally I begged for mercy, and quarter was shown. Paris mountain is a pretty awesome climb. Ridden a recreational pace, the road isn't horrendously tough. There isn't anything easy, per say, however it has some relief sections, and is largely bereft of obscenely steep tarmac. I wouldn't make a pilgrimage solely to ride that climb, but it was certainly worth doing. The descent was rather enjoyable, save for a squirrel (the furry kind, not the shitty rider kind.) and some traffic lights.

Next week is a rest week, perhaps I'll fill your monitors with more senseless musings and ramblings with my additional free time. Hold your breath and hope for it. I just want to see how many of you pass out.

Now that I can breathe...

2011-05-08T20:59:00.000-04:00

... it seems an apropos time to blog. With the spring semester, finally, ending I've found myself with 10 days of free time, and I've totally wasted half of them. Just kidding. Or am I? The answer really depends on how you define "waste." I cleaned my apartment one day. That was out-fucking-standing. I'd been too busy to be arsed with cleaning anything not chamois, or food related. My shower was so clean, I didn't want to use it. Contemplating this for about five minutes however, my own stink overpowered me and in to the shower I went. I've watched a lot of hockey, which is important when it's 100 degrees (or something similar) outside. One must have hockey in absurdly hot temperatures!

That said, there have been two stand-out things this week. Bicycle riding and Transmetropolitan.

Spider Jerusalem, journalist.

The comic amounts to a caricature of Hunter S. Thompson - Gonzo journalist extraordinaire - set in a future of endless technology. It's crass, it's crude, and to call it "insanely profane," would be a criminal understatement. I'll call it bliss on paper. Vertigo has seen so fit as to repackage the stories in to 11 volumes of graphic novels. I've been inhaling a volume a night, pure bliss. I think the apartment has thick walls; I rarely hear my neighbors. I hope for their sake there is terrific sound-proofing, I've been positively cackling with delight.

I don't have any race results to attest to a great improvement in my racing prowess, nor do I (think I) have any notable power results. My coach continues to tell me things quite on the contrary. I suppose I pay him for such things, I best accept them, yeah? This weekend however, was the closest thing to a tangible result I've gotten in a few months of training. A 3 hour mountain bike ride with Coach B. and The Speedy Dub, a local fast guy with legs intent, only, on tearing apart lesser beings. A couple of obnoxious mechanicals aside, I stayed with the pair of them. Climbing the Bays fire tower, I sat on their wheels. Granted they were riding a conversational pace, and I was trying to impale my helmet on my stem, I was there. Better news still, my lackluster descending (on a mountain bike) is improving too, they didn't get away from me, despite better skills and/or gravitational and/or weight advantage. I'll call that a win. Phenomenally fun, too.

Damn, really? Totally, bro, totally.

2011-04-06T10:38:00.000-04:00

I didn't realize I hadn't posted since January. What a blur this year has been! The good news is, you've been spared my usual drivel, and for that you should be thankful. I would summarize the last pair of months, but you don't really care, do you? No, no, that's cool, because I don't either. Lets hash over the weekend, yeah? Here, here is some weekend hashery.

The Droid to my right rings. With a mix of excitement, fear and the intense need to pee, I wake up. Its six in the morning. The sky is black. I've had to pee for an hour, but I continue to stay in the sleeping bag. Water clings to the exterior of my Subaru. I am smug knowing that I'm dry in the car, rather than in a tent.

Its cold. Who knew North Carolina was cold the first weekend in April? The sleeping bag almost keeps me warm enough to stay still. No, no, I do really have to pee. In to the cold! A few minutes later my car is organized, I'm dressed, and rolling out of the camp ground to the race venue. I want a good spot in the pits, and I'm going to have one. I'm the second car in line. Awesome start to the race day. About a half hour later, the gates are lifted and we rush in, descending upon the pits like locust. I get my spot. Turns out the guy beside me happens to be a super-rad cat from Knoxville, Shaggy, rolling on his mega-pimp Niner Carbon Air 9. If he had some gears on it, I might be envious. My other neighbors are a pretty cool couple from Maryland.

Why won't my tires hold air? This could be a problem. My wheels are brand new, only ridden around the parking lot at home and work. I pump plenty of air and lay them out, trying, desperately, to get a solid seal. The front seems to be cooperating; the back looks to be a bad game of dice. I take the dice in my hand, give 'em a quick blow for luck, and start shaking. I'm kitted up and freezing my balls off. My pathetically-white legs look like raw poultry. As a general rule, I pride myself on never being cold. Gloves, arm warmers, base layer and "Nordic" wool socks adorn my body.

Eventually the race rolls out. Mud! Mud! Mud! The first lap felt like fat-tire cyclocross. I wanted some Dugast Rhinos. Luckily, mud riding is all about being smooth, and everything I lack in "spittin' game, son!" I make up for in droves of smooth riding. About 10 miles in, the dice finally settled, snake eyes. The back tire went flat. Good thing I carry this saddle bag with... Shit. No way to fix my flat. Is there a Viagra dealer somewhere? Can I ride my front tire for three miles? Skills challenge! Rock gardens are awesome when you're trying to keep weight off the back half of the bike.

I nursed my gimpy Niner back home, such an admirable steed! A change of clothes, because it was hot in the sunshine, and a tubed back tire were my only hesitation. Lap two was fast, if uneventful. Lap three was great, just a small twinge of muscle cramp. Lap four revealed that I don't have my nutrition dialed. My head was aching. Pedal damn it! I'm glad my top tube has a motivational phrase. My eyes kept falling to it. And I pedaled, damn it. Lap four was slow, I had abandoned hope of getting my five laps with the flat tire and subsequent dicking-around required to ameliorate it. I nursed the bike through another 13 miles of swoopy, swoopy singletrack. Most of the other riders still out were hardcore mothers, they blasted past my sorry ass like rocket ships. My hands hurt. My back was sore. I couldn't quit now. Quitters never win and winners never quit. I dream of winning some day. I finished 30th in the Men's Open field. I'll take it. I'm going to figure out what I'm doing wrong for next year and chase 5 laps again.

Saturday night saw an amazing dinner with my campmates. The Italian pizzeria gave me lots of happy. Big pizza, and a massive slice of decadent chocolate cake, Sammy Smith beers, these are the things a boy's dreams are made of.

Sunday was a continuation of the incredible vibe Saturday gave me. A quick recovery spin around the camp grounds with Ben and Erin got the grumpy legs to play a little nicer. A quick jaunt in the car carried me up the mountain to Boone. I called a friend of mine I hadn't seen in over a year. We had Black Cat Burritos. Damn good burrito. Damn good friend. The Droid reminded me of more long-lost friends I hadn't seen in months. I bid adieu to my High Country amiga, and pointed the Subaru to Johnson City. I told my engineer to make as-many-knots-as-physically-possible and blasted out of the little mountain town.

I arrived at the hippy grocery store, down the street from from abode, and immediately found the two who sparked the Droid's fit earlier. Two wonderful folks whose company I do enjoy so, and an evening of weather to double the pleasure. To quote the master of prose, Ice Cube, today was a good day.

And now, for something completely different!

2011-01-19T12:43:00.000-05:00

In memorandum of my century of (mostly) senseless blog posts, I've elected to write something different. Rather than my usual barrage of vocabulary words, I give you this:

January
'Cross season is now over
Despair not, for there will be
Always more riding

Chill flies across the skies
Grey meets the day; Only the
Hearty venture out

Undeterred by cold
Dreaming palmarès to seize
Forever rolling.

Suffering shall be
Tantamount to pleasure while
Conquering pavè

Positive note.

2010-12-30T13:03:00.000-05:00

Let's finish 2010 on a good note, yeah? I set a couple new personal records today during my test effort. Personally, I'm a big fan of success, which makes today a good day. I also learned a few things today.

(In no particular order)

23 millimeter wide tires don't get along with snow.
You can, in fact, dab on a paved descent.
I am harder than you.
Tractor-Trailer trucks are the scariest thing to pass you on the road. (I've known that, just felt it needed to be reiterated)
A close second is a noisy car coming around in a 200+ foot long patch of ice/snow/slush.
Speedplay Zeros don't fare well in the snow.
If I were a bad-bike-handling roadie, I'd be in the JCMC right now. (Hooray for learning to mountain bike!)

I'll cut this brief so that we may all revel in the wondrous positivity of this post.

Oh a running I will go...

2010-12-12T20:30:00.000-05:00

I guess I should blog about my first dabble in multi-sport events. Saturday the 11th was the inaugural Double-Trouble Off-Road Duathlon at Bays Mountain in Kingsport. The event was a 5k trail run, followed by a 15k mountain bike and capped off with another 5k trail run. I don't do any event that involves running with ANY intent of being competitive. I don't know a lot about this world, but I know that is a complete and total waste of my time. I don't run. I sell running shoes, and I participate in running events, but I don't run.

That said, I was pretty stoked with my 28:50(ish) first 5k run. Get in a decent place on the first run, kill it on the bike, and survive the second run. That is a pretty easy plan, and I held to it. I ran at a comfortable-fast pace down the lake road, up Azalea, down Big Oak and back to the transition parking lot. I wasn't deep in the pain cave or anything, but I was certainly hanging out in the Suite of Suffering. Luckily the bellboys had delivered my Suitcase of Courage in the form of a Moondust Grey E.M.D. Niner.

I must have passed 10, 12, possibly 14, people on the bike. Talk about an ego booster! I was murdering fools, as well I should since I am a compulsive cyclist. After my hour on the bike, the wear and tear was starting to show. I blasted Azalea, trying to keep pace with Greg K., a fresh rider on a relay team. That little stick always climbs better than I do, no matter how hard I train. I guess if I weren't giving him 30+ pounds, I could catch him. Along the ridge rolling to the fire tower, I started to get the little catches that signal cramps in my calves. I wish I had brought more than two bottles of water for the whole event. Luckily, my bike bottle had an electrolyte tablet, and the ions seemed to be keeping the lock-up at bay. I kept my pace up, and spun everything I could trying to flush out, and prevent lactic acid build up.

The second run was when the wheels fell off. The course was way harder than the first, leaving from across the dam, following the steep and rolling lakeside trail to Chinquapin. Yeah, we ran the mountain bike single track, but rode on the gravels. I agree, that makes no fucking sense, and I whined vehemently to my boss about that. I made it about a mile before my legs finally told me I had to walk. A lot of those people I dusted on the bike made uninvited cameo appearances in the film of my second run. I would run a little, walk a little more the rest of the event. My everything hurt. The second 5k was a pathetic and embarrassing 45-ish minutes.At least I sprinted at the end. It must be a bike thing, any time I see a finish line I want to cross it, and in a hurry. After nearly vomiting and almost crying, I was finished.

Considering I hadn't run since the Crazy 8s in June, I shouldn't be upset with a 2:20(ish I couldn't read the bouncing clock as I sprinted to the line) finish time. I have to say though, I wasn't that beat after riding a century, which until yesterday was the most exhausted I've ever been in my life. As of press time Sunday night, I can hobble around and drink beer, for which I'm thankful. The stairs are a bitch, but ya know, some ethanol-related analgesics should help that out.

If you were on the fence for this event, check it out next year!

Lacking in the packing.

2010-12-12T19:30:00.000-05:00

(Note, I've been sitting on this post for almost a month, I never could get it right. I think it's alright now though.)

If I were The Unholy Roleur, I would spend today, or maybe tomorrow, writing an eloquent, well thought out piece on cyclocross. I would write things like (I paraphrase, please, forgive me) "'Cross is a beautiful sport, but no matter how much you love 'cross, she will never love you back. In fact, 'cross will only brutalize you in return for your love. When you come to realize this, you will find perfection in your 'cross experience. Just don't expect it to get easier, 'cross is never easy, she's a classy lady after all." But I'm not Jimbo. I'll have to fake it.

Cyclocross is a bizarre sport, practiced by bizarre people. Like a picture of Stephen and Liv Tyler, there is atrocity and beauty. Racers wearing a coating of slop, agony etched on their countenances and muddy filth flying underneath them, misery incarnate, juxtaposed with fans, (often) drunk revelers who are cut sharply in relief from the immaculate fabric of gray sky, joy personified. The scene is two poles, connected by a love of skinny tires, mud and obscene weather.

That is sort of what the last Mud, Sweat and Gears race looked like. The deities of weather finally got around to turning down the thermostat, and toying with all the fancy buttons on the "crazy conditions" panel. The weekend had a little of everything. Saturday morning the collegiate and masters races were fought on wet grass; vision blurred by falling snowflakes. The weather crossed the freezing barrier and the rest of the races went on in slick, cold conditions.

Personally, I'm starting a disturbing trend of "dumb shit happening on the season finale." It's as if I have a hidden team of writers carefully scripting my season out, and taking a page from various series producers want to show major character development, and attempts at overcoming adversity in the final episode. Last year I got caught in a massive crash which screwed up my brakes. This year, I just missed the start. Yeah, I was pre-riding as a warm-up, knowing conditions were nasty I wanted to see the turns, and I came around one section and watched the lined up racers shoot off the line. I didn't even know what to do. I rode to the line, stripped off my jacket, and the officials let me race. I just had to make up 30 seconds on the entire field.

When I watched the pack ride off, I lit with fury. But the flame that burns twice as bright burns only half as long, so I calmed down pretty quickly. What little analytical abilities I have reminded me that a season's worth of continual fuck-ups had banished me to an untenable position. What I did today was of no relevance. Maybe I ride better without pressure. As I was coming around the first "technical" (There wasn't anything hard about it, except for a coating of 3-4 inches of mud.) section I saw the guy just ahead of me on overall points. Because I'm a douchebag, I shouted at him that I was going to catch him.

The course was really rad, lots of sketchy turns that would have been ripped-bombers if it were dry. I stuck my heart rate right at the threshold, and tried to find the fastest line through every corner, pretty standard stuff. I plowed forward, genuinely enjoying myself. I passed a rider here, passed another there, and kept my pace up. I didn't feel like I was hammering, but I kept the pressure constant on the pedals and kept everything smooth. I didn't have a care where I was in the field, but I had passed a lot of riders. Then I passed the guy sitting in third overall. "What the hell is he doing all the way back here? Wait, wait, wait, did I move that far up in the field? There's no way!" I passed him, knowing that he hated every second of this race. Actually, I blew past him like a freakin' missile. Damn, that was cathartic.

Later on in the lap I saw that T.C.R.C. jersey again. Only instead of being a half-lap ahead, he was just a few hundred yards. Braaaaaaaaaap! I throttled up, and immediately crashed. D'oh. Going in to the last half of the last lap he had 10-15 seconds on me, after I crashed. we screamed down the hill, he was slow over the barriers, I had cut the lead to 5 seconds. I pushed along the last flat section, took the final corner WAY too slow and when it came time to sprint him to the finish, my legs quit on me. I distinctly remember riding down the finish straight head down wandering "Why the FUCK WON'T YOU PEDAL?!" I think the response was something like "Hey, douchebag, we caught him like you wanted. You started 30 seconds back and finished 8th, why don't you just shut the hell up?" In fairness, my legs did have a good point. If only mediocrity were an acceptable outcome. I pedaled back to the keg of hecklers and got a couple beers to "congratulate myself."

Sunday morning was the collegiate final. What a sweet race! In a moment of concentrated Jens Voight, I was the only guy in the race who rode in shorts. If only I had the fast to match the cold-related machismo. I set out to flog myself for 45 minutes and I did a damn good job of it, too. I raced with my PowerTap both days, I set higher numbers in the 45 minute race. If you can explain that, please do. Ah well, the drinking and heckling after the race was a perfect end cap to a season of "meh." Next event is the Kingsport Cup UCI2 event in January, I can't wait.

Snippets, tidbits and morsels.

2010-11-24T11:36:00.000-05:00

From the mighty, mighty Twitterati:

johnswah Tim Johnson

People always ask about my tires... RT @dahweasel: Dugast: like rolling around in a pile of boobs that's on top of a pile of kittens.

SimonBurney Simon Burney

@johnswah Dugasts take too much prep; boobs/kittens can play with straight out the box.

Two of my favorite things!

I discovered a few things on my rain ride yesterday. Embrocation is awesome in water. The prepuce does NOT get along with embrocation.

I think I've decided on my next (two) tattoos: Gungir and Mjolnir one on each calf.

Mjolnir: Thor's magical hammer.

Gungir: Odin's spear

"Busy" just means "I have piss-poor time-management skills.

2010-11-10T21:45:00.000-05:00

The title is a mantra of mine. Needless to say, I'm busy a lot. For those of you who aren't good at math, I do indeed have piss-poor time management skills. In the place of productivity, I read Twitter. When I need to be studying Spanish, I peruse Facebook. All those occasions that homework needs to be written, I'm furiously scouring the internet for prices on bike stuff. The rest of the time, I'm either riding, shitting or sleeping. Since I'm a vegetarian, that is the normal order too.

Speaking of riding, I rode today. I ride every day. Since I got a coach I can remember two days off the bike, not counting days recovering from my most recent concussion. Today was different however! I rolled out of my apartment workout memorized, skinny tires inflated and PowerTap ticking. Because it happens to be November in Tennessee, I was dressed sharply. My super-sweet ETSU kit, fancy yellow Mavic shoes, Smartwool socks, a sleeveless base and arm warmers. Sol, the sun god, blessed the day with a bountiful boon. Throttling up to zone 4, I slid my arm warmers down and unzipped the jersey. I was genuinely hot. I haven't dripped sweat on to my glasses in a long time.

The required efforts were logged. The fun part of the ride was just beginning. I rode home at a leisurely pace, because I was recovering! We just learned how the body's hormones react to exercise this morning. As my Cortisol levels dropped, I mulled these over. I enjoyed my exertion high immensely. Then I got cold again. With a sigh of annoyance I rolled my arm warmers back up, and re-zipped my jersey. I got back to base, and checked the clock. Not much time before my second class of the day. That two hour ride really ate up my break!

I had a cup of tea and a Clif bar. I grabbed my bag and rolled back out the door towards campus. Climbing up the back road in to campus I realized I forgot something. I had ditched the arm warmers, but I was still wearing my kit. I also smelled. Thankfully not a lot, not the normal death-stench that accompanies a hard ride. I was also on the Racemaster, hardly an ideal commuter, and certainly not a bike to be left laying around on campus. I might leave it locked up if I had it chained to a guard velociraptor or if Blackwater hired out for that sort of duty.

Long story short I clomped through the halls of a college campus in between classes wearing a full cycling dork suit, replete with super-clicky, difficult-to-walk-in shoes. The looks people gave me were incredible. I read eyes that said everything from "Wow, check his package!" to "Holy fuck! What in the name of Jesus' illegitimate daughter is that thing?! It t'ain't got no hair on its legs!" If anyone in my actual class thought it was weird, they certainly didn't say anything, which was cool.

I took my test and awkwardly clicked out of class. I was relieved to reach the ground floor without tumbling. Speedplay cleats - for all the incredible function they provide when attached to a bicycle, are equally lacking when walking down slick stairs.

Ouch.

2010-10-28T22:31:00.000-04:00

Wow. I don't know where it went, but I want my last month back, dammit. I never thought I'd let an entire month pass without some variety of blog post going up. I have myriad excuses, but I'll admit I have terrible time management/impulse control issues. I hope to find some time to finish up the story I so graciously left everyone hanging on last month. I've been meaning to post this since fall break, last week. I guess this is what happens when you dig yourself in to a grind; blogging takes a back seat.

On the upside, I've spared you a month of blog posts with topics as far ranging as "I saw more road-kill today" to "Fuck cars!" Or the ever intriguing "Semi's scare the unholy-fucking-dog-shit out of me when they blast past around Mach 1" Only to be topped by "How many opossums can possibly live in this area relative to the number laying, squished, beside the painted lines?"

See, aren't you glad I didn't really post most of that? I am too, I really am.

This post needs meat. That is, of course, irony, since I don't actually eat meat. Much like tofu, or a portabella mushroom, I present to you content-like-substance.

The two of the last three weekends I've spent in the far-from-great state of Kentucky. Fuck that place. Seriously. I am not kidding. The first weekend, the Cincinnati UCI3 "festival" was alright. Three days of 'cross was pretty painful. Three days of sitting around the venue with nothing to do before my race was brutal. The courses sucked. The racers were strong, which meant I sucked. But, I guess I was supposed to take in the whole scene. I assume I was supposed to learn, what specifically, I have NO idea. Maybe I'll be able to apply some of the things I've allegedly learned at MSG this weekend.

Louisville was every bit as bad. The Saturday course was fucking terrible. If you were riding in a group of three or more there were seven dismounts per lap. ~1.5 mile laps with seven (7) dismounts. I told my boss I needed a pair of our cross country spikes instead of clipless shoes. Sunday was better; the promoters added distance and corners, to the course. With some proper recovery between foot sprints, the race was far more acceptable.

Despite ending on a good note, I am far, FAR, from impressed with the OVCX. I'm stoked beyond words to be back home for some Monosodiumglutimate (MSG ;)) action this weekend. I'm also ready for some collegiate CX action. The category-free SECCC races should be interesting to say the least. I just don't want to get lapped.

(not) Chapter 5

2010-09-18T21:06:00.000-04:00

My sincerest apologies for failing to update my running story this week. I've been hit with a big dose of "life" and blogging took a back seat. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you, I just can't help you. Or, I just won't help you. Whichever. Further to the point, there probably won't be an update on Monday either. I've got a lot on my plate, and small appetite. Hobbies are getting dropped After this big wave of studying and tests passes, I'll return to weekly updates of the story, as well as some riding commentary.

Speaking of riding: cyclocross is awesome. That is all.

Chapter Four.

2010-09-06T01:08:00.000-04:00

Authors Note: I apologize for chapter three, it ended up being uninspired, shitty filler. I'm going to take a queue from a terrible band with their album title, "All Killer, No Filler," from here on out. As always, enjoy and give me feedback!

After crossing the bloodied bridge, Caliph Nereef ordered his army to set up camp. They were a day's march from Shreel, and the sun was setting. He fancied himself in a perfect position. He dispatched his finest scouts. Since no one had been near Shreel in months, he needed information. He held a caucus with his generals in the command tent; they reported nothing unusual or interesting. Confident in themselves, Nereef's army slept well.

Dawn greeted the encamped army with a kind smile. The warm sunlight roused the soldiers and because of it, they prayed; the men were extremely devout. The chants of morning prayer rang out from the camp, flowing over the rolling waves of grain. They uttered their oaths and augmented the chants with masterful poses, designed to improve their spiritual power's connection to their body. Eventually the soldiers emerged from their tents, spiritually satisfied, but with filled ravenous hunger from the night's fast. The smoke from a hundred fires wafted, like a prayer, towards the heavens. Satiated in all ways, every man donned his armor, steeled his courage and collected his every nerve. Ranks formed. Orders were shouted. The massed army sighed as one and so began the slow march to Shreel.

Caliph Nereef lead his army. If there was to be action, he would lead the charge. The road to Shreel was lightly cobbled dirt hemmed in by tall grass. His horse marched the drum's cadence, but his mind raced. There had been no word from the scouts, this disturbed him. His eyes flicked from right to left scanning the terrain at various distances. He expected an ambush at every moment. So he proceeded for hours, perched to the brink of madness by his paranoia.

Miles from Shreel, Nereef spotted a wall. It was wooden and tall. He had never seen this wall before and it showed no signs of being fresh. The grass ran up to the timber, as if the poles had been inserted by Bahmut himself. The Caliph ordered his army halted and his finest guard summoned. They organized a protective phalanx, creeping towards this new wall. Thoughts wandered; questions without answers. As the group advanced they could see a gate across the road. A peculiar smell graced their nostrils. The steady drumming of heavy armor clad feet was drowned out by the pulse thundering in each man's ears.

The gate was an enormous, and ornate, construction. There were two dark-red doors that created enough space for an army to pass with ease. The timbers of the wall looked to be entire trees, stripped of branches and lashed together. Each side of the gate had a pair of large pikes, set at upward angles, pointing in to the oncoming army.

The sergeant-at-arms, Lauguin, gasped. His mouth contorted, stifling a scream. Hanging from the four pikes were four bodies, each bearing the crest and tabard of Bahmut. The point of the poles erupted from the mouths of the scouts ensuring their eternal silence. His eyes twitched with rage. The act of barbarism was unforgivable. He whispered fresh prayers. Despite his efforts, hate streamed in to his heart and coursed his veins.

The phalanx approached the doors. They were greeted only by a faint scent of iron and sulfur. No gate-keeper offered passage, nor warning. Nereef broke from his line. He carefully inspected the doors. There were no locks or any iron to speak of. The dark-red hue was the same as the bridge they had crossed days before. Fury boiled his innards. He reached out to shove the door open.

The moment the armored gauntlet touched the door, Caliph Nereef was rocked with an incredible pain. It jumped from the door through his fingers, across his palm and down his arm until his entire body was consumed with an unspeakable misery. He stood, mute, his body was incapable of loosing a scream. The pain intensified. His eyes fought the boundaries of his skull, the searing pain covered the totality of his large frame. Mercifully his muscles began to spasm. The seizure started in his feet. The small muscles in his feet contracted, curling his toes. The strong calves pulled his weight upward. When the massive structures in his legs jerked violently, his arm was torn from the door. His sizable bulk was flung to the dirt and cobbles. The muscles, free of any control, contracted and released at random, flinging, flailing and floundering.

The soldiers watched. They were paralyzed with fear. Each knew the almost-legendary constitution of their leader. They could naught but stare at the writhing mass of man and metal at the foot of the gates. Breathless seconds later the body halted its spasmodic motion. Rapid, shallow breathing filled the ears of the on-lookers; with each passing second the breathing normalized. The body gave two deep, heavy breaths.

The soldiers watched. They were paralyzed with awe. Each knew the now-legendary constitution of their leader. They could naught but stare at the once-writhing mass of man and metal as he first knelt, then stood. Defiance echoed his every move as he shook his powerful limbs. The caliph cleared his throat, took a step back from the door and readied his shield. Like a bull, he flung his body in to the blood-soaked planks. Splinters exploded from the man-sized hole in the gate door. There was a great creaking sound, wood rubbing wood, and the massive doors collapsed in on themselves. A torrent of blood poured down across the now open gate. The blood flooded out towards the soldier's line before the ground absorbed it. The men groaned in disgust as the scent of sulfur stung their noses. Where the blood flowed, the ground was charred and black.

Brasque watched the gate fall. He laughed hysterically.

Nereef never saw the doors collapse. He stared at his new surroundings in confusion. When he crashed the gate, he entered an alien landscape. A front of gnarled, twisted trees met him with boredom. Their stretching branches intertwined, mingling with their neighbors and forming an impenetrable canopy. His greaves trod on a blackened mud, not the expected road. The thick tree line extended as far as he could see in both directions. Ripe with disgust, the caliph returned to his guard. Nereef and Lauguin discussed strategy as they marched back to the main army.

To cut through the forest would take months, but there were no other options. The main encampment was slowly moved to the wall. Crews of ax men began the tedium of hewing a pathway through the black forest. The timber was stout and the work was painfully slow. The crews worked day and night, alternating as they tired out.

Nereef sat in his tent. He was clad in his white prayer robe. He was seated comfortably, his knees and arms both crossed. He controlled his breathing, his body began to feel weightless. His mind recited the prayers to Bahmut for guidance and patience. He felt his spirit tugging away from his corporeal form. A great racket broke his concentration. He gradually returned to normal. The sound became clearer as he opened his eyes, suddenly cognizant of his surroundings. Cheers of joy filled his ears.

“Caliph! Caliph! Sir! We've broken the tree line!” Lauguin's deep voice burst forth with glee. “The trees formed a second wall, sir. Some sort of natural fortification, it would seem.” His joy left as he mechanically relayed the report.

“Excellent work sergeant! Gather an expedition squad, we've work to do!” The caliph was most excited with the swift progress. He hurried to don his armor and meet the troops. They marched down the path, black mud sticking to them. The trees became less tangled as they drove deeper. The canopy remained intact, but the trunks were far less dense. Abruptly the forest ended. There were thick black clouds above blocking out the sun, much as the trees had done earlier. Every man needed a torch to see his feet. Nereef carefully wandered about, exploring his surroundings. They appeared to be standing at the top of a cliff, or a very steep hill. In the distance he thought he could make out a light, but he couldn't be sure.

His musings on the light were stopped when he heard the rumblings and the screaming behind him. The caliph and his guard ran towards camp, the sound of battle increasing with every closer step. They emerged in to the dwindling sunlight confronted with a massive slaughter. Spiders the size of oxen were assaulting the camp. Instinctively the caliph's men formed up and marched in to destroy the creatures.

The arachnids were vicious. Several men were cocooned, wriggling in futile escape efforts. The massive spiders were destroying the unorganized army. Bodies were every where, some clad in armor, others had been interrupted while praying. Tents had been kicked in to the fire, creating barriers. The fire warded the beasts away. The smoke around the camp was thick and choking.

Brasque watched the chaos. He laughed hysterically.

Nereef and his platoon slowly crept up and flanked the horrid beasts. The caliph lead a precise strike, hacking down the hell-spawned beasts as they marched across the camp. The phalanx marched from fire to fire. As they marched and killed, they gained men and organized themselves. Through the heat of combat the regiments united. The mindless beasts stood no chance against the organized soldiers. Darkness crept across the plains, and still the battle raged on. Thousands of bodies littered the ground. On the verge of exhaustion, Nereef and Lauguin pushed their troops to concentrate, and to finish the beasts off. When the last spider fell, the great fires had been reduced to smoldering ashes, and the sun peeked at the horizon.

Chapter Three.

2010-08-29T23:53:00.002-04:00

A very expensive fabric, dark purple nearing black, draped the frame of the man riding in to Shreel. Most sorcerers wore a long robe, but few were of the exceptional quality of these dark garments. Acrid sulfur scorched his nostrils. As the scent grew stronger, he licked his lips. The horrible stench invigorated him. The ebony horse strode gently in to the town square. A new smell caressed the pair: death. Brasque inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. His lips quivered. The awful smell of decomposing bodies and sulfur-scarred soil excited him in a way women never could. In the grasp of black death, the man from Kremlin was aroused.

The black beast beneath Brasque calmly trotted to the largest body in the square. It lowered its head to the corpse, pointing like a dog. The man dismounted. The horse walked away, disappearing in to the black void. He reached in to the folds of his robe and procured a wicked, twisted kryss. Words of pure evil spat from his bearded lips and he licked the blade. His broad shoulder and slender arm swung the kryss down in to the decapitated carcass.

With a sickening burst, the body that once belonged to Lord Buncombe exploded. The innards added fresh décor to the merchant cart and the buildings nearby. Brasque knelt beside the small crater his keen eyes searching for the small glinting trinket he desired. At last the beady eyes found their lust. He snatched, from the charred flesh, a small metal lump. The dull little lump was cupped perfectly by his palm. The tongue flicked across the lips in anticipation. He gently rolled the piece around in his palm, inspecting every surface. He closed his fist and brought his hand to his mouth. He puffed an evil breath through his fist.

A jolt surged down his arm, rocking his whole body. His breathing became rapid, shallow and short. His hand felt like it was clasping the Inferno. His throat loosed a yelp of pain and delight. As quickly as it started, the pain subsided. He held his quivering hand out, opening his fingers and staring at the new object in his burned palm. A gilded skull stared back at him. The eyeless sockets inspecting his countenance.

Caliph Nereef rode hard for Plantain. The night was chilly, but far from cold. A sudden chill straightened his body. He looked around with great haste, where had that cackle come from? Fear gripped the holy man and he spurred the horse faster.

Waylon attempted sleep. He was so tired. His eyes shut of their own accord, but the galloping horse wasn't allowing the boy a moments rest. His young thoughts raced faster than the horse across the plains. He had never been to Plantain, but Harlin told him stories. He imagined the lush green vegetation, the twin rivers surrounding the city, the fisherman and boats.

After riding all night, and part of the day, the companions arrived at the massive gates of Plantain. The city was built on a large plateau, with walls on the East, West and South. To the North, the river Crux brought cold water and fish from Kremlin. The heart of the city sat in the small delta where the Crux split, one half headed West, the other spilled over the eastern wall of the plateau. There were temples of various faiths above and below the massive waterfall. One of these happened to be Nereef's monastery.

“I'll say it again, I saw the dead risen! They attacked the entire town! The shadows burned the ground with sulfur!” Caliph Nereef was exasperated.

The generals under his command were not interested in his story; they were lazy. The muscular man narrowed his eyes and slammed his fist on the table before him. Every eye was on him.

“I am the lord of this monastery, I am the one Bahmut reached out to. If you don't think me honest, make your leave, now!” He spoke with conviction and vitriol. He was a zealous man, the weakness of others infuriated him.

Eyes darted across the table, but no bodies moved. Nereef scoffed.

“Now, raise your armies! Call up every available man! I want every silvered weapon at our disposal on the front lines, those damnable creatures must be banished back to their hell!”

The men filed out of the huge meeting room. The bells of war drowned out all sound in Plantain. Every regular man was compelled from his home, outfitted and drilled. Plantain was a large city, and organizing half of the populace was a tedious feat.

Waylon watched the mobilization of the troops with curiosity at first. As time dragged along, he became bored with the whole affair. Nereef, and his monastery, had ignored the boy, an orphan free to wander surely must. First he trod towards the docks. He greatly enjoyed fish. Along the streets were hundreds of red-shirted merchants with stocked carts. None of them treated him the way Harlin had. Instead his accent was mocked, his clothes were ridiculed and his provincial knowledge was belittled.

One evening however, Waylon found an ally in this strange town. Another boy, about his age, noticed the downtrodden look and inquired what the problem was. Albindin was an urchin and he took Waylon under his wing. He taught Waylon the ways of the street. As the army came together, the boy from Shreel lost his last connections to his homeland. His accent disappeared. The other orphans that shared Albindin's squat taught Waylon their native tongues. He learned to steal from the red-shirted, he learned to barter stolen goods with those same red-shirts. With an errant look and a strong word, the boy could disappear from plain sight. Waylon was quickly becoming a man.

After several months, the massive army marched for Shreel. None knew what lay ahead of them, the scouts hadn't returned from their assignments. Caliph Nereef lead the initial brigade towards the hell town. The road crossed the river Crux with a stone bridge. Nereef ordered his men to stop. His white horse gingerly approached the bridge. Something was wrong and everyone could feel it. Nereef scanned the opposite shore, then turned his eye on the bridge. The boards had a darker hue than he remembered. The scent of iron filled his nose. He dismounted his steed and walked to the bridge. His eyes widened. Blood, blood was everywhere. He cringed with the thought of painting a bridge in human blood. To be sure, he walked across the bridge. Nothing happened. He whistled for his horse to follow. The creature crossed without issue. Finally the soldiers filed across. The army marched on, disaster averted.

Chapter Two.

2010-08-23T01:12:00.002-04:00

The town of Shreel stood as one, paralyzed. Words graced no lips; nary a thought was present in the whole lot. After what seemed like an hour, one of the guards came hobbling down the tower and walked over to Buncombe. Kneeling, he grasped the large shoulder, and began to roll the town's former ruler over. With much exertion, he had the fat man supine. The guard grimaced as he gazed upon the throat of the large man. The impact had crushed the jaw on both sides of the chin. The force nearly separated the head from the neck, according to the large tear running across the throat.

The guard turned and called for help in moving and covering the body. He shouted for everyone to disperse. He kept his back to the body, the blood covered chest was the most disgusting thing he'd lain eyes upon. He never saw the foot twitch. He never saw the hands clinch and open. He never saw the corpse of the fat despot rise from the ground. He never saw the two huge fists crash down on his neck. His vertebrae shattered under the heavy impact. A fresh yelp of horror washed over the crowd. Mothers grabbed children; husbands grabbed wives; everyone took flight.

The other two guards emerged from the tower, clueless. When they saw the blood crusted, reanimate corpse waddling toward them, they drew their swords, and shouted confused orders. However, nothing could be heard over the trampling of hundreds of feet beating a hasty retreat. The guards looked at each other, eyes full of fear, nodded and began to advance weapons at the ready. Buncombe's carcass plodded towards the guards. The guards closed the distance, taking each step with caution. Each secretly hoping the body would fall dead, again. In a flash, the zombie sprinted in to the guard on the left. The bulk 's impact flung the lightly-armored man back several feet. His head caught his fall with an awful crunch.

The second guard, now alone, cursed. He cursed the image of evil in front of him, he cursed his duty to protect the citizens of the town. The monster turned, it appeared to try to speak, but only blood and air bubbled out of the neck wound. A huge fist swiped at the guard. He ducked and thrust his sword at the great legs. The blade connected, severing some of the large muscles. The second large fist swung down, catching the guard on his helmet. The former ruler collected the body, and hurled it across the square. The guard's armor rang out as it struck the inn.

Harlin, with no where to run, had climbed in to his cart, dragging Waylon. The boy sat by the window, eyes glued to his former mayor. He stared in paralyzed fear, he knew nothing else to do. Harlin, meantime, was searching for a specific item. Waylon watched more city guards throw themselves in to their death. Screams buffeted his young ears. He continued to watch. At last, Harlin had found the box he needed. He snatched the blunderbuss from the wall, and rammed in the ammunition from the crate. With a patriarchal air, Harlin turned to Waylon, “Stay hidden, boy, I'm going to finish this.” Hiding behind the trading crates, Harlin uttered a prayer for true aim. He exhaled deeply and, peeking his head above the crate, took aim at Lord Buncombe. The shot echoed around the square, all bark and no bite.

Buncombe's zombie looked around, the gun's reverberations confused the creature. Harlin furiously reloaded his weapon. He took aim again, his racing pulse making it almost impossible to focus on the monster. Another shot rang out. Buncombe lurched sideways and shook the earth. The merchant had removed Buncombe's left foot. Indefatigable, Buncombe stood. The zombie scanned the town, looking for the newest assailant. Harlin again peeked, aimed and fired another miss. The zombie trudged a slow path towards the cart. Two more rounds left the muzzle on trajectories to nowhere. The zombie tripped across the line of crates Harlin used for cover. He scooted backward, desperately trying to stay out of arms reach. He struck at the fat, bald head with the butt of his blunderbuss. He swung the stock of the rifle again and again. He made contact with the forehead and the rifle fired the last round. Harlin painted the wall behind him a shade of dark red.

Waylon looked on with mixed emotions. He was scared and alone. However, the knife strapped to his tiny waist seemed to fill him with courage. He drew the blade from its scabbard. A stern voice whispered “strike true, strike decisively, strike quickly.” The creature lay prone on the ground, in clear sight of the boy. He coiled his muscles and leaped out of the cart on to the back of the zombie. In the same smooth motion he struck downwards with his knife, severing the head.

His right hand quivered. Electricity jolted up his arm. The knife blade glittered in the afternoon sun; it was the most brilliant gleam he had ever seen. He sat there, perched upon the corpse, mesmerized. The power of the blade in his hand left the boy stunned. He had killed the cliff birds before, but never so much as pointed a blade at a person. Eyes wide and suddenly very conscious of his heavy breathing, Waylon stepped off the bulbous cadaver and surveyed the town square.

The pleasant sunlight of afternoon was fading across the horizon. The fallen bodies cast small shadows. A large crow, perhaps a raven, fluttered around the guard tower. Waylon had never been fond of the ebony birds. The rest of the town was empty, none of the usual cheer and banter filled the air. In an instant, there were two ravens. The sudden appearance of two birds, which his mother called evil, unsettled the boy. From the felled body of Lord Buncombe came a horrible hissing noise. Whirling, blade at the ready, Waylon's eyes raced over the body, searching for the source of the sound. Like the rest of the square, there was no motion.

Sulfur burned the nostrils of Caliph Nereef. The lord, in title, rode hard towards the damned town of Shreel. The divine man had been awakened by his deity, Bahmut, in the early morning and was told to ride to Shreel with all possible haste. His white horse galloped across the amber waves of grain, grunting and snorting with the effort. The pair rounded the final corner, crossing the gate. The sounds of combat filled Nereef's ears, and his heart sank. He was too late. He had failed. The horse ran in to the town square. Nereef was greeted with the sight of a boy, maybe in his teens, viciously swinging a blazing white knife at two much larger, and armored, men. His veins ran cold at the sight of the undead. A scream left his throat, his fierce battle cry, and his own sword flashed in the dwindling light. His excellent steed sighted a line behind the two guards, just within a blade's reach of their necks. The caliph did not miss his targets. One charge and two quick swipes felled the armored ones.

Waylon took note of the holy man with the sword. He also noted the full flock of ravens massing around the tower. The sun had nearly set. His knife blade glowed a brilliant white, as though it were still in the mid-day sun.

“A good defense, boy, but we must flee!” The caliph's baritone voice compelled the boy. An armored hand reached down to the youngster. Waylon stared at the metal, unsure of the man, though he wore the holy white. The squawking mass of ravens fixed his decision. He grabbed the out stretched hand and leaped on to the horse's back. The white beast took off, as if shot from a cannon. The stench of sulfur was suffocating.

The white knight explained to the boy, casually, the situation. “I was awakened this morning, by Bahmut, and told to ride here. He told me there was great evil coming.” His voice carried all the drama of a tea-time chat. “Tonight we will return to Plantain, and try to discover what has happened.”

Waylon's face was locked in to a grimace. His young mind raced with thoughts of his home, his mother and the vague idea that everything he knew had been destroyed. The farther the horse ran, the farther the youngster left his boyhood behind. Two heavy hearts rode across the plains that night.

Chapter One.

2010-08-15T23:04:00.000-04:00

Author's note: This story as yet has no title, but it does have a beginning, and it will have an end. Enjoy.

Shreel sat on the peninsula of Shren. An unassuming village, it was hemmed in by cliffs and plains. Several miles south lay the river. No one had ever bothered to name the river; there was only one, why bother? From the north, Kremlin, mountains flowed out in to a glorious, rolling grassy plain. East of Shreel were the famous cliffs. The land abruptly stopped, falling hundreds of feet straight down to the ocean's blue bosom. A particularly hardy, and industrious, sort of bird had made it's home upon these sheer walls of stone.

Lord Buncombe, ruler of Shreel, was not a smart man. He had met a few, but it never seemed to make him any brighter. Buncombe, Lord was his first name, was a happy man, however dumb he might have been. He was also a shrewd man, often a vicious man and an on the rarest of occasions a wise man. Shreel was not an bucolic place to live, nor was it a hellish endeavor. Lord Buncombe, for all his wrongs, was improving the place. On advice from one of the smart men he'd met (the same who told him to use his first name at any occasion), he talked the town's farmers in to selling their surplus grains. The farmers made some extra scratch, and Buncombe's brewery was the finest in all of Shreel. With a source of beverage, Lord Buncombe created a consistent income for himself. If the crops were particularly good, he would pay the town merchant, there was only one, to take some excess beer to Plantain, or Divianas. This was not a frequent occurrence.

Waylon, a youth of few years, made his rounds of Shreel. The boy, with brown hair, proudly marched across the town square to Harlin's cart. Before the merchant saw him, Waylon produced from his small satchel two fish and a dull lump of metal. “Harlin! Harlin! I've come to barter!” the youngster squeaked.

From the ornate cart descended a wry, short man. He smiled gregariously, his smile always set Waylon at east, and extended his hand. A surprisingly deep voice left his lips, “Well lets see what you've brought me, boy.” The child handed over the fish, which really were quite nice, and the odd lump of metal. “Oh my! These are excellent fish! Have you been scaling the cliffs again?” The boy nodded with a bold smile. “I could give you a full gold coin for these two lovelies! But what is this? I've never seen anything quite like it before.”

Waylon's eyes nearly bulged out of his head at the mention of a full gold coin. He didn't care in the least what the metal bit was! “I have no idea. I found it in a birds nest. Perhaps it is a locket? I didn't have time to look at it. Those flying meanies were really upset today!” The older man smiled.

“I'll have to figure it out and pay you for it later. In the mean time, here is one whole, solid gold coin, just for you!” The merchant set the fish on a crate and reached in to the coin purse tied to his waist. Again, the boy's eyes barely stayed in his head. “And by the way, I have something else for you, dear boy.” From the same crate the fish laid upon, the brashly clad merchant pulled a large knife. He drew the weapon swiftly, swinging it over his hand, grasping the blade and presenting the ornate hilt to the boy. “That should teach those feathered beasts who gets the fish!” After the speechless boy inspected the blade, Harlin squatted and drew close to the boy. “Because you're my favorite client here, I'll cut you a deal. If you give me two more of those fish in your bag, I'll let you have the knife.” He spoke softly and smiled.

The boy frowned, he turned his back to the merchant and opened his satchel. He counted three fish. His tiny mind began to race with possibilities of eating whole birds, not just fish. His mother's words echoed through his head, “Don't you come back here with less than three fish again Waylon!” Even as a memory she was screaming. The boy plucked the smaller two fish and turned to Harlin, presenting his trophies with flee.

“And that, my boy, is why you're the best!” said the older man as he took possession of the meat. He patted the younger boy on the head, “Now you run along! Your sweet mother is surely worried about you!”

“HARLIN!” A gravelly voice bellowed across the square. Boot steps echoed from the wooden walls, and the merchant's cheerful disposition instantly crumbled. Merely the sight of Lord Buncombe's rotund figure, with the sunlight glinting from his bald, sweaty forehead, repulsed Harlin. The fat man waddled awkwardly to the small merchants cart. Buncombe, towering over the trader, snatched the odd lump of metal from the lithe man's hand. “Ah! You're too kind my boy! I expected a handsome reward for my beer, but a nugget of gold, that is just too much!” A mock smile graced the bulbous cheeks of the despot.

The smaller man, clad in a red shirt, clawed at Buncombe's hand. “I just acquired that, you pompous ass!” he snarled. A great belly laugh rung Harlin's ears. Buncombe's huge hand, still clasping the strange metal bit, swung through the merchants head, flooring the tiny man.

“Be glad I'll take your sorry trinkets as payment!” Buncombe's voice was all but friendly. He turned and began to walk across the square to his brewery. Bells rang out. Instantly, every eye in the square turned to the central guard tower, anxious. People filed out of buildings, crowding the small square. None knew what to expect, the bells never rang. Buncombe grumbled a curse, and started waddling towards the road. He felt compelled to greet every guest of his fair city. He stuffed the trinket in to a trouser pocket. He coughed, cleared his throat and made sure he was ready to speak clearly to this unknown person. As he rounded the last building, he could see across the golden fields a horse and rider, galloping full gait towards Shreel.

The fat man had neither great vision, nor was he blind. Slowly the approaching pair gained detail and color. Buncombe marveled at the black pelt of the horse. As the beast neared, he would have sworn it was carved from solid obsidian. Again, a smile graced his swollen, fat jowls. The beautiful creature galloped onward, closing the great distance incredibly fast. “What a marvelous horse this man has! Such speed! Such grace and elegance!” Buncombe whispered to no one in particular. In a breath the animal was upon him.

“Give me the Trinket of the Damned, for all that is good and holy! Now, damn you!” shrieked the rider. The rider was a man built of Harlin's ilk, he was short and emaciated. His wild blue eyes were set in great dark sockets. Before Buncombe could respond, the tiny man's hand was clasping his throat. Again, he screamed “Give me the Trinket! Give me the Trinket!” Lord Buncombe tried to free his throat, but the small man had a vice grip on the fat man's windpipe. The diminutive fist tightened. The horse snorted and shook its head. “Quickly! Quickly! We must have it! Give me the Trinket of the Damned! Live depend on us recovering this artifact!” The riders eyes were bulging, lit with insanity and framed by the fires of hell. His lips quivered, and his eyelids opened and shut a hundred times between words.

Lord Buncombe, for the first time in his life couldn't speak. The hand grasping his neck was crushing his larynx. Blood pooled in the bulbous cheeks, his own eyes pushing their boundaries. He swatted at the wrist. Swinging his giant hands wildly, Buncombe tried anything to liberate his airway. The town looked on, all were paralyzed with terror. After what seemed an eternity, the rider yelled a hellish shriek. His hand fell loose from the town's leader, who promptly fell to his knees. In that same instant the horse bucked the demure man, flailing its hooves outwards. Buncombe's fat jaw caught the horses hooves. The rotund man pitched backwards, an arc of blood echoing his flight. The soil rumbled when his carcass returned. His last oratory was a dull splat.

The horse no longer looked a prime specimen. The beast's black hair grayed before the audience. The healthy muscles shrank. In an instant the horse aged years. With a pitiful groan, the mare collapsed. The rider struggled to crawl to the body of Lord Buncombe. He tried to clean the pockets of the former politician. Unfortunately, the brewer was too fat, the tiny man couldn't move the body to get to his possessions. He shrieked again, pulling desperately on Buncombe's shirt. He mustered his strength, and jerked the carcass. His hand loosed from his body. The appendage was a horrible greenish hue.

Waylon and Harlin watched the scene, filled with absolute terror. The man who had ridden so furiously on the horse was decomposing before their very eyes. His small body pitched forward across the fat man. Waylon blinked. As he reopened his eyes, there was only dust, floating across the sweet afternoon breeze. Rider and horse were gone, the only sign they'd even been was Buncombe's body laying in a puddle of his own blood.

Yowzah.

2010-08-15T23:01:00.000-04:00

Man, I didn't realize it had been almost three weeks since I graced you all with a verbose post. (That's a slant rhyme!) I'm sure everyone's thesaurus appreciated the lay off, but alas, it was too good. Consider this an apology, if you're the type who demands that sort of thing, but I'll go ahead and let you know, I've been really, really, busy. Summer semester was wrapping up, I got a job, and started on a SRSBINESS coaching plan. Long story short, blogging didn't take a back seat, blogging got tossed from the moving vehicle, like so much litter. In the meantime, I've been percolating with all varieties of stuff. It was suggested I write fiction. Well, you got it. And please, leave feedback, I'm always interested in opinions of my writing, especially when I don't like them.

2010-07-26T23:35:00.000-04:00

I often wonder how the daily blogs I frequent have subject matter to riff on. I like to pretend that I'm an opinionated person with lots of good ideas and a firm platform to stand on. Then I start to stare down the proverbial blank page. The page usually wins. When the page wins, you get posts like this, lots of narration and not a lot of substance.

I start with a coach and a training program next week. I sure hope this will provide some blog fodder. Of course, if I just get fast instead, I'll be happy continuing to amass the pages and pages of my usual scribbled antics.

Fresh guitar strings make such a difference in how the instrument sounds. I had forgotten how, almost, tangible fresh strings sound. Of course, I had practically forgotten what my guitar sounded like, I hadn't played in years. This is another hobby/habit I'm glad I've picked (back) up.

Saturday is the official move date. Watch out JC, here I come! This week will be a lot of finalizing details in and amongst working and schooling. I'm stoked. But in the mean time,

there is plenty of time for riding and running. What say we all get out and beat the heat? Yeah? I feel ya man, lets do it!

Procrastinating.

2010-07-25T20:10:00.000-04:00

Yup, I'm hard at work again. By that I mean I'm playing on my blog instead of doing anything actually productive. You might have noticed a slight change in color and theme; fear not, I'm not going to start bashing you with tea party-esque political rants, though count on continued-crass-social-observation, I just couldn't find a design I liked, so this one got the win. A new title also graces the superior margin. I might keep it, or I might destroy it as so many of its brethren before. Hell, who knows. I'm going to hope that these periodic changes aren't some form of slow-acting Attention Deficit Disorder, but rather a sign of a driven man, rife with the design to avoid anything stagnate. Hey, I did the way that sounds!

As I am often prone to doing, I'm going to steal a gimmick from another blog I read. Here is music. Music is good. Music is often scorned by people, who must be interesting as creek rocks - dull - for reason I simply can not fathom. It has been argued that music is simply a nicety of "civilized" life, that it bears no inherent benefit to the evolution of homo sapiens. That is a lie. That is a damn, dirty lie. Music may not be required in the way that breathing or water are required, but it is certainly a necessity on par with exercise. You can do without for a little while, but the results are ugly. To conclude your lecture, here is what I've been listening to lately. Enjoy.

And now, for something completely different... (Note the distinct lack of irony!)

Also, this is preaching to the choir, I hope, but a very cool picture I found earlier on Facebook. http://i.imgur.com/mYt7J.gif

Slackin'

2010-07-22T20:54:00.000-04:00

Well, slacking on the blogging front anyways. Between writing a paper for my lit class, studying for biology and starting a new job, I've let my habitual textual vomit-habit get too free. Either that, or I simply have nothing interesting to add to the already immense drivel that is the internet. Come to think of it, that latter might not be a bad explanation.

Come see me at Fleet Feet, Kingsport. I'll be the guy who looks completely and totally out of his element. Although, I do run the cash register better than one of the women who has been there for a while.

I've decided to take this week completely off from exercise. I'm not tired per say, but with 'cross and the collegiate mountain biking season looming, I need to stay fresh when possible. Not to mention I killed myself last weekend, 50 mile road ride, 8k road race, 14 mile mountain bike race.

Speaking of, the Bays race was a complete and total blast! I tried to keep myself under control at the start, going out too hard has been a problem for me. The lead pack must have been hammering the pace because the field was fairly spread out over the start straight. The first climb was a conga line though, people were drifting all over the place! I managed to extricate myself from that quagmire and go ride my own pace. Racing along Chinquipin was great! I tucked in behind some old guy who was riding at a good enough clip for me. The cats behind me however, wanted around, and wanted around now! We moved over and they rode off. After the short section on the lake road, the mentally toughest climb, Shed Hill, rolled around. I passed the guy I had been following, and bridged up to a duo as we hit the rollers. Feeling pretty dandy, I picked my pace up a bit. One of the guys that passed me on the singletrack fell by the wayside.

Further up the mountain, I caught the first guy who passed me on the singletrack. We played on the big rollers, jockeying back and forth. On the final climb to the fire tower, he attacked. I let him go, feeling confident about catching him at the crest. I love it when a plan comes together! Sure enough, he faltered slowed way down as he peaked, while I kept as smooth a pace as possible. The rest of the race was downhill, and I just let the big 29 inch wheels roll! He kept it close until we hit Chinquipin the second time, the extra singletrack allowed me to blow him off the back without a lot of extra effort. Borrowing from the Anet "Zanet" Lamberson strategy pool, I kept a smooth tempo. I almost caught another duo, but they decided to attack each other before I could bridge the gap. I popped out of the woods on to the gravel and motored. I felt great and finished strong. You can't beat that!

Per usual, get out, do something, enjoy yourself.

P.S. Expect further changes to this space in the future.

Bicycles, racing, hysteria? (NSFW)

2010-07-13T22:28:00.000-04:00

Since I am a complete and total ego-maniac, you're all well aware I finished 5th in the Bristol criterium portion of the ETJC Omnium this weekend. Yes, yes, thank you, thank you! You're too kind! Seriously, the applause is flattering!

No, that was not me, but it might have been...

Anyways, after the race I was informed that my result was under protest. I've never had this happen; I didn't know what was going to happen. I was awash with anger, fear and befuddlement. Who thought I did something wrong? What could I have possibly done wrong? Why me?! I saddled up to the officials tent to get the skinny. Home boy in his bumble-bee looking kit has decided that his ninth place finish means that lapped riders were incorrectly scored. Sounds like a fair claim, the race had broken to pieces with bodies all over the place. I felt bad for the guy at first, no one wants to get screwed out of a good finish because of a mistake. Then I asked what I had to do with his problem. This rendered one of the best lines I've ever heard, the kind of utterance that gives your ego an acute case of elephantiasis.

Just like that, for serialz.

"The only way you could have sprinted off the front like that is if you were a lapped rider."

It took every bit of endorphin-stoned self-control I had not to burst open with laughter. I think I giggled a little. I wasn't completely sure I had heard him correctly. I didn't believe it. I think its fair to say I've got a decent sprint, but I barely got off the front of the pack, the eventual winner caught me before we finished the lap! But they were serious. After chewing the cud for about 10 minutes, the H.M.F.I.C. came over to settle the dispute. I pleaded innocent, and described my strategy of sitting on for about four laps before I decided to launch. Bumble bee just stared, certain of a better fate than he received. Not on this Sunday. The judge could only uphold his ruling. I kind of felt bad for the guy, there were three Hampton Trails kits riding in our race, the second place, the fifth place and a lapped rider. Maybe the combined power of awesome cubed just blew his mind, I don't know, but my day was sure a lot brighter.

Miscellaneous notes on the race:

Criterium racing is a LOT of fun.
You know you're really leaning in a corner when you scrub your Speedplay lollipops on the pavement.

I jumped my back tire about six inches doing that in one corner, scared the shit out of everyone around me. I make myself so proud sometimes!

People really get upset when you talk to them during a race. This baffles me.
Every pack I bridged up to during the first half of the race exploded, like roaches in light.
I'm sure it happens just as much in the cross-country scene, but listening to people bitch about everything the officials do wrong is incredibly tedious.
Going over the details of your race with another race is incredibly fun.

Sadly, the criterium season is almost over. I guess I'll just have to hold out for some of that silly cyclocross stuff. Boy-howdy, am I ever disappointed about that. /facetious

Fatness

2010-07-13T21:43:00.000-04:00

I'm going to write a diatribe on a topic very personal to me, leave if you are easily offended by bad words, excess punctuation marks, use of text styles for emphasis, or you're obese.

Nat Geo TV was running a "best of" this week, and I happened upon their special about a 650 pound man. Yup, dude weighs six hundred and fifty pounds. If that were Pounds Sterling, you could buy a small car. Dude can't walk. He was discharged from the hospital, after losing 100 pounds. The footage of the ambulance crew (six men) using an electric winch to get him in to the ambulance, and subsequently dragging him, literally dragging, him through his trailer was one of the most disgusting things I've ever seen in my life. I wanted to scream, I wanted to throw my remote through the TV. I almost couldn't finish my vegan tacos, though they did offer a LOT of self-righteous smug to the situation. For 10 minutes, I was stuck in a state of paralysis, I could feel my arms trying to throw the food across the room; one hand wanted to whip the remote through the TV; my lungs and vocal cords wanted to scream.

Years ago I would have felt very differently. I'd still be a snark-spewing dick, but I wouldn't almost vomit. As a concession, dude has lost more weight than I have; as of press time about ten more pounds. To the point, I could almost commiserate with this inanimate object of a human because I too was a tubby bastard. I even had friends tell me my jokes were funnier because I was fat, same friend said I could be the next Ron Jeremy if I just grew a sweet 'stashe. It was a charmed life, for sure.

Now I see that program and I become irate. I lost count of how many times I asked "How do you get that big? HOW do you get that big? HOW THE FUCK DO YOU GET THAT BIG?!" Seriously! The narrator described endless scenes of gluttony, as did the wife. The quantity of calories going down his craw were phenomenal and their quality abysmal. I understand that, I've been on the pizza, hot-wings and beer diet. Maybe I'm an anomaly but after a while, none of those things were appetizing anymore. Yes, even beer was unappealing. I hate to offend my readership in such a way, but this forum is about honesty!

Home boy is married. He lives with another human, and she didn't have the sense/ability to say "Honey, you weigh too fucking much!" On the show, she has a camera out, documenting her man's return. Her expression is a weird mixture of pride, apprehension and sorrow. She's proud of him for getting back home, yet she bears a hefty portion of the blame here. Like I said, at my worst, my best friend chided me about being a lardy; you can't discuss a massive weight issue with your husband? For fuck's sake woman. The vehemence is boiling my blood just thinking about it.

I simply don't get it. I've taken nutrition classes; I've taken health classes; I've learned the hard way! I still don't understand how any human can honestly grow larger than 300 pounds and not realize "HOLY FUCK HAZEL! THE SCALE JUST SAID 'POLAR BEAR!'" I've read research that says fat and sugar act on the body in the same way alcohol and nicotine do, which causes an addiction. How little self-control is required for you to balloon up to immobile? I understand addictions, I've fought off alcohol, nicotine and caffeine; it is difficult, but not insurmountable. Fighting off the need to breathe, that's insurmountable. I know exactly how addicting fat can be, with a clean(er) diet I notice how much effect foods really have on the body. If I eat processed sugar or fast digesting carbs, even sugary fruits to a lesser degree, I go NUTS for about 15 minutes before I crash and need a nap. It was recommended that I try Nutella, so I did. I glanced at the label, saw big numbers in the wrong places and really had to fight to get the bottle in my basket. Sure enough about a month later, I still get cravings. As I said, I understand the power of lust, but asceticism is not your foe.

I simply don't get it. I've watched popular culture evolve. Look at any magazine that isn't "Bacon: the pig and you" or "Deer Fucker XXX" and the cover model will be a slender woman, or a trim man. The television is littered with lanky and (albeit abnormally) skinny people who are "famous" and "popular." Thin is in, man. I know I felt a metric-shit-ton of pressure when I was fat. Do you just get past the point of caring? Or do you get so geeked on twinkies that your own vanity gets crushed? I don't want to advocate Body Dimorphic Disorder, but there is overwhelming pressure to conform to certain size standards. Just ask Kevin Smith what the airlines think about fatties.

Leaving the grocery store today, I thought I was caught in a cattle stampede! There was the 600 pound couple, with a shit-out-of-luck child, the woman with the ass that must have been three feet wide and two feet tall and the on-waddling people entering the building. Were it not for my metal shopping cart, I surely would have been crushed. If your life has lost so much meaning that you're willing to neglect your own health, fight back! Take your health seriously and give yourself a reason to live. Afraid you'd feel like a narcissist? Then do it for the rest of society so we don't have to pay for your fat-riddled lard to be shipped in an out of animal MRI machines!

Thank you for reading, I apologize for the tirade but, man, shit gets me fired up.

Random thoughts.

2010-07-07T23:07:00.000-04:00

You find the most hilarious stuff on Twitter. It gets bashed as a shoddy-at-best medium, but I've found some great stuff there. Like this (Sorry Fundies.)

Kids these days, I tell ya! (Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm a kid too, its a joke, old folk!)

I am so paranoid that during the pack race on Tuesday a rider behind me was talking to another rider, "Easy Freddy, don't accelerate." I thought I was being chastised for shoddy riding. Yeesh.

I looked at new tubulars for 'cross season. Man, am I jonesing; I feel like an addict.

There is insinuation that only the magnificent Captain H. Gregory Dingo III writes entertaining blog posts. I am offended. I guess I shouldn't be though, since most of these posts read like thesis papers.

I will be furious with Charter until I move. They stripped away Versus from the non-digital package. Assholes.

I found out what I need to do more of at Tuesday's pack race. Love me some training races!

Mountain bikers (guilty as charged!) laugh roadies off as being soft. Tyler Farrar decided to continue his Tour, with a broken wrist. He willingly rode over cobbles with a broken wrist, and wants to keep riding for another two weeks. Pavement is not forgiving, nor will it respond in kind when you attack it.

In other Tour news, this is a painful-to-look photo gallery. Check out the blood on the Fuji kid. Jesus!

And... I'm out.

Fun times, brah.

2010-07-04T11:17:00.000-04:00

Wednesday night short track was astonishingly painful. Astonishingly, I said! I went in to the race angry about a whole variety of things, and was stuck with mixed emotions about racing. I knew the endorphin high was going to come afterward, but I wasn't sure if I had the mind to push myself hard enough. The first few laps went well enough. I guess it was the fourth or fifth lap that Johnson City's favorite mountain biking son, Wes Lamberson, wanted around. For some bizzare reason, instead of letting him by, I jumped out of the saddle and sprinted as hard as I could for the next corner. Luckily it was the off-camber corner where this is only one line, so the first one in gets the position. I heard him whimper as we hit the mouth of the turn, that my friends is satisfaction. The rest of the race was spent between bouts of sprinting faster riders and cursing myself for not riding faster. I was completely spent when we finished, the kind where your core muscle ache and you just stare like a zombie.

Thursday was a lazy day. I signed a lease for a condo near campus, very exciting! Friday was the falafel ride with Fat Tony and Dr. J. Fats had some sort of nuclear-ass-stench-death-cloud weapon. Farts are usually funny, except when everyone within ten feet of you starts choking. Riding in to one of Tony's death clouds must be like having an asthma attack.

Saturday: Mid-podium to mid-pack. The TCRC was kind enough to hold another training criterium race in the afternoon. These things are incredibly fun and pretty low-key. I guess there isn't much to be expected when you're riding your bike in circles for a set amount of time. They did add a chicane this time, which added a little more fun, the turn after was a really sharp hairpin. If you had the nuts, you could carry enough speed to drag a knee, moto-style, through. I rode strong, and felt really good the entire race, I killed the corners and motored the straights pretty well. I sat on the ETJC kids for the first third of the race, when they got wise to my wheelsucking antics, I attacked and rode solo for a few laps. The kid that bridged up to me was strong, so he and I decided to trade pulls to stay away.

He lurched with two to go and got about a ten yard gap going up the front straight. Then he got into that pesky corner. I set my tires on the sidewalls and screamed through the tight hairpin, his gap was shattered. We came back around, got our bell, and I attacked. He caught me on the back straight going towards the last corner. I saw him, and tucked in to get a quick rest before the sprint. The one corner I botched had to be the last one. I got nervous, and watched the wheel in front of me, instead of the pavement. Coming out of the corner he had at least 20 feet on me. Time to do what I do; I slung the bars side to side and stomped, kicked, and mashed the pedals with every joule or power my body could produce. Half a bike. He managed to hang on! I was impressed and just excited to have raced hard.

Later Saturday night was the Red, White and Boom four mile run in Kingsport. I was really tired after racing and sitting in the heat all day. This was going to be a test of my icing-legs recovery strategy. I'll let the Lee Timing Co. email tell the story, because there wasn't a lot to it.

Participant name: AARON CASEY
Gender: Male
Bib number: 33
Age Group: Male 20 to 24
Division: 4 MILER

Your finish time: 38:21.3
Your calculated pace: 9:35 per mile
Your overall place: 109
Total finishers: 205
Overall Winning Time (Male): 22:12.5 (MYKAL MILLER)

Your place in the Male 20 to 24 age group: 6
Number or participants in your age group: 8
Best Time in your age group: 25:30.1 (DAVID MATHER)

Your finishing percentile, overall: Top 53%
Your finishing percentile, age group: Top 75%

Weather conditions: Sunny, 90 degrees F, 72% humidity at the start.

Overall a pretty fun run! It never ceases me how much easier it is to run with a group of people than to run alone. Looking ahead, there are Independence day shenanigans (read: bike riding) and homework. I'll end as I always do:

Get out and ride!

Get yer stoke on!

2010-06-30T07:34:00.000-04:00

Nothing makes a morning quite like getting out of bed and running. The whole day just seems brighter because you start off with a stellar endorphin high. Its like a wake-n-bake, without the illicit aspect. If you could bottle the effects of exercise, I guarantee it would be the best selling drug in the history of drugs.

Last night I decided to hit the pack race down in Lamar. That was a terrible idea! I had run three miles in the morning preparing for the race this weekend, and was being lazy all afternoon. I showed up way later than I had intended. Believe you me, those TCRC guys don't screw around with time. I think they ran four groups of As, and for those not in the know, they get faster as you go. By the time I was kitted and ready to roll, I left with the third group. I realized I was swimming with sharks really quickly. It took them about ten minutes to drop me. I was sliding back after taking my second pull at the front and was going to left someone stronger slide in so I could hang out and suck wheel. He never came over and I never recovered.

The good thing to being shot off the back was getting the opportunity to hammer my brains out, alone, which is just the most fun thing ever. It was some decent time trial practice; trying to gain confidence riding with arms on the bars instead of hands.

Next week I might try showing up early and riding with the first group, that might be more satisfying. In the meantime, I've got short track to beat me up tonight. I can't wait!

Wayne Ultra Report & tidbits.

2010-06-29T21:58:00.004-04:00

The post you are reading is not genuine. It is a reissue. It is an edit. The original post was a few thousand words (watch how easily I pull off a sweet metaphor here, this is wicked gnarly!) that can be easily summarized with this picture:

As an aside, the truth of the matter is that I am a tremendously negative person. So if I'm feeling down and start writing, bad, bad, bad shit happens. Fortunately exercise is a better drug than my usual vices! I originally transcribed my thoughts on Monday, after being stuffed in a car for five hours Sunday night, apartment hunting all day Monday and after class Monday night. Long story short, I didn't get any exercise, hell I barely moved. I hate taking rest days for that very reason, I become hostile! I said all that to say some more, here is the actual race report!

The Wayne Ultra beat my ass. There is no other way to put it. Before we rolled out in the mass start, it was 99 degrees. The start rolled along pavement, flat at first to sucker you in, then a solid left straight sneaked under the belt with some hefty pavement climbs. The barrage never let up; we hit the singletrack and were pelted with insane grades, both up and down, as well as the tightest switchbacks I've ever had the misfortune of trying to ride. The short climbs were so steep I couldn't keep my heart rate out of the 170s; it was an inconceivable pace to hold for another 30 miles. Not to mention that a heart rate of 180 bpm or higher in hundred degree heat is the epitome of misery. After that the trail snaked through two miles of softball-sized rocks. There was some mild relief when we finally go to the "new section," which wrapped around a creek. It was really just muddy, but the water source kept the temperature managed.

Two hours later, I had sweat so much my feet were swimming, I was completely out of water (I had actually bummed a half a bottle from the lunatic singlespeeder I was riding with) and was shot mentally. This was only 16 miles in to the race too! Interestingly enough, my legs felt alright, but my core felt like a giant pile of dammit. Staring down another four hours (assuming I didn't start dawdling any slower) I pulled the plug. I felt like a bitch, and I still do, but I simply wasn't prepared for what I was handed. I rode back to the car, and wallowed around with the short course riders.

I do need to thank Ben "Applebeast" Appleby, the whole of the weekend shenanigans was his idea. In an effort to prove his machismo, he drove the entire way home after finishing 8th in the 44 mile race. Dude is off the chain, yo.

Because I hate to end on a sour note, I give you a collection of some sweet tunes. I know I bash country music, like constantly, but there are some absolute gems out there; these are but a few.

And you thought sweep-picking was only for Yngwie Malmsteen! Hah!

Hopefully at this point you're nice and relaxed. Doesn't that just feel, good? I know I am. Man, oh man, I'm feeling GOOD right about now.

P.S. Final note: read this, its pretty hilarious!

Bits, parts and pieces.

2010-06-24T22:21:00.001-04:00

Nope, not hawking anything today, but I am going to have a very disjointed post full of media, and light on the words. Good news, right? Right, best news I've heard all day!

Taken from the No Reason Comics page, there's a teaser trailer for The Green Hornet.

I'm not sure what to make of it. I'll admit the Hornet was never on my must-read list, so I don't know the character or related mythos that well. It looks more funny than serious, but I'll blame Seth Rogan for that. This next one is just... well you'll see.

Man. I got nothing. That is simply great.

In more hedonistic pursuits, I've got a fever, and the prescription is more cowbell!

Courtesy of PDXCROSS

Courtesy of Kona COG

Courtesy of Pacific Pedaling

Yeah baby, more fucking cowbell!

Beeches, not beaches, nor breaches.

2010-06-21T23:24:00.001-04:00

As frequently happens to me, I sat down with a mental checklist of topics to blog about. Each point would form a paragraph, and a wonderful, coherent and varied blog post would spring in to existence. All that was left was to blow the magical dust across the keyboard and furiously smite the keys until my masterpiece materialized before me, several pixels at a time. With butt in chair and word processor open, blank, every idea worth cataloging vanished. Vanished I say! Is it the intimidating blank screen which greets us before authoring so much intar-web drivel that causes this phenomenon? Or is the memory just that fickle? Certainly there are positions on both sides currently taking applications for navel-gazers with interest.

First things first, otherwise it wouldn't be first thing, now would it? And so the existentialism begins! I have a confession to make, Father. It's been, uh, actually I've never made a confessional before, that's a few extra Hail Marys, right? Oh, ok, cool. The confession? Right, about that, I don't really know how to say it, so I guess I'll just out with it. I really, really enjoy road riding. Maybe more than mountain biking. There, I said it. The weight is off my chest! After this weekend's shenanigans at Beech Mountain, I'm feeling a little bit addicted to the skinny tires.

Speaking of Beech, that mountain was hardly the bitch that was promised. All I heard the week before was to the effect of "YOU GOIN' DIE, BOI!" I was shocked and afraid at first. However, the spectacular thing about being a cynic is that given enough time, usually 10-15 minutes, any idea can (often will) become stupid. I put on my best annoyed, furrowed brow and a major scowl scrawled itself my lips. I refused to believe the hype. As usual, that was a great plan. It was a tough climb, don't misunderstand! It had a hint of Rapha-esque epic quality in a way. The route we followed took us out on a large road, and splintered in to smaller and smaller passages of pavement, twisting, winding meandering across the ridges and etching their way up to the peak. In fact, the road splintered so much that we lost all pavement; we ended up riding on a steep, loose gravel road, not unlike this one:

If this were a Rapha ad: the eight intrepid explorers, hell-bent on cresting the peak suffered. Muscles stretched, strained end exerted all of their force, but the riders demanded they give more! The miles piled up, the engineers of antiquity had lain the beautiful pave in great springs and coils, slowly arching across the steep slope of the foreboding mountain. The forest's lush greens filled the riders vision, trying to distract these dedicated few from their mission. But those few, brave climbers were only interested in the hue of blue; the sky-blue hue that can only be seen when there are no more trees to impair the view! Beating out a furious tempo, cranks were spun and distance covered, the might of the elevation was no match for the riders, courageous and strong! This day these hard men (and woman) could only find success.

I think the gravel stretch really cemented the (I'll avoid using this phrase again, honest!) epic nature of the ride. Mixed terrain when you set out to only ride pavement really adds character and grit to a ride. Maybe I just got a charge out of a 2 mile section of cyclocross style conditions, who knows. It was a blast either way, one I wouldn't mind repeating. Or maybe it was the descent down the "front" side that drove my addiction. After the crest, the fun becomes nearly non-stop! It honestly felt like roads I've seen in Europe, the kind that have pages and pages of lore scribbled about them. The first switchback was so tight and steep, it almost felt like I was going over the bars. The next handful of reversals were simply amazing. Those 20% grades that were standing-room only pedaling up were now like slingshots, upping the pace ever faster for the next straight section. Pure speed and pure enjoyment I tell you! The all-mighty Garmin says I peaked out over 50 miles an hour (almost literally) flying off the mountain. Remembering it gives me goosebumps!

In the interest of symmetry, I have no proper closing for this most recent addition to my web log, since I had no proper opening. As a substitute, I offer you the exhortation to go ride, ride whatever makes you happy, and ride the hell out of it!

Stuff to wonder about.

2010-06-14T21:58:00.000-04:00

I started back to summer school today. Since I hadn't commuted in a week, I apparently broke a cosmic law. I believe said law is something to the tune of:

"When commuting, you have a quota of crazy, interesting, obnoxious, annoying or totally random shit to consider."

Since I only commute once a week now, I have to see five times the normal amount, to keep up with the quota.

Firstly there was the woman who almost didn't get her car through the intersection, followed shortly by the same woman being totally incapable of getting her car on to the interstate. I understand ma'am, I really do. These whole motor vehicle things are truly terrifying. God forbid you put your own NEAR one. That gap between those cars you're trying to turn in front of, they'll TOTALLY fuck you up if they aren't at least 45 seconds away. As for the latter, I mean, yeah, totally, the interstate is a killing field at 5:50 p.m.! There aren't just cars, but the Bantha of the highways, tractor-trailer trucks lurk there too!

The horror! The overwhelming horror of it all! And those insensitive civil engineers who just didn't give you enough space to find the perfect spot between those lumbering behemoth vehicles! Look, lady, I'll be really honest here, unlike the rest of this snarky post, just put the fucking car in its lane. The guy behind you will slot in, and I'll get in there too. Guess what? Then we all arrive safe and sound! When you do stupid shit like drive down the shoulder because you aren't confident enough to put your car in said lane, you endanger everyone merging in an unexpected place. Road rules are simple.

That one did a number on me. That was the best example of "Drive like a 'tard Monday!" The lunatics were out in force. If I'm calling you out for driving, you've done gone and crossed a line, son. Ain't a line what can easily be crossed back over neither, ya' hear?

I've decided I am an incredibly smug prick at the grocery store. I judge people by the contents of their cart. So far, I haven't found a reason to quit. If I can't see the cart because the person waddling behind blocks it from view, there will be some major fatty-feed on board. Frozen pizzas, cheep beer, instant this, packaged that, all the hallmarks of "my blood sugar score is higher than any other number in my life." In a way this is sad, but having been that person not too long ago, I've been stripped of my pity. That and just being a general asshole. Those two do a pretty good job in demeaning almost anyone/anything.

And I've said all that to say this: riding bikes is fun. I don't know if the joke made its way out of my middle school or not, but once upon a time (yesterday for some of you old people) it was said "Women don't sweat; women don't fart; women don't belch; therefore they bitch, so they don't explode." Woah nelly! He's getting misogynistic! Sorry, but apropos to that is my relationship with cycling.

I woke up in a mood as foul and disgusting as any I've ever been in. I know, I'm almost done crying, keep the Kleenex, smart ass. Consequently I had only ridden a short recovery ride Sunday, trying to keep my legs from being the harbingers of hurt after Saturday's century shenanigans. I spent most of the Lord's day plopped in front of my computer reading comics and listening to techno. Wake up the next day feeling wretched. I smell a correlation! That's like smelling a fart, but with far less olfactory distress.

I thought about going for a ride. It rained. I cursed, and a few minutes later the waterworks slacked. I think they're called "sucker cells" or something to that effect. I grabbed my new carbon and aluminum steed, and hit the road. Less than half an hour later I was wishing for gills. But you know what? That is a positive predicament to be in. I'd rather wish I had gills while plowing over wet asphalt than sit at home and bitch about whatever issue-du-jour I've whipped myself in to a frothing frenzy over.

So in my professional opinion, even if this looks like your group ride:

get out and ride, man! (As an aside: you don't even have to ride, just do something! Do anything! Just move!)

Centurion!

2010-06-13T22:15:00.000-04:00

Blogger, you make me smile. The new template design feature makes non-artsy people like myself happy, happy campers. You mean, I can make my rantings look great and all I have to do is click a few buttons?! I don't have to learn, anything, to get results?! SIGN ME UP BABY!

That right there was my weekend shenanigans. I kinda want to print it out as a sticker, and keep track of centuries ridden air-to-air kill style:

Maybe that would be a spot too much. In the event that it isn't though... Just kidding. That is far to over the top, even for me. Regarding a recap, there isn't a whole lot to it, the route was rolling the entire way, the occasional flat, but mostly graded one direction or another. We got lost and added about three miles to the ride, which was completely and totally irrelevant. After 100, unless you're tacking on another 20, it really doesn't matter. I owe David Hayter a big thanks, he rode the entire thing with me, and for the last 12 or so miles kept me from slipping off the rain-slick precipice of whine.

It was fascinating to listen to the conversations, at least on my end. I was starting to tire, mentally and physically, so the answers to his questions became very terse. As we started up Buffalo (the last hurdle of the ride, and surprisingly annoying after 90+ miles), the infamous question, the question that says "I have nothing left to talk about, so I'm going to hope this provokes something interesting I can play off of," came out. "So, seen any good movies lately?" I think I snickered; the memory is fuzzy. After a curt "nope," he rode away making sure the mountain knew to whom it owed patriarchal tidings. It was at this point that I realized the conversations, regardless of qualifiers was a great, great thing to have. Anything to take the mind off "Yes, you really do have to keep turning the same cranks you've been turning for the past five hours and change!"

Luckily the top of the climb came quickly and mercifully. Also positive was the descent. Coming off of Buffalo mountain is a spectacular study in aerodynamics. The road is essentially straight, there are a handful of curves, but nothing with any difficulty, a rider has free reign to take as much speed down as his legs can muster. And if you aren't pedaling, you're going to coast pretty freaking fast too. With one eye glued to the distance meter, another to the speedometer and the other two gazing over the road like a hawk (in times of intense concentration my eyes are capable of segmenting in to multiple facets, not unlike a fly), I was fully prepared to mash my freaking brains out until the third digit appeared on the odometer. I just like watching the speedometer, the bigger the number the happier I am. Ironically, the hundredth mile ticked over right in time for the TNR sprint finish to start. I don't know if he took a dive, so to speak, or if I actually had that much power left, but it's always nice to win a sprint finish.

After the ride we spent a fair bit of time in the company of Knights drinking establishment. Perfect timing to view the end of the U.S. opener in the World Cup. I played soccer as a child, and got back in to it with the 2006 Cup, so I was pretty excited to watch another year of international pride. After a while, a separate group of cyclists moseyed on in. In the spirit of learning something new everyday, I found out a local man is actually South African. Being the idiot American I am, I assumed he was English. What transpired after that was a fascinating conversation about South Africa. I was most impressed and astounded at the same time. It was quite the cap to a nice long ride; an intellectual stimulus to correlate the physical stimulus. That is the surest sign of a good day, learning about yourself and something foreign.

Weekend-stravaganza: The Remix!

2010-06-09T12:56:00.000-04:00

Last weekend was the TCRC/Peoples' Community Bank Omnium. Pretty sweet road racing. I got to ride my first individual time trial, which was pretty awesome. I nipped the two-wheeled rocketeer by a second; his bad luck continued Sunday, poor guy. Not only did Andy get yanked from the crit with two laps left, some worthless schmuck ran a stop sign and totaled his Element. Best get to sacrificing some Huffys.

Sunday morning was my second criterium race. Rolling with a field of 30 riders is a whole lot different than a field of four riders. Since I was reminded of the Fausto Coppi quote "Age and treachery will beat age youth and skill," I decided to follow the guy I was sure knew what he was doing. Alan decided to hang out at the back, so I joined him. The race was overall uneventful, I yo-yo'd off the back of the baby peloton for most of the race. About halfway though, they announced a few "prem" laps. If you were the first across the line, you won a prize, or cash. I decided I wanted a gift card, so I throttled up coming out of the last corner on the finishing straight. I wasn't quite strong enough to grab the prize, which was a bummer, and I was now sitting on the front of the field. I sat up, hoping to work my way back. Immediately a voice shouts from behind me "COME ON CASEY! KEEP PULLING! LET'S STICK THIS!"

Matt thought I was making a serious attack, and followed me up. I hesitated for a split-second the few remaining brain cells were slow on the uptake; I rolled the cranks over and drove the field in to the next few corners trying to get my man away cleanly. He broke and apparently took the next lap's prem. I finally got reabsorbed as the pack split around me. I positioned myself securely on that back of the field, again. I continued to yo-yo, according to those more experienced, Cat. 5 races tend to ride like a slinky. As it was explained to me, the front riders will clear the corner smoothly at a consistent pace, the mid-pack and tail end guys start getting on the brakes early, losing momentum and slowing down. These together create an according effect with the lot stretching and condensing.

Matt and I had discussed launching another attack with two or three laps to go, and I was feeling strong enough to plow the wind on a long lead out. Unfortunately, the leaders ramped the pace up for the last three laps. I wasn't paying attention and was gapped. I caught back up on the final lap, found Matt and told him I'd lead him out in the sprint. With three corners left, the pace dropped. I guess the guys at the front got tired and no one was willing to pull through. I took the opportunity to start positioning myself on the outside, and work my way up to the front. Alas, with two corners left, I got pinched between a braver rider and the curb, touched my brakes and launched off the back. Air brakes couldn't have put me out faster, it was incredible! After that turn, the pace fired up again; I finished as strong as I could, which was D.F.L. in my age group, and one-above-D.F.L. overall.

After chatting with folks for a while and catching part of the Cat. 4 race that followed, I opted to take my sweet new steed out for a longer road ride. I got 44 miles of urban/country cycling in. Rolling at a dawdling pace through the rolling countryside was really rewarding. I rode the infamous Thursday night ride loop, as well as the Tuesday pack race route, and I was amazed a what you see when you aren't surrounded by people, or conversing with the guy beside you. There was some really neat stuff out there. I rounded one corner, and was greeted by a giant white horse, grazing in a field of clover, happy as can be.

Sometimes the beauty of it all is getting away from it all.

Weekend-stravaganza

2010-06-01T12:29:00.000-04:00

Last weekend was a weekend of paid riding. Oh, you hadn't heard? I did, in fact, turn pro. Ok, maybe that is a slight exaggeration. But I did pay to ride, twice. Pedalfest was Saturday, this year the proceeds are going to benefit the ETSU cycling team. An enjoyable twenty miles filled the morning. Parts of Carter country are incredibly gorgeous. I'll admit that almost every time I drive down there.

Saturday afternoon was spent in Asheville. My girlfriend and I decided to go visit some art galleries and enjoy not being in Kingsport. The mighty Garmin Nuvi couldn't find the first gallery she wanted to visit. That was a bummer, but we did manage to find several others. As we were driving in, we noticed the Biltmore was having a wine tasting. Nothing makes viewing and snarking more enjoyable than some liberating fermented grapes. Properly lubricated, we set about wandering round the village. I quickly realized that "zee le Artistes" do not sell a great quantity of anything. And this may be a double edged sword for them. At the Buena Vista Gallery, which has some really, really awesome stuff, there was nothing less than $600. Hypocritical me, I'd agonize of spending that kind of cash on a wheel set, but wouldn't even consider it for a piece of artwork. As the stores wound down, we made our escape to Papa's and Beer. You don't need to be exhausted from a day in the woods to enjoy some spectacular fish tacos and a Dos Equis. As a side note, very, very little in the world can make you feel like an alcoholic as the following sequence. Ashlea grabs my big Dos Equis draft, using both hands, and blurts out "this is as big as my head!" Zinger!

Sunday morning was blessedly late, a noontime start marked the dawn of my career in road racing. The local road club is doing a series of training criterium races. So-called "NASCAR on skinny tires, son!" This is a pretty apt description. The course was two turns and two straights, about four tenths of a mile in length. "You spin me right round baby, right round like a record baby." The words of "Dead or Alive" echoed as we, the four Cat. 5 racers did just that. As is my way, I attacked the start. Every conversation I heard about crit races was "Stay at the front! Keep out of trouble!" Followed shortly by "Those Cat. 5 men are crazy!" So of course, I decided I was going to pull the whole damn thing if I had to, just in case. After a couple of laps, I realized that simply wasn't a feasible idea, so I pulled off for someone else to pull. That was when the going to slow. Either that, or I was going really slow and didn't realize it. Apparently the other three were trying to play cat-and-mouse games of "strategery" and timing. A few random attacks filled the passing laps. With four laps to go, the big guy from Knoxville ratcheted up the pace. The problem with not training is that even if you've got a decent motor, you're not using all of it. Apparently I didn't react well with the up in pace, and simply had nothing left to hang on with for the last lap. I might have stood a chance had the finish been a bit longer, but you turned the last corner and were immediately upon the finish line. Such is life, and for a first effort I can hardly be disappointed.

The upcoming weekend is the Omnium, and today, June 1st, marks the beginning of cyclocross season for me. Time to start training with a passion and a fervor!

In the spirit of things.

2010-05-27T15:23:00.000-04:00

I've been reminded, in the most rude of fashions that the intervals betwixt my so-called posts on this alleged blog have been of uncomfortable length, erring to the "far too long" side of equilibrium. For that I must apologize, writing hasn't been at the forefront of my latest activities. School and being a general obsessive dork are taking their usual priorities. Half of May has been spent in the classroom, relearning the history of humanity (provided you aren't black!). Interestingly enough this humanities class has briefly, I mean in quick order, not the restrictive, white style of male undergarments, to a rather large world of philosophy and rationales. Because these introductions have been curt at best, I've not been able to fully devour them. For a mind like mine, these are but simple hors d'œuvres. The mind, she is so teased! You give me a morsel, and it wants naught but the whole of whatever this small sample calls the greater! Such is life.

When I can wrangle the brain to cooperate and slack it's infuriating salivating the bikes come out. Sorry, you'll hear no diatribes, no lament and no sorrow for the conclusion of "Lost." There is too much great weather and too many spaces to be explored for serial television programs of dubious quality. Speaking of exploring, open spaces and dubious quality, I was recently, we'll say invited (for the sake of nicety!) but imply "subjected to," another Rocky Fork ride with the Almighty Applebeast. This would be my sophomore voyage to the wild, untamed lands, rife with primitive culture and obscene politicians.

Any ride that starts with immediately removing the shoes and socks you only just installed, is destined to be a great ride. That is merely a rule of the land. And so our voyage began, cold feet, cuddling current creepy moss. Across the creek, we were confronted by a road the likes of which few men have ever seen.

Ours was something like this, but marginally less polite. Slowly ascending the slopes on foot, dragging our disheartened steeds was rather interesting. Moving at such a pace allowed easy conversing, thus we regaled our comrades with epic tales of jibber and jabber, mixed with healthy doses of what and not.

Cresting a smooth corner, the ground magically became smooth enough for the chariots to track and track they did! "Upwards! Upwards to the heavens!"

Maybe not that literal, but it certainly felt as such.

Eventually, and this is key, the mountains deemed us worthy of our efforts, and allowed us some flat to rolling territory. However, our fearless leader wasn't feeling satiated, the lust of agony burned deep within his chest, clearly illuminating a path to destruction. With the briefest pause, we, the two unsuspecting ones, were given a choice, potentially awful, or guaranteed bad. Potentially awful won and it was the correct choice. However, as we took the path, apparently less traveled, this was our greeting.

Only the studious use of ones protective headgear and keeping your eyes shut would allow passage! Like a conquering king or the winning athlete wading to a sea of adoring fans, the branches caressed every inch of our bodies. Perhaps it was more like a strippers Friday night, either way you like though. After the scourge of the vines, we found ourselves, though slightly scuffed (lightly sanded if you like), on one of the greatest landmarks in the Eastern portion of these-here United States: The Appalachian Trail. More hiking took us along the famous path until we intersected another forest road, and the steeds again were happy.

After much discussion of bear scat, turkeys and blueberries, we visited the blueberries. It felt like miles, miles I say, of blueberry patches surrounded us. Were they ripe with the fruits of their labors (pun intended), we most certainly would have gorged. But alas for they had yet to produce the goods. All was not lost however, since the ground the azure patches call home was some incredibly fun riding. The myriad small rocks on a gently sloping surface made for interesting choices of lines and great balance practice. Another ripping section of downhill landed us at Buzzard Rock. In all my travels and views of scenic landscapes, very few compare with Buzzard Rock.

As they say, it was all downhill from there. Mostly. A few rollers kept things interesting as well as keeping the legs loaded with lactic acid. A quick trip to view the very cool man-made lake was well worth its effort. After that, it was really all downhill from there. Estimates were about 8,000 feet of climbing in our 25 mile loop. I think we descended at least half of that in the last two miles. All the annoyance of branches and climbing earlier were blasted away with every foot of elevation dropped and each portion of road sped down.

Always the prepared sort, I'll bet he was a great Boy Scout, the gracious Applebeast brought a wonderful fermented post-ride beverage for us, the three, to imbibe. With a satisfying crunch and hiss, the beers put the kibosh (not Kabush!)on a six and a half hour ride around one huge tract o' land.

Now, you've made it this far, put down your dictionary and thesaurus and go play outside!

I'm really little more than a conduit.

2010-05-17T21:46:00.004-04:00

I find awesome, I share the awesome. First up, from the mythical All Hail the Black Market (A blog worth reading, unlike this one), is a totally rad cyclocross-ish video.

Local trails ala cx from Andy Wardman on Vimeo.

The creator suggests this for the sound track. In complete honesty here, I'm going to agree. Freakin' radtacular! I do know that I'm going to be heading to ye olde time mountain bike trails armed with my cross steed now. I don't know about that crazy shrink-under-the-toppled-log maneuver, or the trials-style log ride, but the rest of that looks wicked fun.

The same Stevil Kinevil himself also posted this video, which is neither funny, gnarly or anything else except AWESOME. Prepare to be awed.

Scrapertown from California is a place. on Vimeo.

.

Both of those were worth the visit today. Stevil's got a good stream of cool shit, worth reading if you can spare the time.

The Unholy Rouleur always comes through with the good stuff on his Friday music posts.

B.B. King and Eric Clapton, I hate to say it, but you've been bested. Well bested even. Basted perhaps? Something to that effect anyways.

On that long note, its time to get open an extra large size can of whoop ass on this week. No, I won't share, get your own!

Mudane is for the birds.

2010-05-13T00:47:00.002-04:00

A musical interlude to start today's scribery:

The grubby hand grasps the glass bottle. The beer pours. For that short moment, life is grand. Either side of that moment is wrought with thought. Preceding, there is a worry about the quality of maintenance preformed. Afterward there is worry of the mental toughness. But that one moment, the lone moment, there is nothing else but enjoyment. These moments are few and fleeting, occasionally coming with spectacular music, others with beer and on every blue moon, someone will say something to excite the senses to their fullest extents.

However, the mundane make the most of our time, feelings and thoughts. Idealists cringe when thinking about this uncomfortable revelation, for nothing is beautiful if its boring or average, now is it? Eddy Merckx drew attention to himself by standing out from the norm.

Likewise did Roger De Vlaeminck.

Since its unlikely that I'll ever rack up the myriad palmares that Merckx has sitting in his trophy case, or that I'll win Paris-Roubaix four times at De Vlaeminck did, I'll have to find another way to buck the norm. I think I'm going to try and drop more weight before 'cross season. All the text books I've read for my major suggest one to two pounds of weight loss per week, consequently, it happens to be twenty weeks until October first. By that math, I should be able to easily hit 165.

I'm excited to have a new goal! Ideally once I get down there, I won't get shot off the back of any group while climbing. Either that, or I'm doomed to the physiology of a sprinter/time trialist and simply can't accept my fate. Time will tell, eh? In the mean time, there's plenty of riding to be had, the season is still young! Onward and upward! In closing, more Dream Theater!

2010-05-09T00:28:00.000-04:00

Because I think too highly of myself, and because I like to pretend more than three people read this blog, I try to post an update every seven days, ideally more often but only if I'm feeling promiscuous. If I'm not feeling so been-around-the-block, you get posts like this, largely discussions of some abstract nature, dissertations on drivel. Or is that drool on dissertations? Whichever it may be, a large portion of these posts severely lack substance. Style is abound, because, well, I'm stylish, dammit.A meager attempt at substance will commence in, however fast you jump to the next paragraph.

Classes finally ended, the spring semester is over. Time for Spring Break 2.0, this time the weather doesn't blow! I'm excited, I get ten whole days to bike-bum, or just be a lazy bastard, whichever I choose. Things are off to a rippin' start so far, I've had lots of beer, yummy, yummy, yummy beer. Samuel Smith hasn't shown me a bad flavor yet!

I'd never done a proper roadie pack ride until Thursday. That was cute. It was almost like everything I hated about cyclocross, only there are cars. To that end, the only flaw is getting stuck on the wrong end of the pack when the diminutive peloton magically stops. That annoys me to no end. I understand intersections, traffic lights, all the usual stuff that stops traffic, but if we just came screaming downhill, can't you hold some momentum going back up? To be fair, this isn't a unique problem with road riders, moreover it seems to be an issue only with whomever I happen to be following at the moment. Maybe this sudden acceleration is the mythical slipstream effects physicists wax poetic about. Of course, I have been accused of being fast and needlessly racing. Lots of possibilities at play with this investigation.

In related news, I'm considering trying this foolish road racing stuff. the TCRC is doing a "criterium training series," of races this summer. The idea is easy enough to comprehend, pedal as fast as possible in a circle. Its either track racing without the fancy velodrome, or NASCAR without the absurd horsepower motors and roll cages. Supposedly there is a common amount of carnage in these events on par with a NASCAR race too.

That is a ways off however. Only time will tell if it will come to fruition, or merely fade in to the fog of memory.

Hey there, Sunshine!

2010-05-02T09:38:00.001-04:00

Ironic titles are my specialty. That, and overly wordy titles. Sunday morning is a bit on the dreary side, Nimbus and his other gaseous homies are showing their beef with the sun with some large scale picket line. Last I heard, negotiations weren't going well; The Nimbus faction has demanded better employee benefits and more working hours. If their demands aren't met, they're just going to sit right there and rain on everyone's parade. Haters.

What was sunny however, was yesterday and the day before; even a few other days were bright and happy! Yesterday also began a new era, a fresh chapter if you will in my cycling experience. I rode my first mountain. Riding with the "Stealth Bomb" crew, I was dragged up the so-called "Ripshin" climb, followed in a few miles by Roan Mountain.

I really didn't know what I was getting myself in to. I've been up some steep stuff, I've been up some longer-er stuff. I was completely and totally unprepared for the eight miles of consistent grade the Roan was going to throw down. That was something else, man. I got passed by the last rider at mile three. She cheerfully reminded me "there are 5 miles left!" on her way past. I died. I'd been grinding my knees in to oblivion to keep some sort of pace going up the (insert profanity of choice here) mountain.

Riding up a consistent grade with people isn't a big deal. Its certainly annoying, having to work a little harder than on flat land, but the company makes it very doable. Being the sloth up the hill is complete shit. It sucks. It sucks, a lot. To make up for that, I did two things: firstly, I rode to another state. That was pretty cool, I hadn't done that before. Secondly, I was the second person back down the mountain. Things like that are important, to me. Its all a matter of salvaged pride.

I understood what it was like to be this guy:

Looking up at this:

Yeah, those are a whole lot of F-bombs. To end on a chipper, up beat note, finals are this week. That's not normally cause for rejoicing, but the two weeks of bike bumming that follows Thursday is going to be bo-freakin-dacious. I can't freakin' wait, man!

I'm feeling...

2010-04-17T00:08:00.000-04:00

... Twitteriffic. Here's a post of short blurbs. I don't care if you don't like the blurbs, that is what you're going to get! You'll like them too!

I do not do gravity riding well. I ate shit on the slalom today and my elbow is encased in blood. Gnarly.
I'm going to fix the aforementioned.
Short track racing is STILL awesome. The high after total exertion is way better than anything else I've tried.
Gorgeous Weather. Yum...
I can't wait to ride my new road tires. I need long miles, like whoa.
IMBA comes to town this weekend, that should be exciting.

Get your ride on with the gorgeous weather!

What a weekend...

2010-04-12T23:45:00.000-04:00

... I just fell short of a weekend century. I'm thinking I got about 80 or 85 miles in Saturday and Sunday.My legs haven't been hit with this much effort in a long, long, LONG time and they're all too happy to remind me. The blessing/curse of having a work out class is the whole working out in class thing. Being surrounded by people in way better shape than I am can be really motivating. But, when you sit on the spin bike to warm up only to be greeted with lactic acid build up, you know you're in for a rough day. I did get to chat about cycling with a classmate as he tried to warm up beside me. One girl very gingerly asked me if I shaved my legs. She's the first to ask, in spite of everyone seeing me wear shorts for an entire semester.

Most of my weekend miles came on the Virginia Creeper. If I were a decent, non-selfish human, I would have gone on the club beginner ride. Instead, I took the offer to ride the entire length of the the rail trail. That was around 70 miles, a great base-building ride. And with over 6 hours out pedaling, I've got some GNARLY tan (in the world of ginger kids, that means sunburn,) lines on my legs. I look like I'm wearing knee-length tighty-whities. I'm used to the look on my arms, but this is a totally new ball game. The split between would be terrifically amusing, if I wasn't going to wake up to them in the morning!

After being dragged around by the roadies on Saturday, I decided I needed to shake down the new drive train on my Niner. I am actually impressed with my new two by nine set up. I was running a single ring up front, and I had gotten pretty used to a 32-34 bottom gear. I had some issues with low cadence in some instances and I would run out of go-fast in others. These new 26/36 chain rings are quite the trick. I've got a shorter chain, better chain line, and about the same gearing, except I've got higher top end and lower bottom out. Those six teeth on the little ring make a phenomenal difference, I can almost spin some of the steeper climbs. My ego requires that I note I nearly spun the 36-11 out on the shakedown ride. Smooth doubletrack with a negative grade, and no one around will do that, though. I wish I'd had my Garmin on for that, I'm guessing I got up around 30 miles per hour.

The week ahead looks ripe for riding, this blog might actually get some fodder! Get out and ride!

Crossing the combatants river...

2010-04-06T21:32:00.001-04:00

... Like anyone with a blog and in the vicinity of Wilkesboro, North Carolina, I too have a post to make about the 6 Hours of Warrior's Creek race. I am pleased to present it to you, in full technicolor:

OUCH!

Thank you for reading, enjoy the rest of your day.

On a more serious, and drawn out note, ouch is hardly an accurate descriptor of my race. There were a platitude of four-letter fun-bombs dropped, and as I've mentioned to a few I haven't had physical pain push me to the brink of tears in a LONG time. As I was standing in the start "line" (starting charlie-foxtrot would be more apt,) Everyone around me kept saying something to the effect of "this lap is going to suck, and suck hard, can you handle a good hard suck?" At the risk of sounding fruity, I affirmed that I could, especially if she was cute. None of this was funny at the time, nor now, I suppose.

Lo and behold, the ubiquitous "they" were correct. The only reason I wasn't stuck in some sort of mechanized sandwich was when I crashed, or one of my two closest partners crashed. It was awkward to say the least. In an effort to save energy, a tactic I'm told is wise, I tried not to pass anyone unless they were crawling. When aggression isn't driving the bike, bad things happen. One crash, in the midst of chatting up a club member, tore my knee up. As with anything, it bled, and kept saying "hay! i haz teh hurtz! Fix meh!" Only exercise scientists are privy to knowing that knees speak in strange intarwebz speak.

Luckily I caught back up to Ritter and rode out the rest of the lap with him. As with almost everyone I followed, he zipped away from me descending, only to be caught when the elevation started gaining. I really, desperately, need to become a better downhiller. One lap down.

A brief visit to the pits to swap bottles, check in with "Greatest Pit Crew Ever" and remove the excess DNA from my skin went smoothly. Other than some minor "Hay! Hurtzez!" from the knee, I was feeling great. I zipped off for lap two. By this point, the race had opened up, and I wasn't the Oreo filling. Joy! Of course, when almost 400 people are trying to ride the same trail at roughly the same time, you're going to get in packs. I tried to be friendly, and those who could speak were too. Those other grumpy bastards just grumped on along. Their loss! Mile 8 (or if you're from Detroit, 8 Mile,) of lap two saw my first cramp. Part of the left hamstring seized. Note to self: continue fluid consumption.

After the second lap, I was feeling pretty tired. A nice long break with some heckling and chit chatting around the pits restored me. I jumped back on my bike and headed out for lap three. Pedaling out of the pits I was ice cold. I had lost track of time screwing around. After the first lap, heading out from the pits was a straight-to-singletrack affair, but unlike a straight-to-DvD movie, that was awesome.

In their defense, my knees told me to quit. They started easing in to the spasms. A little quiver here, staying clinched a split second too long there, they love the little hints. If it was a tickle fight, they'd have been a little too handsy, but not an outright groping. But, like that person with the octopus arms, everything got out of hand quickly. That's not an ironic metaphor is it? I kept pushing as hard as I could, some misplaced machismo was all the fuel I needed to completely burn myself out. Finally, at the top of one of the steeper climbs, I was trying to accelerate, as you do, and my right knee seized. It seized like an opportunist in a pyramid scheme.

Five or ten agonizingly slow minutes later and I was able to continue. A few more of these stop-n-go scenarios was taking its toll, mentally. The worst spell hit about two miles from the finish. Climbing up one of the many small hills, suddenly every stroke clinched a few more fibers. Practically cross-eyed with pain, I tried to step off the bike and rest. I stood on my left leg and almost instantly it solidified. Just swinging my right leg over the saddle locked it out in a full extension. I ended up kneeling on my left knee with the right bent as the only position I could keep without exploding.

I think I spent twenty minutes stuck like this. Between the actual pain and knowing that I was so close to completion, but unable to progress, I had to choke back tears. Luckily people were passing by, and being the gregarious chap I am, cheering others lifted my spirits. To my chagrin, being buoyant and peppy will make you feel better, but it sure won't fix any actual dehydration issues.

I can at least take pride in not walking anything. I had to stop, but I rode everything. In fact, not being able to extend your legs makes you work really hard on balance. I think I rode a few sections faster, because I was so focused on what my legs were doing. I think I liked the experience. I certainly learned a lot. So thanks to the Brushy Mountain Cycling Club for putting on a sweet event, with some incredibly awesome trails! Sorry I have no pictures, I'm not much of a photographer, and I refuse to pay 15 bucks to download a picture.

The next race should be a hoot, the ETSU Weekend World Championships. Stay tuned in a couple of weeks for the report on that. Irregular posts with musings and assorted bits of ridiculous will potentially also happen. There might also be pictures, or candy, but probably just pictures.

Oh-so-typical...

2010-03-28T20:26:00.001-04:00

... I'm supposed to be writing a paper, but I can't focus my writing muses. Wrangling cats is an easier task than sitting down to write a paper when your heart isn't in it. I would know too, I have cats. Believe me, they're almost as uncooperative as a mule. Hopefully jotting down a few things here will get that literary vibe groovin'.

Race Report on the "Run for TC": Finished the route about 10-15 minutes faster with a group than I did solo, which I enjoyed. I can't tell if my legs are getting any stronger or not, but my hips and ankles seem to be taking the brunt of the punishment. I really hope that means I'm saving my knees. Core strengthening is going to be an absolute necessity; about ten minutes after I finished my abdomen tried to shut down. If you can't dig it, just think "OUCH!"

Initial weather reports for the bigg'un this weekend are looking good. 80 degrees and sunny for days either side of the race. If I've ever wanted the weathermen to be right, I want them to be right this time.

I'm changing my diet again. Between a dedicated nutrition class, and another class with a similar topic, I'm afraid to eat anything because I keep reading labels. Therefore we're going to experiment with a ban on red meat. Fish, veggies, fruits, those are going to be the mainstays of my new eating habits. Mom was kind enough to make an astounding grilled veggie salad the other night. That was so good, so, SO tasty. If I could use words to make you actually taste the dish, believe me, I would.

To compliment this change in eating, I'm going to make a less-than-half-assed attempt to learn electronic music. I've babbled about this for a while, and done nothing The waters are murky, but I'm going to try jumping in both feet first, hoping I've picked a deep spot. If anyone has any recommendations, please send them my way.

When the going gets boring, the boring stop blogging.

2010-03-26T12:40:00.007-04:00

Yup, I just slapped the "boring" label on myself. And if you've been "reading" this blog lately, you've already done the same. Life has been a sort of limbo, or purgatory recently. The weather is going through its spring fits, manic-depression, bi-polar, whatever your descriptor of choice happens to be. As such, I haven't gotten out on the bike as much as I've wanted, nor have I really done much else. The only other interesting tidbit comes from the academic arena, I'll officially be a buccaneer come fall.

Beware of an increasing quantity of "ARRRR MATEY!" use in this blog.

Thats exciting. Assuming I don't have some catastrophic meltdown this summer, I'll be starting my journey to degree number two. More importantly, I'll be (hopefully) racing on the collegiate level. As my mom pointed out the other day, that's pretty incredible. When I first started college, being a college athlete wasn't even a blip on my metaphorical radar. Now, years later, it could be a defining characteristic. Its not often the speed with which a change is made, the course of several years is hardly what I describe as "quick", but rather the severity of change that can be jarring.

Speaking of leaps in outlook, I've started rebuilding my first mountain bike in to a slalom bike. For some (completely) inexplicable reason, joining the gravity scene seemed like a good idea. Being an obsessive nerd, learning the new requirements of equipment for this discipline is fascinating. In honor of The Unprofessional Cyclist, I'm investigating nicknames for the bike. I was thinking "Creeping Death," for a platitude of reasons.

Firstly: Creeping is a slow method of travel.

I suck at descending; this is gravity racing. Awkward? Yes.

Secondly: Death should always be associated with gravity bikes.

Its a very real possibility!

Thirdly: Creepy is a feeling of unease or terror: I get this look every time I use a three syllable word in casual conversation.
Lastly: Metallica did a pretty sweet tune by the same name.

Let the record show that I have a love-hate relationship with this band. The early music is straight ballin', the later stuff isn't fit to scrape excrement, the excrement deserves better.

As of press time, we're eight days out from the 6 Hours of Warrior's Creek. I am woefully unprepared. This is going to be my first distance bike race, as such I'm going to be a train wreck next week. I imagine I"ll be alternating between the terror of uncertainty, the joy of how fun that trail system is, and the nervousness of a new experience. I can't wait, can you?

An apology.

2010-03-15T23:44:00.000-04:00

I apologize for the prolonged break in blogging. Unfortunately, I've gotten myself wound up too tight, and can't manage to find the "off" switch, so the hiatus will continue. Because I know myself fairly well, expect a 1,400 word recap after I get this all cleared up.

Meantime, when not being a whiny bastard, I spent most of last week riding and drinking beer. Very, very little is superior to either of those, as far as I'm concerned. I think I got around 110 miles in four days last week, proof positive that I need a real road bike; thats a work in progress.

As a final thought, its terrible when foreshadowing is literal shadowing. As spring break wrapped up, the weather became dreary again. Tell me thats not some sort of omen!

Spring Break: Day 4

2010-03-08T10:43:00.000-05:00

I actually had to break out the fingers and count that one. My mental math is shoddy, and I refused to believe that it was already day 4 of my spring break. That was almost a bummer, until I remembered that its still spring break, and I've got an entire week to do whatever I so choose. My only obligation is to feed the cats, and maybe pet them, at the very least I'm not allowed to kick them around.

The good news is that while the break is partly done, I've got a demo road bike to kill myself. Sunday was a 50 mile "oucher" ride. Its "Oucher" because it wasn't terribly painful, until I got done and just said "ouch!" The best part of the ride was being able to comfortably push down my arm warmers, and get a little Vitamin D synthesis. Hopefully the rest of the week will be just as prosperous, maybe not 50 miles of prosperity every day, but if thats the menu, I'm eatin'.

Most of yesterdays ride was slow-pokin', with several short, sharp efforts to clear some hills, only to slow down at the top and regroup. There were also a lot of "scare the newb!" threats of suffer-fest rides, pain now residing deep in the annals of lore, that sort of thing. It was rather amusing, but informative. As I said, the climbing efforts were rather sordid, but the rest of the ride was at a suitable base level.

Monday's menu is for, hopefully, 35 miles. It might be more if I get lost, it might be less if I can't pedal. The gorgeous sunshine is already calling, if the temperature would follow, spectacular moments would be had!

In which we discuss beer, boobies and wheelchairs.

2010-02-28T19:46:00.001-05:00

If you follow me on Twitter or are friends with me on Facebook, you know that I was attending a bachelor party this weekend. As usual, hysterics ensued. To begin our debaucherous evening, we started at Barley's. Last time I was in Knoxville was for a wedding, ironically enough. The post-reception was at Barley's. After drinking all day at the reception, I passed out in the bar, and was kindly (so I'm told, I have no memory of the event) elevatored out of the bar. Ominous start, methinks. Luckily, no such shenanigans ensued, and I just got to drink some sweet beers. The year count is now up to 17. Per bachelor requirements, a strip club was the next venue. I'm really not a fan of the titty bars. I like the idea of a club where women expose themselves, I'm chauvinist enough to think thats a pretty sweet deal. Which is what I was telling myself on the way there. "This is gonna be awesome! Boobs! Hah! BOOBS!"

Alas for thats not really how they go down. The whole situation is sketchy as hell, and ridiculously skeezy. I'm not a liquor drinker. Bringing beer to a strip club is a proposition not unlike upgrading your bike gear every year with the latest and greatest. Sure, you can do it, hell a lot of people do. But its absurdly expensive. I think the sign said $1.50 per beer, or $5 for any bottle of liquor. In the youthful parlance, /facepalm. I wonder which is the better option? Captain Morgan's is so good over ice.

To exacerbate the issue, when we first get seated, a very unattractive Latina, (apologies to the Cycling Inquisition, I don't have your skills of knowing where someone is from) came off stage and proceeded to be annoying. She dropped her freshly earned bills down on my buddy's table, then screamed at us in Spanish. Two dorky white kids who just sat down are REALLY going to try something amiga, you better keep an eye on those two, they're well dressed! After counting her haul and stating that she did, in fact, speak English she slapped the other guy with her wad of cash, and strutted off. All he says is "Oh my god, I want to go bleach my eye now!!!" The rest of the time in that particular establishment was every bit as awkward, only less money-off-of-stripper-on-face contact. The bachelor, with his Viking hat, was the subject of endless ridicule from the Oakland-Raiders-jersey-wearing DJ.

Besides the Viking hat, which was hilarious until you took a horn in the face, the best part of the night was the wheel chair in the strip club. The old guy had to be 70, at least. This was totally accepted by everyone! He was wheeled in to the back for a few dances, and I couldn't help but wonder how that went down exactly. Did they hoist him out of the rolling chair so the girls could do their full routine, or did they dance around the chair? Was it like an obstacle? Some sort of Stripper Boot Camp preparation perhaps? "If you can dance on an octogenarian in his chair, you can dance on a pole!"

The work/school week is upon us, lets all throw it a wrench and see if it dodges, whadda ya say?

Really, it was exquisite!

2010-02-21T21:18:00.000-05:00

Sunday was fittingly sunny. The fact that today was gorgeous made everything better. I went to ride in shorts! SHORTS! No leg warmers, no arm warmers, no tights, no fleece anywhere near me. It was brilliant! I only got to ride for about ten minutes, but no one is keeping score! It was ten glorious minutes. Why only ten minutes? Well, after 14 years of service the original chain on my dad's 1996 Cannondale broke. The 7 speed monster-width links collapsed under the mighty power of... ME!

I guess I should be amazed that old thing could stand the thousands of watts I was putting out cresting that mountain top sprint finish. Pretty incredible really. You should have been there. If only I had thrown the bike, instead of stomping one last pedal stroke, the poor guy might have lived. Hindsight is so easy!

While cleaning and nursing the greenbelt-bikes wounds, I must have hit a nerve. A chunk of rubber from the rear tire jumped at me while I was scrubbing it clean. Filthy ingrate! You try and keep your loved ones clean, and thats the thanks you get.

The broken chain is annoying, and the dying tires are pretty lame. However, I now have time to obsess over a birthday/fathers day gift for my dad! I like having things to obsess over, gives me purpose.

Speaking of obsessing, that tattoo thing won't go away. How high on the 'Douchebag-o-meter" does a Latin inscription on the inside of the inside of the arm rank? I was thinking "Knowledge" and "Strength," you know, for the sake of being cliche. This is why I only have one inking, I can't come up with ideas that have any real meaning for the life of me. Let the barrel scraping continue!

In the mean time, find some time to ride! Whenever, wherever, bicycle tires need to be rotated!

When in doubt buy, then blog.

2010-02-19T17:28:00.001-05:00

Finally, bike related news on this blog! A new toy, is on its way.

I found out last year that I really enjoy building wheels, and usually enjoy truing them too. A new set of Stan's Arches are also en route, so I'll have some snappy new wheels! Shortly, I'll be ordering a new crank set.

Pimpin', right? I can finally indulge my deepest "racer boi" urges with a 2x9 drive train! Hopefully I'll stop being a whiny little bitch when I can regularly get out and ride some trails. I think we can all agree, self reflection is overrated.

In which we introspect.

2010-02-19T00:03:00.000-05:00

The last week has been really weird around my house. Five weeks ago my 91 year old grandmother fell, leaving the pharmacy. Her femur fractured in two places, some major damage to the biggest bone in the body.

From what my dad, and his sisters are telling me, the two fractures are somewhere near the red lines. Three weeks in a Virginia retirement home/ rehab facility showed no significant progress. A second opinion was gotten from a local surgeon, apparently the first surgeon was sloppy, or chose poor methods, whatever he did, he didn't do it right. So thanks a bunch for that, dude. Last Sunday they shuttled her down here for another surgery. Faaaaaantastic.

This week has been invasion of my dad's family. I'm going to be blunt, my interactions with my dad's family are awkward at best. I'm about as religious as a pebble, if not openly mocking those of faith. That half of my family is deeply religious. In fact, my grandmother asked me, on Saturday night, if I was going to Sunday school. I laughed. Dad scoffed; we both mumbled "no." As you can guess, 80% of what I find humorous would lead to excommunications, beatings, whatever exactly it is they do to "blasphemers." With the exception of one cousin, in New Zealand, wander-lust is non-existent. Total complacency rules all, if the basics are met, by god, that's good enough! That's not necessarily a bad thing, thousands of people live that way and are (probably) perfectly happy. I can't do it. The thought of living like that is like a claustrophobic being sealed in a coffin. I won't say thats my biggest fear, bears or quail hunting with Dick Cheney would be higher, but the list above isn't very long.

In short, I feel like I've been living on egg shells in my own house. If you've never tried, try sitting up on a bed of eggs, you eat a lot of omelets. Right, so, what we've established so far is that I'm a terrible human of the worst fucking kind. Spectacular.

Versus can be a real gem sometimes. While wallowing around, trying to see if you really can drown in self-pity, I found the Xterra World Championships.

My neighbor is a triathlete. I think he's insane. Nice enough guy, tore up from the floor up, but there can't be a lot going on inside his M.D. level brain. At least that's what I thought before I saw this. After, hes a perfectly well adjusted individual. Watching those poor bastards dropping off the volcano was amazing. I kept thinking "that's not that hard, there's no way these cats should be crashing!" then I remembered they've just climbed three thousand feet in a couple miles, and swam before that! One poor contestant claimed he had six (6!) flats during the 30k bike portion. If I ever mention triathlons without "are fucking crazy" affixed to the end, slap me.

The tattoo lust won't go away. I still don't have any good ideas, but Greg did. I wonder how the Captain America shield would look on my shoulder? Its simple, its dorky, I like it. Only time will tell!

Obligatory Olympics Homage

2010-02-16T18:14:00.001-05:00

Both of these cracked me up.

Giant Slalom... watching these guys go so fast is just mind boggling. I know I ski fast, but I just stare, slack jawed when this is on. Unreal!

I haven't yet watched a minute of NBCs coverage, because I'd be giddy with glee to watch a major network TV station crumble. Keep up the good work NBC! That Leno, he's sure a great guy! As a sports blog, I'm required by the Olympic committee to post a message. Maybe, just maybe I'll find something on worth watching.

On a lighter note: Fixed-gear Freestyling equivalent on skis.

Mercy, pity and the like.

2010-02-15T22:42:00.000-05:00

Because I am a merciful man, (what he's really saying here is that hes a lazy shit.), I've decided to delay the big event I made mention of last week. I'd like to think your respite will be spent preparing yourself, steeling your mettle and what not. (This sentence means "I've got writers block like a mad bastard, so this is going to be really forced."). Rest assured though, dearest readers, a big event you shall have, but only when the moment is right (The theme here is "Lazy hack writers should stay away from keyboards when they're feeling arty, or else vomit out the idea and be done with it.)

In the mean time, behold the latest incarnation of this (mostly wondrous, or is that wandering?) blog. Mit der Schnell, with the fast, may be a misnomer, but we're going to work with it, ok? Stay tuned for new additions, they will happen at random, without empathy and without mercy. Stand your ground, don't look them in the eye, get as big as possible, and roar, loudly, asserting your dominance.

Since I don't hear any bells, whistles or roaring, here are some musings. One of my first roommates just became a father this week. I haven't talked to him in a long time, but the magical Facebook tells me important things. I'm not sure what to think about it. I mean, I'm excited for the guy, it seems like being a dad would be pretty sweet. By the same token, "Daddy" isn't really a light title, ya dig? You've got a bit of a burden, the whole molding another human life thing, seems a bit heavy. The good news is that this particular cat happens to be a smart man, with good things coming his way, so only the best for his new family!

The desire to ride is back, and back in droves. Sooner or later you might get to hear actual tales from the trails, if I don't happen upon some more life altering crap I feel like typing a bunch of words about. Speaking of, in ode the the Mythical Local Legend:

We rode Saturday; it was cold.

Photo shamelessly stolen from Duckman

Indeed, there was a large group that hit up Bays Mountain last Saturday. Conditions ranged from frozen, to slightly less than frozen, with a heaping side dish of "freakin cold, man." To be completely honest, I haven't had that much fun just going out to ride in a long time. Sure I tried to roll with the tough-guy group and sure I got shot off like a NASA project, but no one had pinned a number to their jersey and no bikes wore plates, so it was totally kosher.

Jetzt, gehen sie! Gehen sie mit der schnell!

Threats!

2010-02-11T16:14:00.000-05:00

Last night via Twitter, I threatened to blog. The faint screams of horror I heard brought a twisted smile to my lips, however I elected to be lazy and read instead. Being as the snow has been kind enough to cancel classes for the last two days, I'm finding it rather apropos to catch up on my studies. Your torment is eased; the reins of the nightmares pulling this wagon slacked.

However, rest assured that something special is in the works. It might have pictures, it might now. It will certainly have words though, rest assured there will be words!

Can you really call it a "walking" contradiction?

2010-02-07T12:59:00.000-05:00

As everyone continues to pine for better weather, I almost feel like I've made peace with the current conditions. The fact that I haven't wanted to ride my bike all week might have something to do with that, but take it as you will. I had forgotten how enjoyable and therapeutic putting a full effort in to the gym can be. Consequently, I'm recently fascinated with this "running" thing. I've never been a fan of running, rather the opposite, I generally loathed the act. I'm assuming that the past two years of riding and building up a tolerance to aerobic activity has cured that hatred, because I enjoyed running (on the treadmill no less!) this week. This special variety of absurdity, because its mine, has spiraled out of control. With every passing moment, the grandeur grows. I even found myself contemplating an off-road half marathon. Aside from the metaphysical impossibilities, were I to have that conversation with myself three years ago, I imagine it would have gone thusly:

Three-Year-Ago-Aaron (TYAA): "What the fuck?! Is that?! But, what? How the fuck?!"

Current-Aaron (CA): "I'm you, three years in the future, freaking cool, right?

TYAA: "But you aren't an obese drunken bastard! What the fuck?!"

CA: Like I said, freakin cool, ain't it?

TYAA: *Befuddled staring, cigarette danging from lips*

CA: "Anyways, I just wanted to let you know, I had a great idea the other day."

TYAA: "Does it involve beer and hockey? I'd be all over that! Ooh, what about some boobs? Any hotties?"

CA: "Nah. Well, maybe, but not directly."

TYAA: "Fantasy Football? Beer Pong?"

CA: "Actually, no. I was thinking about running a half marathon, off-road"

TYAA: *Slack-jawed awe. Cigarette falls to the ground* "You can't be fuckin' serious."

CA: "Dude, I totally am. Isn't that awesome?!"

TYAA: *PUNCH TO THE BALLS!* "Dude, don't be a bitch!"

CA: *Writhing agony*

Its fascinating how people can change. Not to aggrandize myself, I'm really ashamed of what I used to be, but thats an easy path to slip-n-slide. To say I'm conflicted on the whole thing is a slight understatement.

And now, for something completely different; I'm ready for baseball season. The much maligned sport formerly known as "America's Past time," alias "America's Pass-time" is very near and dear to my heart. Last summer, I spent most of down time with my anatomy book and beisbol on the boob tube. It was great! When I was at Middle, I'd lay on my couch and enjoy a game with my old roommates. Sometimes I'd just plop down, and feel like a little kid again, absorbing every detail out of the TV I could. That was a feeling that the world was in perfect alignment. I don't get that feeling anymore; I care too much about who wins and loses. Like any good escapist though, I keep trying for that euphoric sense of perfection.

In unrelated news, I want to learn cross-country skiing. I've been skiing since I was four or five, but only the alpine variety. Speaking of joy, flying down a ski slope is usually an eight to a ten on the "Awesomeomter." I don't expect the same experience, but I could be wrong. I have been wrong before, much to my chagrin. It seems like there's tremendous potential in this segment of the sport, and I barely know it exists. Maybe I have adapted to this whole "cold" thing, I'm looking at new sports!

Lastly, this is my obligatory Super Bowl Sunday paragraph. I figure anyone who has a pulse, or could pick a football out from a lineup is required to write about this event, so here are my thoughts. I'm rooting like hell for the Saints. Manning might be the darling of all Tennessee fans, but I owe it to Drew Brees. He's carried my fantasy football team reliably for the past three years. That's production and consistency, from the most important position in the game. He's the only player I can specifically remember having for more than a season, or a portion of a season. For that reason alone, I'm indebted to him. If I don't have a dog in the fight (probably a poor euphemism for the NFL), I will root for the underdog. Last I heard the line was Saints +5.5, leaving the Colts as big favorites. The Colts beat the Bears three years ago, it's time for the team with a history of heartache and heart break to get theirs. Geaux Saints!

Failing, flailing and forgetting.

2010-02-01T22:57:00.002-05:00

"So yeah not what I hoped for sunday, no confidence on the ice at all. Felt good physically just couldnt handle the bike for the life of me"

   These same words could easily describe my weekend; instead this is the lamentation of Ryan Trebon. To summarize: my state championship race easily became one of the most embarrassing moments of my adult life. The start was great, I got called up to the front row! We hit the "dirt" (I'm not sure there was any actual dirt, I think it was just a foot wide track of brown Teflon, flanked by crusty snow.) and I either had a gigantic parachute and didn't realize it, or someone installed rocket boosters on my bike.This well-intentioned NASA worker wasn't able to read, and installed the rocket pods backwards. Half a lap and I was going backwards at Mach 1. Incredible, inexcusable, inexplicable, it was so infuriating, it needed alliterative adjectives.
   Speaking of adjectives, there has been a bit of discussion about adjectives, or more specifically their quantities and how those quantities relate to this blog. To be blunt (and adjective free!) for a concise version of my thoughts, I have Twitter. This also posts to Facebook, so if you're on there you get those posts. If I find the need to blog about a topic, I want to discuss the topic on a deeper level, especially relative to my usual vacuous, spurious ways.
   My spurious ways are free to flex their free-wheeling lusts, for this first week of February is a lazy week. 'Cross season left with a whimper, Mountain biking doesn't start until April. With this gap, there's little to do save continuing to beat my brain against The Wall of Training. You can sympathize with that, right? At this point, why bother with much more than relaxing and studying. The weather is not conducive to much else.
   On a side note, I've been experimenting with the Google Chrome browser, and after a couple days I'm fairly impressed. it seems to be quick, not sure about the system resources use, but so far its at least on par with Firefox quality-wise. Further testing will net better results.
   In the meantime, wait for the snow to thaw; keep your sanity how you may! I personally will save mine with a healthy dose of hops, barley and water.

P.S. New beer count sitting at : 7 (Added Yengling Black &Tan and New Belgium Mothership Wit.)

Endeavors to aim for..

2010-01-22T20:43:00.003-05:00

I said I had goals to post, now its official. This list is subject to additions at the whim of the author.

2000+ miles on the bike.
Enter (and complete) at least one 12 hour race.
Finish every race, no stopping early.
Finish top 50% of every race entered.
Log at least 100 miles of trail running.
Try as many new beers as possible.

Those shouldn't be too hard to accomplish, but hopefully not too easy either. I've also got a rough outline of my racing season ready to roll.

SERC Series 2-10
Bay's Bike Rally
6 Hours of Warriors Creek (Season opener!)
Disc Burner 12 hour
Collegiate Mountain bike season (whichever college I end up attending this fall)

A bit more ambitious, but not overly so. If I'm still in Tennessee this fall, here's the rest of my list.

MSG Cyclocross Series
USGP of Lousiville CX
Hendersonville GP CX
Any other CX race within a 3-4 hour drive.

A move would require a reset of the cyclocross season. Current beer count is five.

In a continuing effort....

2010-01-18T00:29:00.000-05:00

... of attempting to deal with subject matter both diverse and homogeneous, and at the beckoning of the one and only Geoff Kabush (via Twitter), I will now posit on a few things that have been on my mind.

On long road rides I often daydream about finding cash in the ditch; unfortunately I just see dead animals and beer bottles. ~ Geoff Kabush

This quote raises a lot of emotions. I am amused, because I know the feeling. Certainly we've all been out on a road ride, and the brain simply runs out of things to mull over. Much like a lull in a conversation where both sides simply stare longingly into the eyes of the other, transfixed on sapphire pools vaugely hiding the deep rooted lust of the lions, or simply stare awkwardly at the other. However, when you're alone on a road bike, unless the stem starts waxing poetic its two cents on the Haitian earthquake, you're shit out of luck. After the junk bin of short term memory has been dredged, observation is the only source of interest.

Like our Canadian friend, I find myself peering in to as many nooks and crannies around the pavement as possible. I find myself pondering what wonders could be hidden in the various alcoves and enclaves I slowly plod past. Perhaps, and this is reaching a bit, a bit of Jimmy Hoffa is abound, expertly preserved by the ferocious Tennessee winter. Certainly such a discovery would merit scientific merit, though it could also earn a mafia hit too. I'm not completely sure I've ever been expecting cash amongst the weeds, but that would certainly earn a "bonus!" star. This curiosity, in a way, urges me on suggesting more exploration.

Lastly, this quote makes me very sad. For a variety of reasons, the least of which that animals are, generally, pretty rad. Instantly my mind is filled with cuddly white bunnies, fluffy grey squirrels and the occasional brown, puffy raccoon with its unfortunate masked face. These adorable creatures are just as quickly strewn about the road, four legs of fear pumping away from the drunken redneck in his 6.4L POWER STROKE DIESEL FORD SUPER DUTY. (The all caps is to signify that this particular gentleman is, in fact, a serious fucking hard ass. Were he a lesser man, he would have merited normal "small" letters.) Though lumpy, has-been critters aren't a terribly common occurrence on my rides the beverages belonging to the driver of the 6.4L POWER STROKE DIESEL FORD SUPER DUTY litter, almost, every mile of roadways rolled over by my 25mm tires. Environmentalists have been fighting littering for decades. And it won't stop because a select group of society (loosely attached mind you) thinks cruising in their 6.4L POWER STROKE DIESEL FORD SUPER DUTY with a half-case of cheap beer du jour is the most rad shit ever.

Disclaimer notes: Ford just happens to be easy to type when you're searching for an absurdly big truck to demonize. It could just as easily be a Chevrolet driver pounding back all those Miller Light and Bud Light adult beverages. (Though note the small letters, the Chevrolet driver clearly has a smaller penis than our monster-truck-driving-mega-pimp-FORD man.) No offense to my fellow FORD drivers, or you pathetic, sorry, Chevrolet-driving sissies.

Some words, some prose..

2010-01-14T23:13:00.001-05:00

School officially started today. I was really dreading the first day. I wasn't ready to go back, I had gotten in a serious rhythm during my break. It wasn't like a sweet backbeat:

I'd hardly even say it was off-beat:

(Quick note on Mr. Zappa: What a mind. His talent and creativity have been the goal of many, and fallen out of the reach of all. His only downside is that to the masses, he can be offensive. Such a genius!)

I don't even know if it was a lethargic plod:

I'd wager it was more a low-down funk kind of thing:

Yeah, probably a funk thing. Totally funky. Mmmm.

In related news, of the undeniably funk-free variety, Duckman and friends introduced me to the delight that is Buffalo Mountain. It was kinda nice to get a multi-mile climb in to the back of a ride. Most of my rides get the climbs going at the beginning, or fairly soon. I was surprised at how cool it was. Quite literally, in fact. My hands have never been as cold as they were hurtling down the road on the way down. However, an angry face makes a lot of issues go away. Until you freeze to death. In the mean time, you gotta keep on truckin'.

Minor Addendum

2010-01-09T23:25:00.000-05:00

After spending the past three hours reading and writing, I'm going to write some more. I've attempted the (in)famous "New Year's Resolutions" before, and failed miserably. So I'm going to 86 those (again) this year. What I am going to do, however, is set some goals. These will probably pop up slowly over the next week or so before I compile them in one big list.

For starters:

Top 15 finish at the Tennessee States CX race
Upgrading to CX3 after next season
At least one 12 hour race
Finishing in the top 50% of every race entered

After I get my summer racing list set up this should take some more form. Feel free to encourage, snark or desecrate these goals as you see fit. Stay tuned!

Mission: States

2010-01-09T22:50:00.000-05:00

Vacation is over, put down that beer! No more cookies! How dare you sit still and write on that "blog" thing! Get on the trainer! Take that bike out in the snow! 2s20s! Start practices! Zone 5 Tempo! Pedal Damn It!

To say my ski vacation was fun is an understatement. I hadn't been skiing out West in over a decade! After a couple days of learning how to ski again however; the trails were awesome! I had forgotten just how sweet, and expensive, these sojourns are. The new bowls that had been opened were phenomenal. Most of this new terrain was woven in and around large groves of trees, giving the entire area a very organic feel. I never really felt like I was on a traditional ski slope. With all manner of nooks and alcoves to duck through, almost nothing was off limits. There were more than a few places where I wanted disc brakes! The stupid skis just wouldn't bleed off enough speed, and I couldn't see far enough down the trail. There were some sections I was really glad I wasn't riding, my shoulders barely fit between the trees! It would have been tight clearance on road bars, any style mountain bike bar would have broken. There was also supposedly a "Leaping attack porcupine!" They had a sign put up warning about him, as well as several mentions not to feed the little sharp & pointy fellow. I never did get to find him, but the sign was hilarious.

Now that my big vacation is over it's time to get back to the grindstone. School starts in a week, and Tennessee's Cyclocross State Championships are at the end of the month. I had just raced myself in to some form when the end of the MSG series rolled around. I am so afraid that every bit of that effort will be wasted with such a long break. Much to the chagrin (bemusement?) of many I do take a great interest in training. It's all an extension of self-improvement that's defined my life for the past three years, and preventative therapy.

As so many others have also noted, I've been a lazy bastard the past month. I wanted to feel good skiing, but I don't know enough of the kinesiology to effectively train. I'm not sure if there would have been much value to training for a weeks worth of skiing. With motivation like that, who wouldn't want to keep slaving away? I mean, really, how is that anything less than divine inspiration?!

Now, with three weeks time, I begin hunting. Hunting to see if I can find any fast hidden somewhere in my legs, an artifact of quickness even. How about a modicum of haste? Maybe I should hire treasure hunters to consult on the expedition. I almost wish I didn't care about results. This (overly) competitive nature can be a real pain. Forsaking it would certainly save a lot of effort and misery. Unfortunately, I suffer some tragic delusions of grandeur. Those misplaced ambitions hold a red-hot brand to my ass, threatening to stamp "BITCH!" at the first bobble. I've always been given mixed messages about dreams; some say follow, others scoff. I guess I'll have to do some following and scoffing of my own.

Taking a break, and hitting the brakes.

2009-12-30T23:50:00.001-05:00

Ever forward in its gait, time marches. Some gripe of how rapid that (perhaps) divine pace beats, others plod along totally disaffected. Still others are even stranger, vacillating between haste and dallying. I'm one of those people. I get locked in to my daily grind, feeling most of the time as if the next thirty seconds will out span thirty eternities. Then class ends, and four months have magically passed. Like Rip VanWinkle, were he an insomniac, I "awake" every so often realizing that an incredible amount of time has passed.

With this realization, I promptly proceed to delve deeply in to leisure. The half-way-done Christmas break has been outstanding! One race after finals, and now a week and a half of time off the bike, being a total slug. Ah, how wonderful it can be! Even the family invasion, for all its negatives, was luxurious. A few days of drinking beer and eating all the sugar my body can process. One weird thing this year was missing out on all the fried delectables that are whipped up in the annual gatherings. It's a small wonder anyone in my family can function after the typical Christmas dinner.

For the first time in a long time, there was a considerable snow in December. The region was pelted with six inches of snow, almost a bonafide blizzard by our standards. Of course I had to go play! Riding the bike through the yard, around the neighborhood, anything to enjoy the snow. Rumor has it a snow midget appeared in our yard, but that's neither been confirmed nor denied as investigations continue. Incredible stuff the falling frozen water. Snow has always been one of my favorite things and something rarely seen. Luckily, where I'm going the snow will greet me with aplomb and en masse. January second will begin at home, and end in Colorado for a week of skiing. I'm beyond excited! A week away from home with the man I call my brother, hitting the slopes, and bars, of a western mining town. It's a small dream come true!

So until then, enjoy your New Years celebrations and spread some joy to those around you!

Frustrations are a-bound tonight.

2009-12-14T11:23:00.000-05:00

Aaron Casey's MSG Finale:

      At the start line, I finally got on the front line, ready to rock'n'roll. I felt fast driving to the course, I felt good during my short, short, short warm up, ten minutes of trainer time, probably not enough when it's less than 20F outside. The race official tells us we're to start on the horn of some pickup parked beside us. I don't remember hearing the horn blow. I was looking down, and saw a wheel jump in my peripheral vision. I made a small jump, realizing there was no sound. By the time I got reset the horn was blown and I was out. Scrambling, I jammed my free foot at the pedal to no avail. With a crunch the winter shoe and cleat slid off the Egg Beater. What seemed like an eternity later I got clipped, and was sprinting to the first corner.
      Because there were no riders in front of me, I thought I was pretty close to the front of the pack. Mistaken, I made the initial smooth right-hander. I was carrying all the speed I could. I thought I was in the top 10-15, and the next corner was uphill. However, between the wide line and the bad start, I could see just how far back in the pack I was. I hoped I could make the inside of the next sharp corner and get some free spots. I jumped out of the saddle and mashed for a few strokes, building momentum for the uphill turn.
      Like an idiot, I had my head down. I glanced up, only to see a wall of bikes and riders. I cursed and snatched at my brakes, but it made no difference. I plowed over top of the BikeZoo Kona in front of me. Panic never set in, even as several people rode over my flying-then-prone body. I didn't feel anyone actually hit me, but I do have some odd bruises. A lot of profanity later, I was off the course, fighting my front brake. The right arm had gotten jammed under the rim, the pad sitting on the spokes. More cursing came, just intertwined around a wheel change. The women's field passed; the bike still wasn't fixed.
      I don't want to admit it, but I had the thought of quitting. A small part of my actually thought shouldering the bike and walking back to the judge's booth announcing a mechanical DNF was a good idea. Between the unfamiliar new brakes, the adrenaline of crashing and being run over, and the knowledge that my goal finish was all but out of reach, despair poked it's hooked beak of a nose in to the matter. Eventually rage and the thought of the shame of a DFL finish spurred me to continue fighting the brake.
      Finally the brakes were sorted out! Up and running, it was time to reclaim some sort of finish. I figured with all the time I'd wasted wrestling the front wheel around, I was guaranteed to get lapped, maybe even have my race cut short. Luckily, the course was half-up, half-down format. I hammered the climb for all I was worth. After the peak, it was time to scream back down, a challenge gladly accepted. A few sketchy corners later and I was headed back to the straight. I had passed one woman and maybe one or two men. DFL Avoidance: accomplished. That wasn't quite good enough though, it was time to gun for a top 20 finish.
      Up the front climb again, big ringing the entire kit and kabooodle. I narrowed the gap on a couple of people, threading my way around men and women, any body in the way. More flying downhill, and more climbing. The third lap had another incident, clipping a pole and losing control. Still infuriated from my first crash, I threw a child-like tantrum, punching the ground with any available energy. A helpful Sparky reminded me that I was still racing, and exhorted me to get off the ground and ride. He's usually got good advice, so I followed.
      On the last lap I caught another rider. A good sprint down the finish straight helped ease the day's frustrations, but knowing that I hadn't finished where I should, and wanted, overshadowed any accomplishment on the day. Luckily, the Kona rider I had plowed over was around the finish area. I apologized to him, and everyone left on good terms. I ended the race 23rd out of 33 racers. Another late mid-pack. If it was a case of Notre Dame's expectations or a misjudgement of my own talent that put me in such a predicament I don't know. But with a month lay off before Tennessee States, I've plenty of time to ponder, train and fix.

      In unrelated news, eating vegetarian is pretty easy. I haven't had any desire to eat meat, and I seem to be doing pretty well balancing my nutritional needs. Some creative shopping has gotten plenty of tasty treats to chow on. Anyways, enough belly-aching. It's time to get another beer and start finals week.

      If you get the opportunity, get out and do something you enjoy.

Motley Memos of Weekend Significance.

2009-12-07T18:03:00.000-05:00

Firstly: Snow + skinny tires + 40 of your closest friends = Awesome way to spend Saturday.
Two cars driving the same speed, in separate lanes sucks.
CD players that spit CDs out after one hour on a three hour drive suck.
Running in to a friendly face in a foreign place is awesome.

Mad props to Wondergem for actually driving to W.-S.

Always apply chamois butter (or taint grease of your choosing) before you start your iPod.

Heavy metal and rubbing your nethers is bizzare beyond words.

Fuel gauges that aren't accurate suck.

Especially at 2:30 a.m.

It can be super fun to nerd out every so often.
Getting disconnected isn't always a bad thing.
Racing hard and losing sucks, but can be fun.

Dragging the guy that beat you halfway around the course is never awesome.

Suffice it to say that MSG and NCCX were both really fun this weekend, as were the related shenanigans. Finals are next week, time to start the cramming and the panicking.

Turkey Day

2009-11-29T21:13:00.000-05:00

As it does every year, Thanksgiving has come and gone. Self-centered and self-absorbed ass hats, not unlike myself, realize for about 15 minutes what we are, and realize the great degree of humility we need, then proceed to shovel thousands of calories down our craw. It's a brutal cycle like no other.

I actually had two moments of clarity (as the alcoholics say) this year. Wednesday night the epiphany of how well off I was hit home, harder than usual. These things are bittersweet, the sweet moment knowing that my disposition can't get much sweeter which is immediately overwhelmed with vicious pangs of guilt. Such is the price of a conscience, I assume. The second was Saturday afternoon leaving my father's home town and my crazy grandmother. Seeing the, for lack of a better term, hole of a city he came from is mind boggling. I loathe Kingsport with a passion and wish little more than to leave the entire area, but to know that I could have been raised somewhere smaller and MORE podunk simply stunned me. I'm not sure if it's natural to have a conflicted relationship with your place of birth, but it sure seems to run in my family.

I guess I tried to pay some sort of penance through training hard. A couple days of two-a-days have left me entering Monday totally beat. A simple roller workout did me in on Friday and a late night trainer session on Saturday drove the fork deeper. Add to that running an extra five and a half miles during the week and closing Sunday down with a five mile hike. My legs are beat. Should be a good week for a mini taper heading in to the weekend.

As I mentioned last post, the 'cross season is wrapping up. There are three races left in my 2009 schedule, Two MSG and the NCCX finale. The North Carolina race should be fun, and it gives me an excuse to hang out with my best friend, evar, which I'll gladly take. Not to mention traveling to a new city always interests me, especially when that city is the home of the daddiest beer store ever, City Beverage.

Gracias, Thank you, Danke Schön and all the rest.

2009-11-24T17:51:00.000-05:00

I'm going to be proactive today. I'm going to preempt the holiday of Thanksgiving with a quick message; I have a lot, more than my fair share perhaps, to be thankful for. I just wish I were the insightful and considerate type who realized that more often than once a year staring at a massive stack of calories.

In related somber news 'cross season is going into hibernation. Nationally, the Stanley Portland Cup signals the end of the U.S. pro season. That's in two weeks. The best series ever, MSG 'Cross will host it's finale the week after, December 12th. After that last Steele Creek race, is an eight week layoff before Tennessee's State Championships held in our own Winged Deer Park. Two months to drink, revel and drink some more. Parting is such sweet sorrow, as they say.

On the bright side, you can't have the mountain bike season until the 'cross season is over. Bring on the gnar!

Another fortnight sabbatical?!

2009-11-18T21:11:00.000-05:00

So it would seem I've been "blog free" for over two weeks. This is simply unacceptable! For better or worse though, blogging takes a back seat to other pursuits. Most recently school and cyclocross have been those pursuits. The education continues to grow, as the semester continues to grind to it's conclusion. Every professor has now said "Your final exam is getting close," or some derivative. It's a bittersweet state. I enjoy most of my classes, I'm comfortable with the rhythm and changing it all just isn't appealing. Of course knowing that the first degree is less than a year away is outstanding.

Outstanding is also having a full weekend of 70 degree weather in November. MSG #5 was this past weekend, and while the weather would fail any "True Belgian" test, no one was going to complain. The course more than made up for the lack of environmental misery. Boasting wide, sweeping corners paired to a long climb and one wicked run up, Winged Deer's layout was spectacular. Most people seemed content to bitch about how hard the course was, what great difficulty they had with (seemingly) every section. I might just be some sick, demented, wack job, but nothing on that particular layout struck me as difficult. There was one pair of turns, in the middle of each lap, that gave some difficulty.

The lead in was downhill to a 90 degree right up a short (10-15 feet at most) pitch, with another 90 degree right hander at the apex of the pitch. The roll out was a false flat before more gentle recovery. This was not at all hard, yet on 2 laps, I was forced to run it. My first lap I was stuck at the back of the pack, courtesy of a bad start, which doomed me to taking my place in the conga line. My next lap I easily rode it. The third lap involved another rolling obstacle and more running. The last glorious lap was almost a solo time trial or so it seemed.

After some fun heckling and "recovery" drink, Saturday came to a close. Sunday was the big trip to DuPont. Early morning departure from the Herren residence, long mountain bike ride, Papa's and Beer after. The plan was set, just execute. An auspicious start, nearly getting hit by two cars riding to Bill's place lead to a great day of fun, fun, fun till daddy took the T-Bird away. The trails at DuPont were awesome, especially with an experienced guide and professional map-man Mr. Benjamin M. Applebeast.

Looking forward, school will be finished inside a month. The only UCI 'Cross event in the southeast is coming to Hendersonville, NC this weekend, and I'm all set to go. Well, mostly set to go. I have the basic needs met, but the legs aren't quite where I want them. Another weekend of solid results would probably justify my entire 'cross season. Here's to hoping!

There's supposed to be more good weather up and coming, go enjoy it however you know best!

The Rain Strikes Back!

2009-11-01T23:08:00.000-05:00

Rain has the funny little tick to it. Much like that weird kid in school, the one with the twitchy eye, you remember him, right? No? Well, just pretend, ok? Thanks. Now, what was I saying? Right, right, rain, and ticks. Ticks don't like rain. Unless they can find a warm... wrong tick? Whoops.

Rain has this funny tick. It doesn't screw around. Listen to enough chemistry and biology lectures, and you'll think water is the coolest substance in the history of cool substances (Don't look at your "water pipe" and laugh about cool substances, you need water to grow the fun stuff!). And while on an academic level water certainly is awesome, on the level of "I want to ride my bicycle, really fast, outside," H2O is far less awesome. Saturday wasn't terribly rainy, but the near constant mist/drizzle/sprinkle really worked a number on everyone. The temperature dropped every hour, the course got progressively worse after every rider and everything was wet.

All that said, the MSG Spooky Cross race went down well. We were graced with another fun course design, replete with sweeping corners, stairs, 4 sand crossings and one sketchy-as-hell corner. Any time the MSG course designer is given two beach volleyball courts, misery will ensue. Everyone should remind him of this as he runs by during his race. The aforementioned sketchy-as-hell corner was a total doubly whammy. It was awful to ride because it was ludicrously steep off camber, sharp and narrow. The tape didn't make a smooth arc around the turn, instead it cut in on the exit, forcing everyone back up high. Remember that progressively worse comment earlier? Half way through the day and people were struggling to walk the damn thing, much less ride it. And that's the second whammy, it wasn't really that fun to watch. Most people had figured out to run or tripod around it, either way it was slow and not entertaining.

I felt really good for most of the race. There were gaps to close and riders to overtake. My new tubular tires are hot shit on a tin roof. I'm in love with those things. They've so vastly improved the feel and handling of the bike, I could gush for days. They've been well worth the arduous P.I.T.A. to glue them to the rim. On the second lap, I glanced up the start/finish hill and saw stripes. I recognized the rider as a potential rabbit. I'd been riding with him at the Tornado Cross, and figured I had a shot to beat him with all the climbing here. From first sighting he was a couple hundred yards ahead out. Up the hill, across the false flat straight away we charged, pushing with all that was left in the tank. This was the bell lap after all! Through the sweeps, traversing the small gully, I was all over his back wheel, but never could take a corner fast enough to assert myself. The sweeps spit us out in to a downhill straight then on to the first pavement segment. It was time for me to hold on for dear life.

The rabbit is a powerful rider, get him something straight and he'll hammer like a carpenter. Consequently, that's a big weakness for me. I reached out and latched to his wheel, hoping the bungee cord would hold. At last we made a few more turns, and I was still in a good position. The sand pits wrought havoc on me. I ran them, practice saw me stack it every time I tried to ride. Of course, running happens to be another chink in my armor, so another gap opened up. Not to worry though, the last third of the course is up hill, and so is the finish. I dare say I was in good position. Negotiations with more cornering put me in a great position, until the sketchy-as-hell corner. The rabbit flopped about half way through. I was following closely, and watched him crash. A smile on my lips, a downward glance to make sure I wasn't going to run the man over and kaboom! Down goes Aaron! Every profanity in the English language shot out, as well as a few bit of garbled gibberish.

I grabbed at the bike, knowing I was hemorrhaging time. In one of my smoother remounts, I lept over the saddle, stomped my foot down and the cranks spun. The bad spin. The spin that says "Hey, look ma! No chain!" More profanity, a deluge of profanity in fact. After a painfully slow repair I had lost two spots and finished the race with mixed emotions.

Sunday was a sight better. Seven Devils hosted the NCCX #3 race. They have a different setup for races, with the CX4s going dead last. I thought this was kind of cool until I saw how destroyed the course was. More of that rain and its total lack of screwing around, chewed up the old golf course spitting out deep mud and lots of hurt. The start straight had two big streaks of mud, the first about 50 feet, the second was probably 75. The first pit wasn't too terrible, it was deep, but some hard mashing would send you over. The second pit was the deal breaker. I rode it on the first lap, but after 50 men chewed it up, there was a black night syndrome, "Thou shallt not cross! Unless you're on foot, than maybe!"

The straight ended with a spiral, which was pretty cool, but confusing as riders became more spread out. I'd see guys on different lanes, and wonder if they were ahead, or behind. Out of the spiral went hit another straight building speed in to the barriers. After the barriers was a gnarly off-camber, which had become little more than an angled slop pit. On the second lap through this, I had a great line and was riding beautifully. I noticed a bit too late the guy flailing in the middle of the road. Of course he kept sliding closer to my line. I shouted "On your ri..." He dismounted in grand fashion, swinging his foot as far away from him as possible. Who cares? I care, because he kicked me in the chest. And people say cycling isn't a contact sport.

After climbing back up and circumnavigating the spiral, another short straight ran the racers back through the same two bogs from the start, only this time there was no spiral, there was a hellish run up awaiting. I mean hellish in every aspect of the word, except for the being hot part. The left side of the run was 6 inches of slop, and impossible to climb without ropes and some pick axes. I found that out on the last lap when every upward step sent me back down the slope, like walking up a downward escalator. However, the money on the run up was neat. Thanks to whom ever for the dollar!

The top quarter of the course was pretty neat, it had a lot of great flow, in spite of the still copious mud. Brakes were optional here, and really not recommended. At the end of this fun section was a long sweeping downhill corner. The top was steep, and heavily chewed up. Half way down, an old cart path crossed, but so much mud was tracked over the asphalt, it was almost impossible to find. Holding momentum through this section was key, anything for more speed in to the sloppy start/finish straight. On the last lap, after flailing around on the run up for at least two minutes (it felt like 30 or 40 minutes of wrestling an octopus), I flew down the straight, hands in the drops head down, maximum power! *Splorch!* I think was the exact sound my Grifos made as reality came screeching to a halt. I had to run across the freaking finish line. And that almost didn't happen, the mud was atrocious.

Thankfully, this week is an off week. So I'll have plenty of time to work on my running and clean out every part of my bike. Those that aren't getting replaced anyways, Brian is hooking me up with some sweet new gear, pictures to come after they're all assembled!

On the eight day, God created ROCK!

2009-10-30T13:04:00.002-04:00

I'm not good at catchy titles. If you've read this blog for any length of time, you're well aware of that. Consequently, the blog title is in danger. It's on the hot seat, much like Cleveland Cavaliers coach Mike Brown. But, much like The LeBron's coach, there are only shadowy figures lurking in a misty haze of rumors. An uneasy truce shall continue until there is a clearly better alternative. Ideas, suggestions and thoughts should be left in the comments section.

Halloween is upon us! Most of the local cyclists are headed to Knoxville's Haw Ridge for some twelve hour off road insanity. I managed to wuss out, and decided that some local cyclocross racing would be more fun. So that's where I'll be prior to noon Saturday. Hopefully a fun party will be the night cap for the evening. Sunday morning will find me careening across windy mountain roads to visit Boone, NC for, you guessed it, more 'cross!

What a weekend...

2009-10-26T11:11:00.002-04:00

... Wow. There are scant words to describe this last weekend. I'd been looking forward to these few days for a while, plans had been made a while back, but I didn't realize the level this voyage was going to take.

My best friend lives in Winston-Salem and works as a grad student, I think his formal title is "Lab Rat," at Wake Forest. A few months back he calls me with a wild hair up his ass about something or other, which is unusual. Then he says "Hey, AC/DC is coming to town, we need to go!" I concurred. if you've got the chance to go see a legendary rock band, that may or may not hang it up soon, you've got to do it. The weekend was set, and all that was left was the waiting.

Friday that waiting ended. I cruised the three hours up, over, around and down the mountains in to the "rolling foothills" of flatland central North Carolina. While not eventful in it's own right, the pumpkin carving party set the tone for the weekend. Good beer, nerd jokes and a bunch of strange people who all have degrees of science. After the slicing, dicing and decorating shenanigans, it was late-night movie time, and Hot Fuzz was the choice. I laughed my ass off, Pegg and Frost were brilliant once again. A great night cap!

Saturday was even better, we got up, and went straight to a sports bar. Since John is a Tennessee alumnus, he found the most orange bar in the area. I hadn't watched a full football game in a bar in years. Sipping more fine beer and chowing on fried fatty fat was an appealing way to spend and afternoon. After the game I got dragged to the WFUBMC laboratory, which was cool. The amount of stuff going on was incredible, research on almost anything and everything medicinal. As I said on Twitter, Zombieland was fucking amazing. John said it best "it's like a non-stop stream of awesome!" And it was. We howled. Take the time, take the kids, take the dog for that matter, just go see Zombieland.

The Lord's day was uneventful. Most of the day was spent watching episodes of Firefly, because a certain useless science monkey doesn't have cable TV. I like the show, which laid a great base for the movie, Serenity.

The Lord's evening on the other hand was a sight to behold. AC/DC in all their geriatric glory were about to lay the hurt on a few ear drums. All I can really say about the concert is this: it fucking rocked. Read that again, but more emphatically. Ok, try it one more time, with more enthusiasm and louder. Repeat a few more times and you'll get the gist. The mixed crowd roared for every old hit, and merely screamed for the new stuff. Angus Young and Brian Johnson showed great savvy as veteran performers, electrifying the whole crowd. It occurred to me about half way through the show just how old these guys were. That was disappointing, until the realization hit me; AC/DC rocks twice as hard as bands in their twenties. That means at one point, they were rocking eight time harder than anyone around. It's mind blowing to try and comprehend, so don't try.

My ears are still ringing twelve hours later.

The song remains the same...

2009-10-19T13:56:00.004-04:00

... Or so they say. 'Cross season is starting to pick up a bit, the news from the UCI race in Granogue was pretty messy. The course looked horrible, with it's mucky off camber turns and slop too thick to run through in places. What a perfect place for a cross race! Jim, The Unholy Rouleur has a good take on the race, since he lives up there and all. Cyclingdirt, has some great footage of the races, per usual.

Cycling Videos on CyclingDirt

Ryan Trebon, running and riding away with the victory, and good on him for it!

In more local news, Tornado Cross, a benefit race for the King College Cycling team rocked Saturday morning. The weather was nippy, but not unbearable. The rain came and went in spurts, much like it's nemesis, the sun. The mixed conditions kept the course in a limbo of sorts, never really drying out, but not becoming a total bog either. Half the course was smooth grass, or wooded sections, the rest was little more than pock-marked dirt. The clods of grass and the pits between rattled everyone's teeth loose, and destroyed speed. There was a pretty steep incline that most people ran, except the Pro-1-2 winner. He focused his machismo and bested the hill! Very cool to watch.

On a related note, fear for your ears all who race after the CX4s, for I now have a cowbell!

Shawtie!

2009-10-12T10:33:00.002-04:00

Just a quick post to get a few random thoughts out.

Yesterday was awesome, and ended on a crappy note. Enjoyed a great hike with Ashlea and Rosie, I marched the girls all over Bays. Rosie was delighted, her madre was less than enthused. After that was over, I left a harassing message on a buddies Facebook status. Turned out I picked the wrong day to be a prick. But, according to him, the day sucked anyways. I assume that's meant as some variety of condolence. I hate when my abrasive fun isn't fun.
The Rocky Fork ride on Friday was absolutely stellar. It was a simple seven mile out-and-back, but the scenery at the top of the seven mile climb was breathtaking. I was truly flabbergasted, and could only sit and stare. The top layers of the canopy were a myriad of fall colors, etched in to the green background, framed with the best shade of blue.
I am a weeny. I was going to do two endurance mountain bike events this month, but it looks like I'm going to do 'cross races instead. After the MSG weekend that rocked my world, I think I'm going to try and get as much CX in as I possibly can. King's Cross, and the Halloween MSG race, here I come!
Made most of my final plans to go see AC/DC in a fortnight. I decided to listen to "Back in Black" driving to school this morning. Nearly crashed the car. Stokeometer: 9.7

On that note, it's time to go slay the work week. Go on now, go on!

Belated Blathering...

2009-10-07T13:48:00.002-04:00

Oh my, oh my. What a weekend that was! Mud Sweat & Gears knocked it out of the park. I'd never done a proper 'cross race before, and now I can only wonder why. It hurt so bad but in such a good way. The bunch start with 50+ of my closest maniacal cohorts was an experience to behold. The first turn was exciting too, with bodies, bikes and barriers abound. After that however the new-car-smell, so to speak, wore off.

My races went fairly well, considering my lack of experience. I was reasonably satisfied to finish 39th on Saturday. Everyone tells me that the CX4 has the largest gap of talent levels, because of it's entry position. Saturday was oddly the harder day, I owe that to the nerves. I spent most of the morning shaking and jittery, without caffeine. Excitement was shadowing my every thought, and action. I figured I'd better load up on calories, since there was going to be a race effort, and thus the "Breakfast of the Raging FatAss" was born. A few eggs, a bowl of oatmeal, a large portion of bacon all swilled back with some nice cool milk. Adrenaline and full stomachs don't get along too well, luckily the food won.

Eventually I was sane enough to work my way down to the race. After registration it was warm-up time. I was nearing apoplectic shock before I got on course. I had helped set the course up the day before, so I knew fairly well what to expect. I was shaky on the execution of a few turns, and the flyover simultaneously intrigued and terrified me. The more I rode, the more control I felt over my heart rate, and by the starting whistle, I felt reasonably good. It was at that point that I started breaking rules. I didn't hammer the start. The riders in front of me screwed my timing. I tried to take it easy headed for the first corner, being safe over fast. I settled in with a few other riders, trying to settle on a pace. I didn't push as hard as possible for the first lap, and almost regret it. I felt strong until about the 20 minute mark. My short track training left me gasping at that point. The last lap hurt.

The rest of the day Saturday was spent trying to demolish my vocal chords, and ear drums. My two favorite ladies came out and cheered for me, which was gnarly. Now it was my turn to repay some others with some cheering. Borrowed cowbell in hand, I set out to heckle at the run up. I rang the cowbell until it hurt, and screamed encouragement over top of it. That was great fun, getting a smile, or rise, out of the riders while they were hurting. I got a couple "thank yous," which made it all worth it in the end. The racing was fast and fun to watch. The CX1s were awesome, it was like watching a well oiled machine.

Sunday was a different story. I awoke up, almost with a sense of dread. "Oh, I do have to race today, don't I? Shit..." Another "Breakfast of the Raging FatAss" perked my up slightly, but I wasn't feeling the same nervous tingle that had dominated the last 36 hours or so. In spite of the calm, or perhaps because of it, I finished a solid 29th. Again, reasonably satisfied, for a second race. Judging my progress is tough, I'm notoriously hard on myself and expect perfection, so being reasonable isn't always easy. Sunday was also strange because of how I felt during the race. I wasn't suffering, but I was hardly on a slow saunter either. A quick check of the Garmin revealed 20 second faster lap times on day two, with a lower, smoother heart rate track too. Quite curious, but enjoyed never the less. The rest of the day was spent chatting, with only the occasional cheer. I had vested too much screaming the day before to commit a full repertoire again.

After some minor heckling and watching a lot of racing, the sad, sad duty of dismantling the course reared its ugly head. And so the few of us left sullenly rolled tape, pulled spikes and carted soon-to-be-filled boxes around. Watching the weekend's source of joy and entertainment melt away was a somber and fitting end to the weekend.

As an aside, and to all who missed it: The flyover was FREAKING AWESOME!!!!! That had to have been the coolest part of the course, without a doubt. It was fun to ride and fun to watch. Seeing a big pack of racers hit the ramp in quick succession was very cool, the wood gave off a great "ka-thunk" sound with each tire contact.

I think I'm going to have to get a singlespeed, since I'm not old enough to race Masters. Anyone have any suggestions?

Enjoy your work week, the weekend is only three days away, and the Ocho is only ten days away!

Of Boredom & Scribery

2009-09-27T20:22:00.004-04:00

For some odd reason, I've been off the bike the past few days. I always seemed to find some convenient excuse to stay off the ride. I wish I could explain this, especially to myself. It's frustrating when you realize you're a lazy bastard. As a trade off, I've been running in the gym. Treadmills are terribly, terribly, terribly boring. But, it's effective none the less. I believe a trainer or rollers are going to be purchased soon, anything to get more bike fitness when conditions turn undesirable.

The best byproduct of this lack of exercise is a boon to my free time. Things like, blogging and watching movies have happened. What a novel concept! And speaking of movies, I found myself contemplating a few things while digging around in Blockbuster yesterday. The absurd quantity of movies they had in stock was astounding. I had no idea that many movies were produced annually. The "new releases" section took the entire perimeter of the building.

I'm sure anyone who pays attention to popular culture is astounded at my ability to hide under a rock, and is probably screaming "LUDDITE!" at their reading device. Be that as I may, what I found most curious was: how can so many of these movies look SO BAD? I'd wager of the 40 movies on that outside segment of discs, maybe 5 caught my attention and looked like quality movies. I'm sure this is nothing new, but for whatever reason it just registered with me. A few months back while listening to the B.S. Report Simmons and guest Chris Connely discussed movies, attempting to pick a movie of the decade. Simmons, ever the pop culture aficionado, declared T.V. the new movie. At the time this didn't mean much to me, I tend to discuss such existential conversations regarding pop culture to be absurd, bordering on inane.

Standing in the movie store faced with foot after foot of terrible looking film, I was reminded of that quote. Suddenly, it all made sense. Considering the movie as a medium that gets people talking, a water cooler topic if you will, I could see Simmons' point that T.V. had taken over the role. Sure movies still garner attention, with the money devoted to advertising the things, it's nigh impossible not to know of their existence. However, the cinema seems to be lacking the pizazz it once commanded. If I ask a friend for an opinion on a movie the response is anywhere from negative to bored. Ask those same people about a T.V. show and the responses become far more positive and engaged.

Borrowing the base work of Simmons' theory, I've come to the conclusion that the success of television has been brought about by the movie industry. In the mid-nineties Hollywood realized there were some brilliant independent movies. A rather astute observation, but primarily motivated by economics, I would suppose. The big movie executives realized they were losing money to these small time producers, and decided to retool their system to conquer the smaller studios. Part of this offensive was to take the scripts, writers, and the occasional director from the independent ranks. Flash some dollars, and most people will change their tune. And so Hollywood began producing "indie" flicks.

Professional critics may conjecture fault with my argument here, but this seems to be the beginning of the end for quality cinema. Those versed in the "Slippery Slope" theory of, well, anything, should see the first step on to the wet grass. Some successes lead to a further hoarding of contemporary scripts. In what is essentially a copycat vocation, the appetite became voracious, studio after studio gobbling up any script they could economically acquire the rights for. The other foot is now on the wet grass. The man walking down is beginning to realize his perilous footing. A few more big ticket draws reinforce the behavior, maybe this slope isn't so slick after all.

Suddenly, it's a few years later and movies are absolutely terrible. Every studio is demanding budget cuts, higher prices, bigger cuts, higher royalties, excetera, excetera. The quality of movies as whole plummets. Audiences continue to visit local theaters, but in ever dwindling numbers. Most seem to be visiting out of some ingrained habit. It's just what you do, going to see the latest offerings from the moving picture people. It is from this laconic march that television gained it's hold on he entertainment medium.

With shoddy, cheap exports from Tinseltown, people began hunting something better. Shrewdly the big television companies, cable and network, quietly increased their stock of writers, directors and creative people. Combine these two factors and the fall of film is obvious. Given the choice, you can drive to a theater pay ten dollars for a ticket, sit with 100 of your closest, dearest friends, then drive home. Or you can plop down on the couch, flick on the boob tube, drink your own beverages, eat your own food and enjoy your own home, no driving involved. Sounds like an easy decision. Such is the tale of woe in the silver screen. Luckily the industry is still thriving, some people will always want, or need, to enjoy theaters.

If you've made it this far, I applaud you for absorbing all of this absurd diatribe. Monday starts tomorrow, are you ready? I am. I'm ready to kill it this week. MSG starts up Saturday, and my legs are aching in anticipation. One week of classes, one last week of training, and then the racing season officially starts. Exhilarating!

An end of a hiatus...

2009-09-24T20:15:00.002-04:00

... Radio silence is now over, do you copy? I just realized it's been a fortnight since my last bloggery. I blame my school work, as well as a complete and total inability to budget time in any meaningful way. Hijinks and shenanigans you claim, hijinks and shenanigans indeed. I also blame a lack of fodder to lampoon, rail, praise or otherwise jabber about. Ok, that's a lie, I praise nothing! Must be all the deeply ingrained cynicism.

In related news, the best thing ever, cyclocross season is upon us! I've been waiting since January to race my skinny tires in the dirt/mud/snow/muck/sand/what-ever-else-can-be-found. The weekly short track races, and the now weekly 'cross practice has my blood pumping! Even practice feels good, in that perverse sort of way. Race reports to come, as warranted. Amusing anecdote from practice tonight, while riding laps around the softball fields, I came around to the youngest little ones "playing" softball. Very innocuous, even with this odd chanting. As I got closer to them, I could make sense of the words, or word, more specifically. Suddenly it was 2005 again, and the kids were chanting "Yeaaaa-UHHHHHHH!" I was stunned, I didn't realize Lil' Jon was still cool. I didn't think I was riding myself in to that deep a level of hypoxia, but I clearly heard about 40+ "YEAAA-UUHHH!" incantations. These were like under 10 kids too.

My Health and Wellness professor has lectured incessantly about establishing a habit, something about 21 days, I'm not completely sure. With that in mind, I'm hoping to make my semi-regular blogging a habit again, now that I've just finished learning the school habit. Perhaps it will work, perhaps not. On a related note, this "enjoying school" thing must be a fad, either that or I've been missing out for far too long. I don't even want to skip class anymore. Freakin' sweet!

With that short preface ousted, here's some tunes for the weekend, or anytime.

I like this version, because "Bruce" looks absolutely livid that he's stooped to the level of covering the Clash. I'm sure if Springsteen ever had a biography written, he's lobby the writer to capitalize every "He, Him and His" in the book. Speaking of 2005...

Couldn't resist some Foo, it happens every so often. It's now 2006, and this video fills all but a few of my nerd and music snob desires...

Here's where education pays off, one of professors tipped me off to this cat, and I was blown away. Sitting in class, slack jaw and flabbergasted by music was a new experience, so let me introduce to you, the one, the only, Mr. Sam Cooke!

If that doesn't move you, go check your pulse. Now, to end on a fun note:

Cheesey band to begin with, enjoy the lounge version! You'll love hearing these songs come back mid ride, I promise!

One down, a bunch more to go.

2009-09-04T20:00:00.002-04:00

As is the usual this time of year, I'm sharing the lamentations of all those students around the globe who feel as if they've been dropped in a bucket of "OH F**K!" School is a week old. Most of the syllabus seems like it's ages away, yet that nagging voice inside says "That's like, a week moron!" Personally, there's no rhythm yet. I feel in a funk, and mildly terrified. I know I've got to read approximately 8,000 pages of text a day, and I'm developing a fear of drowning in paper. Yet I've barely been able to force myself to crack open a book.

The plus side is that I'm feeling otherwise productive, my note taking improves annually, though my Sanskrit-esque handwriting never will. Insert your own "Doctor's kid!" joke here. Lots of bike riding, and even a bit more time in the gym have taken the majority of my time, which I'm cool with. I mean, I am taking "Health, Wellness and Society" after all. I figure if my professor is going to lecture about how slovenly and repulsive this particular area happens to be, I'm going to make damn sure I don't fit the mold. I'm sick of that crap.

Which segues perfectly to a results rehash. Short track was outstanding this week, another best, 12 laps. There was a lot less pain this week, and bigger gears felt easier to turn. I only spent a few minutes stuffed, haphazardly, in to my hurt locker. I hope this all bodes well for 'Cross season and some of the later mountain bike races I'm eying. Of course, a 20-30 minute race is terrible prep for a 12 hour enduro event, but opening up the top end available is always a good thing. If anyone has any interest in some LONG rides (3, 4 and 5 hours) let me know, I'll be trying to get 'em in every weekend.

On a more pleasant note, this weekend should be awesome. Labor day, extra time to procrastinate, and extra time to actually study. Having a genuine interest in school these last two semesters has been strange, relative to the dread and animosity I used to feel. So far, I like it a whole lot better. Go enjoy your holiday, drink some beer, grill some dead animal, blow some stuff up and celebrate!

Rider down! Rider DOWN!

2009-08-30T19:29:00.003-04:00

The ETSU SECCC race was this weekend. If you didn't know that, crawl out from under your boulder and join society! There was a huge turn out, with a bunch of schools and even more people. There were some fast cats, and a some slow cats, which made for some interesting races. I"m not positive, but I think Lees-McRae took short track and cross country. ETSU got the predictable win on the home turf in the downhill, and Union mopped up the slalom.

The slalom competition was quite possibly the most entertaining thing I've ever watched. A fair bit of falling water added to a good, steep slope minus berms is pure hysteria. The qualifying runs were sloppy, much to the dismay of many. After the initial runs however, the ground gained back some tack. There couldn't have been a better time to have a tacky track than during the elimination rounds, right? Exactly! That's when it all went to shit. The rain started back up, slowly. Didn't I say something about "minus berms" earlier? Rain has this incredible effect on exposed, flat dirt. It eventually gets a peanut buttery consistency, which if you're allergic, is really gooey and slippery. This is not a good thing to be racing through.

The middle two turns of the ETSU course are flat. For those who aren't good at digesting inferences, riders were ALL OVER THE PLACE! I nearly got slid in to on a few occasions, and I was well off course! The popular tactic was to use a lot of feet, and a bit more luck to point the bike in something resembling the right direction. I'm lacking in the means to accurately describe right-on-the-cusp-of-sanity flailing on two wheels. It was brilliant!

The Lord's Day brought with it's hazy sunrise the vaunted cross country race. I got my timing wrong and pulled in to the parking lot a slight half hour before my race left. Oops, might want to avoid that in the future. As Scooby will attest, warming up before a race is for the smart kids. I managed to get on the line less than two minutes before our start. I registered in the Cs expecting to get stomped. I'd heard all these nasty rumors about sandbaggers and all varieties of miserable little people who would bring the pain to me. I sure didn't find them.

At the risk of sounding arrogant, I should have listened to everyone else and run Bs. Much like Alan, I started towards the back of the pack, not quite dead last though. Just cruising up the hill I passed a few riders. As I got to the entrance of the single track, with it's first turn, I saw a rider standing on the edge of the trail, off the bike and starting to push. Confused I kept pedaling until I ran in to (almost literally, I don't think I actually hit them though) two Brevard Tornados dabbing/walking/hiking, anything except riding. I got stuck. Finally we untangled, with everyone on bikes, I shouted some encouraging "Come on! This is a RACE! Pick up the PACE!" I know that drew out some sweet profanity, but I couldn't hear them mutter. When we got spit out of the woods cresting the top of the slalom, I had picked off four or five riders. I felt like a champion. I figured I'd set a pretty good pace and aimed to keep it as such.

I really enjoyed the second segment of singletrack. There was a lot of great flow, a good mix of ups and downs, which was all fairly smooth and tacky. The few roots were easy to navigate and the rocks made for some fun drops. The hill going to the apartments was my first stumble, the back tire slid out in some muddy grass. An annoyance, but nothing major. In my literature classes this would have been called "foreshadowing," but I didn't know that yet. I motored along the rest of the upper half, pleasantly hammering away, almost totally solo.

I zipped across the road and got my first taste of the ironically named "water tower side." My back end slid out on a rock, and traction left the building. In fact, traction straight booked it out of there. With an angry snarl I humped it on up the hill, until I could get back on the wheels. The lower half of the course was soaking wet. There was just enough dry to get some grip, but it was tenuous. Winding around the tower I found "LOL DUAL SLALOM PART 2 LOL!" It was supposed to be a short, fast descent. It was a mud chute! After about three crashes, I gave up and started gingerly running. That went as well as anything, certainly better than hitting trees and eating dirt. Hyperbole aside, this half wasn't too terrible, and it had some really fun to ride features. The premium on space made strange bed fellows of the XC and DH courses. A small rock garden met you at the end of a long straight. Flying out of there you went up a small hill, and were directed into a gnarly little steep out. That was fun to ride! (Except for being an idiot on lap two and hitting a tree, which is never fun, ever.)

After my second lap, complete with just as many crashes(!), I finished second about seven minutes back. So that was cool. I did an overly good job of pacing, and might have had a bit left in the tank still. I'm going to have to figure that out next time I race. All in all, I left the weekend feeling confident, sunburned, tired, mildly-lacerated and totally stoked to go ride some more! Class starts tomorrow, and that should be pretty cool, I've got mixed feelings. I'm not sure I'm ready to work my ass off in the ring of academia. We'll see though. Cheers!

Tomorrow....

2009-08-28T21:24:00.002-04:00

... It's always freakin' tomorrow. Probably because I take too much time to blog, ergo nothing is written day of. How's that for an ambiguous and totally unrelated introductory sentence? I'm rather excited about it, it fills its void of mystique and confusion quite smartly, I'd reckon.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and Saturday this week means SHORT TRACK! Yes sir, the double serving! This time it's fo' realz though! ETSU and the SECCC are holding the initial mountain biking meet of the season. I'm thrilled! I took out my freshly-washed steed today, trying to scope out the course, see if there was anything really important to pay attention to, get a feel for how the race was going to run and ride the trails for the first time. The trails were pretty fun, I was really surprised at how quickly the forest enveloped you, despite being in the center of a city and college campus. However, that was in the far side of the tree line, because of space and locale, apartment complexes really break apart the single track, lending a very disjointed feeling to the ride.

There are going to be some amused and confused students Sunday morning. If I'd just moved to school and awake hungover to the sounds of people spinning cranks and hyperventilating, I would probably run for cover, fearing either locust swarm or buzz-bombs.

Courtesy of Thursday night's monsoon, everything was soaked. If the weather continues to drizzle, or we get another full on rain, things will be amusingly painful. A couple of the steep climbs will be tough plods if they're wet. Least of mention are the myriad roots. Ah yes, but that's Sunday. I've gotten ahead of myself, much like shifting one too many cogs in a spot where a shift to any fewer cogs would have been far more appropriate!

Good luck to everyone who is actually competing! If you're not competing, be a good spectator and heckle hearty! I hear there's a local cult hero who gives lessons...

In the past 24 hours...

2009-08-22T10:54:00.003-04:00

... I have:

Quit my job (In a bad economy no less)
Setup a tire tubeless
Planned a movie night
Slept
Inhaled the fresh air with a sense of glee
Cursed about 150x more than usual
Ate like a bloody pig
Surprisingly lost
Lusted over a nice bike ride (Which I'm now going to do!)

I feel like a moto rider running 18 p.s.i. in my front tire. Can't wait to find out how much traction that big monster gets, now that it's properly set up. Now, stop reading and go get your weekend on!

I pulled a Sparks....

2009-08-19T15:49:00.002-04:00

... And by that I mean I blew my front tire up. Apparently Stan's rims won't hold a 2.4 Racing Ralph with 50 pounds of air. Now my garage is coated in a fine layer of latex! STELLAR! I guess that's why a 2.3 tire has a max PSI limit of 35 or 40. Whoops. I'm also digging sealant out from underneath my nails after cleaning it up. Time to go to the store and buy some new treads! Yeah! Wooo! It doesn't look like I'll be making it to the short track tonight, and that's disappointing. We'll see how conditions look closer to time, I do put the arse in arsenal, according to his royal broken shoulder.

On a side note, two days left. Stokometer: 9.8

Le Sigh.

2009-08-18T21:32:00.004-04:00

Tuesday was pretty good. Work was uneventful, I was even motivated to get in the gym afterwards. Lifting felt good, and some light running afterwards felt good too. I still don't "like" running, but that might be a product of not understanding it. Maybe as 'cross season progresses I'll enjoy it more. It's something else to sprinkle in and keep a rotation anything to stave off the evil monotamy.

I said all that to say this: then I started watching baseball. Braves & Mets fourth inning, Derek Lowe totally implodes and gives up EIGHT (8) runs in the bottom half of the inning. That's a real similar feeling to taking a foot below the belt. It's the F**KING METS! Of all teams, come on, the bloody F**KING METS! I'm not sure if it was good hitting (I'll opt never to give them the benefit of the doubt...) or just a Three Mile Island meltdown. The good news, if you can call it that, is the length of the baseball season. With 162 games, any one game isn't going to make or break a season, exceptions provided of course.

As everyone else has mentioned, Sunday was the Fat Tony ride over in Asheville. I'm not sure I've ever had as much fun, or felt quite as good. Riding single track with 15 other people blew my mind. And of course, Greens lick, Green Slick, Green S. Lick, whatever the name of that trail is, was easily the most fun I've had descending. I felt compotent! Great confidence booster. Since I usually ride solo, having all these people to follow was incredible. I never understood how much easier bombing down a mountain is, if there's a rider leading you to the lines. Four and a half hours was the longest I've ridden, I think. Luckily the pace wasn't fast, so everyone could keep up, and group up. All in all it was a really awesome event for me, I feel like I learned a lot as well as having a complete and total blast. I can't wait to see Greg's video, he always does a good job.

Tomorrow is short trackin', as usual. Consider yourself marked Scooby!

Acomplishments

2009-08-13T21:25:00.004-04:00

Most importantly, I set a new personal record for laps at the short track, with eleven. I think the skirt is finally getting out of the chain, and some real speed might be around the corner.

Ride Report: I thought I was S.O.L. My legs were sore as soon as I sat down on the bike. The two hours of jubilation I spent rolling over and across Bays this afternoon was going to make me pay the hard way, for sure. But, there was a big crowd tonight! Way awesome! Our two Banner Elks brought a third dude with 'em, a holy man of some variety. Wes decided he needed to cement his throne, so he beat up on everyone, even Skinsuit Luke. I had a mini-war with Shaun, Shawn, Sean, however he spells it. Between the concerted effort to stay hydrated, and being the following rider this week, I managed to win. Much to my chagrin, but not surprise, I started falling back after three or four laps. I wasn't deep in the pain cave, but the light from the mouth was starting to get dim. Plain to the naked eye in any light however, was my sorry butt getting dropped. About that point, I think he started fading when I decided I had a bit more in the tank. Two laps later I closed down the gap near the top. As usual, and due solely to my vaginal-at-best descending, that gap reopened, until we hit the barrel corner. Now, at the bottom of the hill recovered from the downhill, I had the energy to make my move. And it stuck! I didn't think I could actually gap anyone, but I manged to get away. Next rabbit! Found the next rider in front of me, and started to reel myself in. This took the rest of the race to gradually pull myself up and lap the Holy Man on the last lap. Make that two firsts, I'd never lapped anyone before. Heh

Also, I killed that Anatomy class. I think it was my first "A" in college. For better or for worse, I'm ridiculously proud of myself for that.

Unrelated to anything ego humping, I've decided it's time to get back in the gym. Trying to move a box of dumbbells the other day showed me that my upper body strength is almost non-existent. Besides, lifting weights is a hell of a lot of fun. Not like, as fun as cycling, but most definitely a blast.

Now, a paragraph of random thoughts. I'm not totally sure what to do with myself now that class is over and work is in it's waning days. I keep thinking I have to spend the evening watching baseball and studying. But wait... Nope, totally don't need to. Riding the Niner (supposedly slow in twisty stuff) felt faster and smoother through the twisty stuff on Chinquinpin up at Bay's. Will need further testing at Warriors to confirm. I went to Dollywood a week ago. I invented the term "Rotundenese," bow!

P.S. http://unholyrouleur-jim.blogspot.com/2009/08/les-paul-rip.html Is a good read/watch/listen. Jim does a good job with the tunes and the words. Far better than I. Cheers!

P.P.S. Pictures & weight on the E.M.D. to come later tomorrow after it gets some Stan's!

A word about insatiability.

2009-08-12T10:27:00.004-04:00

At long last my month-long odyssey of bike building is complete. That's right, the Niner in all it's glory is finished. It's even dirty. Yesterday I ordered it's first upgrades. Yup. That's right, upgraded parts for a bike that's been ridden three times. Occasionally I sit down and think. Usually these thoughts are totally inane, "What would be a funny tweet about a vagina?" Other times they're more in line with normal humanity "I'm hungry, I should find food!" Gruesome Latin anatomic terms preoccupy a lot of my thought patterns too. But every so often, in but the briefest glimpses, flashes of brilliance, moments of clarity, enjoy your own favorite euphamism, strike me.

I had one of those this morning. I think I'd finally stepped over the line of "bat-shit crazy," that even Aaron Casey would think "Holy shit! That's NUTS!" Like a glutton I've spent the past few days since the completion of my new bike looking at, take a deep pause here and think hard, new parts for a new bike! Yes, that's right, a new, new bike! Apparently it just took a good night's sleep for the total buffonery of that to sink in. Now, since this minor epiphany, the little grey cells have been furiuosly synapsing trying to make sense of just what in the hell let that gross act of greed to proliferate.

Is it personal flaw, or can my transgressional buck be passed? Humans are only as free as they were socialized to be. Thus, society drives the overwhelming majority of decesions a person makes. Its an interesting concept of a ubiquitous driving force that's everything short of tangible, and yet almost totally ignored on a daily basis. Much like Achillies in Homer's Iliad, who was socialized by combat, a war machine first, a man later. He had his briefest flashes of nobilty and class, but the majority of his existence centered upon the maiming, murdering and otherwise destruction of life. The "why" behind all of this was greed. Achillies wanted stuff. He wanted gold, jewels, women, oxen, anything and everything that caried some value. Give that man some gold, and unless the fame of ransacking your city was on his "To-Do List" you were probably safe. I hope that all sounds familiar, because it's a pretty common theme. The British East India Company, Adolf Hitler, Bernie Madoff (Most ironic name ever... Bernie made off with all the money!). That's a list of heavy hitters in the world of absurdly greedy. But it proves the point that somewhere in humanity is the need for greed.

All that said, I guess my answer is "yes." It's a personal flaw to be desirous as well as a trait engrained by society. If I were Catholic now is the time I would be asking for my pennance tasks. Thankfully I'm not, and I know what must be done. I must be thankful for what I have by riding the hell out of that bike, and if I do that, I'll ride the hell out of me. Did I mention tongiht is short track? In the immortal words of Terry Tate: "PAIN TRAIN BABY! WOOWOO!"

Ride Report: Suffering

2009-08-05T22:56:00.002-04:00

Short track was a blast, but tonight hurt a bit more than usual. I decided I'd give my dad's old Cannondale a try. Not a bad plan, it's rigid aluminum, so it's stiff as shit and light as a feather. I forgot that it's only got an 11-28 cassette. Hooray for 15 year old seven speed technology! Of course, on the upside, I mashed those bigger gears for all I was worth because that was my only option! I do believe investing in a singlespeed of some variety will be a very good purchase.

Inspite of the gobs of hurt, I pulled ten laps, so that was pretty sweet. Can't wait for next week, the new steed makes it's debut! Hooray!

It's Wednesday!!

2009-08-05T10:42:00.002-04:00

Because of a weird work schedule that undulates weekly (you like the use of "undulates" there, I know it!), and being a bit of a masochist, Wednesdays are now my favorite days. They have usurped Friday and Saturday, once monoliths of favoritism. It all has to do with this funny little thing called "short track." It's a short bike race, less than a half hour, of pain. But the total euphoria after finishing is above and beyond the hurt. Plus the cats that come out to race are cool, so there are always plenty of laughs. As usual, I'm stoked to be pumped about tonight. Race report to come after the shenanigans.

The Niner is hovering around complete. The front wheel is laced, but not tensioned and I have to cut the steerer tube down, then it is complete! Guess I'll be riding Dad's Cannondale tonight, give the rigid thing a shot. The bike is half as old as I am, I'm a bit afraid of it, but what the hell, I don't like the Stumpy for short track, it's a bit too squishy.

Words....

2009-08-01T22:34:00.002-04:00

... I'm lacking structure for this post. I've just finished The Watchmen for the second time in as many days. The movie is fantastic. It's not up to the book, but when your measuring stick is "redefined a genre," the competition is just a wee bit tough. Zack Snyder is certainly earning cult-hero status with his collection of graphic novel turned movies. Man's got some good vision, mad props to him! And for the sake of mention: Ashlea and the Peach watched the first go-round with me, so that was cool.

I'm in the process of finishing my first hand built wheel. The dish is way off, which I was partly expecting. What surprised me however is how straight it's staying through my tensioning. I'll hopefully knock out the front wheel tomorrow, then I'll be a cut steerer and two tubeless tires from my first built bike. I'm so damn excited, the words really don't do it justice. I don't know what I'm going to do when this is finished, it's been the object of my obsession for the past three months. I may have to... *gasp* ride it. Heh

Lees-McRae short track was on Thursday. That was a fun race! It felt a lot more mountain biking than does the usual ETSU track. There was a small starting straight, which quickly funneled everyone in to a tight wooded chicane. I got caught here and fell in to a tree. This short wooded section emptied back out in to the primary field for a stretch, before plunging back in to the corn-maze of turns. There was a pretty good hill in the middle third of the course. No surprise, but it beat me down pretty hard. It started innocently enough, until it made a hard S-bend in to the pitch black woods. Luckily it crested quickly and shot you out downhill pointed straight for a pair of quick berms.

Then there was the piece de resisistance! Pumping out of the berms you make a hard right between two tight trees, drop about a foot over some gnarly lookin roots, dip into two nasty mud ditches, keeping your speed until you plunge tires first (hopefully) in to a small creek. The otherside of the creek was more thick mud and more roots. Another hard turn and you were back to the start. It was a pretty intense loop, and was really fun. Dry weather and that course is going to be balls-to-the-wall fast.

A couple of the guys that I ran in to over there were riding 29ers, which was cool. One was on a Fisher Paragon, the other a Stumpjumper 29er hard tail. I really wanted mine to be underneath me at that point, but it's only time and there are always more events for the go-fasting. Completed pictures, as well as the first dirty pictures will be coming later this week!!!

Addendums, adjuncts and lists of varying varities.

2009-07-29T23:39:00.002-04:00

As an addendum to my last post, I give you the spec sheet on my new chromatic beauty.

Niner E.M.D. 9 Frame (Medium)
Handbuild Wheels - Stan's NoTubes Arch rims, DT Swiss Revolution 2.0-1.5mm spokes, and Hope Pro 2 Hubs
Niner FlatTop 9 Bar (Full 710mm width for now)
Rock Shox Reba SL fork (80mm)
Ergon GP1 grips (Team green)
SRAM X-0 Twist shifters
SRAM X-9 Rear Derailleur (Medium cage)
SRAM x-9 Front Derailleur
Shimano SLX crankset
Schwalbe Racing Ralph tires (2.4 front, 2.25 rear)
Shimano HG chain
Raceface Ride seatpost
Thomson X4 stem
WTB Devo SLT saddle
Cane Creek S3 headset
Jagwire Ripcord cables and housings
Avid BB-7 brakes
Avid G3 CleanSweep rotors
Speedplay Frog pedals
Salsa Flip-Offs skewers

All that's left is to get a Stan's kit, build the wheels and set 'em up without tubes. The excitement is fast approaching critical mass.

And for the sake of adding some substance to this post, here's a rundown of tonight's short track.

Got to the track early to warm up. The Great White Goat was busily chatting away with two people I didn't recognize. They were wearing skinsuits, as I later found out. A few minutes later and I was trying to get accustomed to El Stumpjumper de Padre, and scoping out the soggy track. The torrents doused everything the past day or so. I was feeling good during my warm up, always a good omen.

The good crowd lined up on time! Then we realized we were short some guaranteed riders, and elected to delay the start. More warmups! More good feeling! As we lined up, chatting away, Alan asked "Hey Aaron, you gonna give us one of your half-lap leadouts?" I mentioned I was feeling good, right? Balls-to-the-wall leadout sounded like a fantastic idea.

"Uh, I guess, go." The battle cry rang out on the nearby blades of grass. Enter: The BottleRocket.

I dropped in to my best imitation of an aero position, and spun the cranks for all I was worth, massive speed baby! Crested the top "climb," and the bottle rocket burst. Mr. Skinsuit shot past me like he had rockets on his bike. Between the bonking and his speed I was totally confused, I've been passed slower by cars. Dude was a hammerer!

Three laps passed before my ribs stopped hurting and I could breathe, err pant, normally. My brain emerged from the Pain Cave, and decided I could push some more. So I did. That good feeling I had during warmups was starting to come back. About a lap later, I found myself on a wheel. I almost didn't know what to do. Again, I forgot to ask the guys name, so he'll be Skinsuit Jr. I managed to slowly reel him in over two laps. I caught him on the third, and started to open a small gap. My egomania hit it's full stride, but even that wasn't enough to keep my legs cooperating. A couple near stops, a host of profanity and the ever motivating sandy-vagina-making-a-pearl derrogative managed to get the cranks circling again. I retreated back into the Pain Cave, checking out on all things not "Spin" "The" "F**king" or "Cranks" or wondering where Skin Jr. happened to be.

Those Specialized "The Captain" tires are pretty sweet on dry hardpack. They're on the squirrely side when it's wet and sloppy however. I 'spose if I had balls it wouldn't have been an issue, but I just couldn't trust the tires to grip. I had considered putting my old Nevegals on, but alas for hindsight is always 20/20.

Tomorrow is another big day! The Lees-Mcrae team who showed up today is having their last short track of the summer. There seems to be a big crowd from this area making the hour pilgrimage for some fun and hijinks. I'm very excited to ride a new track with (hopefully) lots more people. As is my wont, I'll be reporting in with another loquacious post describing my mediocre finish.

Positive end for today: I won a JOOSE!!!! Being the guy who put in the most effort with the least result isn't bad at all. Not with a premium malt beverage awaiting me!

A sneakage of the peekage!

2009-07-27T22:04:00.003-04:00

Yup, that's right. I'm going to treat you all to a sneak beak of the brand new Niner build I'm working on.

From this pile of ruble, I shall create a machine!

Because I'm easily excited, and bad at picture taking, I don't have any of the frame straight out of the box, but here she is mostly fresh.

Now, with a bit more labor, and almost a full mock build. Still waiting on most of the drivetrain bits, and some miscellaneous parts.

And that's where we are so far. I should start building up my wheels later this week, and then the matching begins. Yes, my garage is a wreck, but it's cool, I know where everything is! And aren't my wreathes GORGEOUS? Hehe I'll let you break for a mop, to get that sarcasm up.

So stoked, still. I haven't mountain biked, in its purest sense, in a month or more. The cross bike is lovin' all the attention it's getting though.

Another quickie.

2009-07-23T11:23:00.003-04:00

Just a quickie before work. I made that cute post about the pre-race jitters, but never followed it up. I finished with 1:23 and some seconds, so I was bummed about that. Not heart broken, or demoralized, just bummed. I'd really hoped for a better finish. Part of the problem was a total lack of pushing myself on the climbs. At least I rode the whole thing. I wasn't going to get off the damn bike if it was still functioning.

Had the short track last night, and as usual it was a blast. Big crowd too, which made for more fun. I rode my 'cross bike for the first time, that thing is a bit hairy on the down hills, even as mild as the ETSU course is. Just need to spend more time ridin' it and getting used to how the bike works.

The Niner is sitting in the garage, partly assembled, mostly lookin sexy. I hope to order the rest of my bits this week after I get paid. I'm so excited about getting my new beast built up. The anticipation is becoming unbearable!

Jitters

2009-07-13T14:17:00.004-04:00

This is just going to be a post to try and get out some pre-race jitters and nerves before tonight's Mountain Bike Rally at Bays. This is going to be my first "real" race. The Wednesday short track soirees are great, but this is a notch above. I really want to do well, but work and school murdered the last remaining vastigaes of fitness I might have had. With 20 minutes once a week being most of my training the past month, worry is prevalent. I've got a pretty decent knowledge of the route, I can remember where most of the obstacles are. So hopefully nothing should surprise me, no abberant hills or badness of that ilk. I just hope the rain storm this morning didn't wreck havoc with the gravel roads. I loathe gravel, and the thought of much of it being less smooth than usual is grim. Oh well, a slow warm up and a trip or two down Chinquapin should get me feeling pretty comfortable on the bike, and ready to rock'n'roll.

On a related note of awesome, Speedgoat should be sending me frame within the week! Sooooooooo excited!!!one!~!@!1!~!!

Eet eez Le Skinny Tire Season!

2009-07-09T23:00:00.001-04:00

As everyone who enjoys riding a bike knows, it's Tour season. The grand daddy, Le Tour de France will absorb all of July. And for most people that's the only time Versus' logo will ever grace their television set. I'm not one of those people because I watch hockey. What I do love though, is Versus' coverage. They have no other programming, so they replay the stage du jour three times after its live broadcast. Since my job sucks, and I never have the same schedule, this is brilliant. So far, I spend most of my evenings curled up on the couch with remote in hand, textbook nearby, ready to watch and study. So far it's been fun.

Now, fun is relative. Perhaps it's my perpetual state of annoyance I've been living in for a while, but I am so incredibly sick and tired of Mr. American Cycling. Complete and total overdose of yellow and black. I really think I appreciate everything the man has done, no need to rehash them all here. But like oxygen, alcohol and riding, too much of a good thing is a bad thing. And it's not just the Vanquisher of Cancer, Mark Cavendish is about two promos away from green-jersey-induced nausea. I get it already, he's fast. He's REALLY fast. I get it. for the love of god and all that's holy, stop brow beating me about "the man from the Isle of Mann."

I want to love these guys, but I'm not wired to root for the favorite. I have theories on how that impulse developed, but they are wordy and boring, poor materiel for an upbeat and well crafted prose, such as this blog. Long story short, I pull for the underdog. The only exception is if my team is favored, and I'm cheering them on until the bitter end. And because of this strange compulsion, watching the Tour is fun like short track racing. Not every single second sucks, but the pain never really leaves.

Speaking of short trackin', yesterday was brilliant! I counted 12 riders at the hay bale start line. Absolutely huge! It was the first time I've actually had to pass anyone, which cranked the stokeometer in to uncharted territory. Anet Lamberson was kind enough to let me pace her for the first two laps. After the second crossing my legs couldn't process out enough lactic acid. The defensive riding started, digging in to whatever resources available, just making sure the cranks kept spinning.

The Stumpjumper preformed admirably, but just doesn't have the design for short track racing. In spite of the double, and the massive rock garden, there's just too much squish to facilitate the efficient power transfer to climb fastest. I can't wait to get my wheel back, and hammer on the hardtail. Too bad my weekend is full of crap, and won't allow me much time on the bike.

On the bright side, Friday is pay day, and Monday is the Bike Rally at Bays. That'll be my first big race and the excitement is boiling over. It seems like only yesterday that race was months away. Hopefully my complete lack of prep will serve me well. The goal is to get less than 75 minutes. The last complete ride I got in was 1:29. It'll take every bit of patience not to blow up on the first straight, or the climbs, but still knowing when to put the hammer down. It'll be a blast, I'm sure.

Gimme the two flats omlet with a side of bacon!

2009-06-29T20:17:00.002-04:00

Rawr! Tubes! RAWR! I was out riding today and fairly well no less! I went to Bays to get some practice on the race route, since the rain has made everything wonky on the fire roads. I've been obsessive about warming up lately, so I decided to ride out to Feagins Gap and up Cherry Knob (I think that's what it's called) doubling up the first leg of the route.

That hurt. It hurt in all the right ways. By the time I'd gotten to the end of the dam, the legs were feeling nice and warm. The lumbar sheet was feeling a little taxed though. Spin, spin, spin, spin, MASH, MASH, MASH, spin, spin, spin, MASH, MASH, MASH, MASH. Finally got up the first climb feeling a bit of the ache. It was still early though, and I knew I could recover after the next big climb. Too bad I missed my gear and had to work on my run up skills. Running sucks, for any reason.

I managed to blast the Lake Road. Gettin in the big ring really makes me happy. I feel all powerful and strong. Not to mention its sweet to look at the Garmin and see lots of big numbers. The best thing about that two mile stretch is working on cadence with the rolling hills. Courtesy of the Wednesday Short Track races, I'm getting the hang of accelerating up short hills, and really learning a lot about controlling my heart rate. The powah! I can feel the pow-ah!

Shed Hill really killed my back. For some reason I decided I needed to get as low as physically possible for that 6 minute climb. Rolling along the ridge and hydrating, I couldn't feel the bottle slide back in to my jersey pocket. That was a little creepy. That also was foreshadowing for the impending explosion.

The ridge went along fairly well, some extra pain from the length of exertion. I haven't ridden the race course in a couple months, so the prolonged climbing was not going to agree with me. The real irritation came with the first of the "Los Tres de Muertos." My little moniker for the three steep, painful climbs up to the fire tower. Made it through the first pretty quickly. The second was slower, but acceptable pace. I nearly threw up on the third. Got some trackstand practice, some blurry vision and I'm pretty sure that's the culminations of everything that went wrong afterwards.

As I was trying to spin up this (insert favorite expletive here) grade, I desperatly needed water. Grabbed the bottle, drank, replaced bottle. I drifted off the road in to some brush at that point. Cursing everything under the sun, I furiously steered the bike back on to the track. The "I just crested a hill, and I might be able to breathe!" climax came and I soft pedaled down the rest of the ridge towards the descent. That's when the actual problems started.

Something felt wrong. I couldn't tell for sure what it was, but something felt weird. My bike was bouncy. Had I passed out climbing, and switched bikes? Can't be good, but I can't stop, this is a simulated race run, damnit! And so I went boucing down the fire tower descent, which I hate without bounce! I was about a quarter of the way down when I crossed a small dip. WRONG! I got tossed off the front end like a rag doll with a sailor's vocabulary. The front tire was flattening.

Not a problem, I've got a tube tire levers, and a CO2, it's kosher baby! Just to be sure, I walked down the rest of the hill, not wanting to test the pressure of inflation on a hard descent. Now the fun begins! I am apparently completely and utterly brain dead. Replace tube with spare form saddle bag. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, done it a billion times. Retrieve CO2, cease brain function. Don't attempt inflation convinced the gadget won't fit the valve. Roar in fit of rage. Replace wheel and continue walking. Thankfully a guy I've run in to at work stopped and offered a mini pump. Spent 10 minutes with this tool furiously forcing air into the foramen of the tube. No dice. Give thanks, continue walking.

That was my monday. 3 hours in the park, half walking, half actually having fun. I checked the spare tube when I got home. It already had a hole! Brilliant! Two patched tubes are in my garage now. Pretty glad they weren't hard to fix, just wish I could have done it on the mountain. But hey, at least I got a pretty sweet hike in!

Long time no blog!

2009-06-23T07:39:00.002-04:00

And indeed it has been. A small flurry of activity, and three weeks of complete radio silence. Ah well, what can I say. There isn't as much creativity as I thought there was inside this old cabeza of mine. Nor lately has there been much time.

Anatomy and Physiology 1, which I started the first week of June has a duplicity about it. Its easily the most fascinating subject matter I've ever studied, conversely it's high on the list of "Most Arduous Shit I've Ever Read." Not surprisingly, and to my delight, technical terms blindside you every sentence or so. I love new words, and if you've spoke to me, know I use them. I love throwing around a beefy vocabulary whenever possible, it sates my nerd rage, and puffs up the ego. And for the past week or so, the ego is needing all the help it can get.

The last week, was a massive emo-fest round these parts. Didn't get the grade on my first A&P test, woe is me. Worked all weekend, woe is me. Got pissed off at my father on, take a guess, Fathers Day! Woe is me. Behind on reading for A&P woe is me. Nothing terrible, under no circumstances (well, normal circumstances anyhow) life threatening, but all amazingly frustrating. I, like so many others out there, loathe my job. I think I do anyways. I'm leaning towards the people I work with being the culprits, rather than the actual job. Standing around and talking to people about bikes and excercise is not a difficult job, its rewarding in its own ways. That narrows things down. The cats I work with all bitch nonstop about how miserable "this place" is. Everytime something is asked of them its Atlas' burden. Maybe I'm just too good at skimming past, but really? Being asked to do something is a problem? Weren't you just bitching about not having anything to do?

Because you never want to end anything on a sour note, the outlook for the future is looking bright. I'm working every day I'm not in school, but I've got morning half days, which means I should get some extra time on the dirt! I'm also ordering my new frame this week, sending my stokitude off the charts. Oh, and more SHORT TRACK! Woohoo!

Seriously?

2009-06-01T13:36:00.003-04:00

I like to think I've made great leaps in my understanding of humanity. I think I even felt I was starting to get a handle of most of the wiring systems you see in people. I was even beginning to feel some empathy, rather than apathy. Then I read articles like this and off the handle I fly. I've lived in East Tennessee for 20 of my years, and thus must bleed a shade of orange. Yes I was devastated last college football season. I spent hours screaming at my T.V., the big screen T.V. at work, the plethora of T.V.s in bars, all because the orange and white kids didn't beat the other colored kids. Somehow, this warrants the need to kill. My mind feels like bacon on the business end of the skillet as it tries to comprehend this news. How awful is your own life that you feel the need to take out aggression, to threaten and demean a 20-something kid who throws a ball while he's in school? Maybe I'm relating because Compton is almost as old as I am, or maybe it's the complete and total madness it takes to threaten someone who isn't even getting paid to entertain you.

On the good news front, ride this afternoon, and club meeting tonight. The weather is dandy, I can't wait!

Fridays are supposed to be great, right?

2009-05-29T20:35:00.002-04:00

Work sucks. To make up for it, dig on some Prog rock from some of the best around. Up first, Les Claypool's Frog Brigade with their rendition of Pigs:

I like this version a little better than the original. I know, I know, that's not legal, but the rules can, well, pick your favorite euphemism. Claypool's bass tone just mesmerizes me. It's so... I dunno, but a very visceral experience. Between that, and Roger Water's angry lyrics, really wonderful song for blowing off some steam.

And up next, the one, the only, Dream Theater.

Some Mondays man, that's me. The more I listen, the more impressed I become with Jordan Rudess. He's the keyboard/pianist. He almost caries that band. I've only recently come to realize this. He'll take the long lead pulls all day, then ride back to the team car, and still sprint to the mountain top finish. Very impressed.

The more things change, the more they stay the same, eh? I wouldn't take that as seriously if there weren't so much footage of Steve Howe with a double-necked guitar. Enjoy the weekend, see ya'll at Pedalfest in the morning!

Oh Thursday...

2009-05-28T19:33:00.004-04:00

I snuck a ride in this afternoon with the Padre. Way cool! First go round on a real mountain biking excursion since I bashed me cabeza. We rolled over Bays from one side to the other, which with Chinquapin, is a total blast. The legs felt like massive pistons, spinning the cranks with mechanical power! Almost two weeks off was obviously a good thing. Took every climb a gear higher, at least. My brand spankin' new Volt:
Dig it, dig it a lot. I wasn't ready for the 80 degree temps, yet this bad boy rocketed the air through. Did I mention it looks out standing with my Steal Your Face Jersey? No? You wouldn't believe how perfectly it goes with my Steal Your Face Jersey. Seriously.
Being back on the bike and hitting the singletrack was really nice. I was getting a bit on the crabby side, being stuck inside, or at work. Good stuff though, it's all looking up nicely. I guess it's good I finally posted some bike related content here, what with the title and all. Cheers!

Game 4 Eastern Confrence Finals

2009-05-27T21:31:00.000-04:00

8:51p Running Diary of The Magic - Cavs Game 4 commencing. I missed the first six minutes of the game screwing around with the look of the blog. Note to self: Budget time better. Also: enjoy game.

8:53p Craig Sager: Used car salesman, or sideline reporter? Can someone update this man's wardrobe, or something?

8:55p One beautiful possession for the Magic, except for a missed three. Next possession: ugly and still missed the bucket. Bummer.

8:57p Mo Williams taking the elbow replay, nasty. Doug Collins, did he need four stitches, or did he need four stitches?!

8:58 HOLY COW! WALLY SZCZERBIAK SIGHTING! NO WAY!

9:00p The Magic have gone cold. No buckets, lots of rebounds, and an air ball. Maybe this Szczerbiak actually playing thing is useful? Glad to know that they're finally going to play another shooter to help out LBJ.

9:03p Commercial for Safelink, a government supported cell phone service. Scary emergency situations, and they close with a shot of mom whisking a bowl on the phone talking with the kids. Huh?

9:06p Good spacing for Cleveland, maybe they're not a one man show. They look pretty energetic, even the bench! The Magic on the other hand, look awful, bad looks and bad possessions.

9:07p End of the first; 25-21 Cleveland.

9:08p Degree commercial that shows people driving "Car of dreams" to work. No bicycles, but there are some golf carts and a Cessna, lame. That would sell me on deodorant: This stuff is strong enough to keep you dry, even when you're riding to work!

9:11p Craig interviews Mike Brown, Head Coach of Cleveland. Cheerleaders are holding up Jet Blue signs, what the hell? We can't pay for our arena, so we're going to let you guys advertise during time outs! Yeah! Go Tragic!

9:12p Van Gundy is mixing it up, two bigs Howard and Battie.

9:13p Orlando just got 6 quick points. Turkoglu three and a transition bucket for Pietrus. nice.

9:15p Orlando streak, three straight threes. up 32-31.

9:16p Attempts to push the pace failing, both teams missing bad shots and looking bad.

9:19p "Sneak Peak" of "The Hangover" This is either going to be hysterical, or awful. Something like, awful at -45 would be the line. I'm putting my money on the latter

9:20p Hedo Turkoglu looks stoned. Stan Van Gundy has an impressive mustache. Ron Jeremy would be so very, very proud.

9:23p Apparently we have to love that Wally has two points, and Lewis has zero. Who knew?

9:27p Craig Sager: His outfits would make Stevie Wonder flinch. Baby blue sports jacket with a pink hard hat. He must have been spectacular in his interview, if he wore anything I've seen him wear on TV, I'd have laughed him out of the room. Yeesh.

9:29p Varejao for a steal? Wow, whoop! Stolen back by Rafer Alston. these series make me smile.

9:30p Gortat doing his Dwight Howard impression, big dunk!

9:31p Delonte West has too many tattoos to play for Cleveland: He should be in Denver, where bare skin is frowned upon! I guess since it's too cold to tan, might as well ink up.

9:32p Holy steals batman, the Tragic are back!

9:33p Three bad possessions lead to the Tragic losing the lead.

9:34p Sir Charles making the Old Skool, with Dr. J and Magic, I love this commercial. Barkley has phenomenal charisma.

9:37p LBJ has put up just under half of his team's points. Mind boggling.

9:38 p12-0 run by Cleveland in the second half. That's scary.

9:39p The rare three point free throw try for the Magic. Anthony Johnson only got one of them though. Three point game.

9:41p Mike Brown must listen to ESPN, he's playing The King at forward, looking good so far.

9:42p The 12-0 run has become 18-3 in about 4 minutes.

9:44p More ugly from Orlando, down 8 going into the half, lets see what Chuck and company have to say!

9:45p Woah, Sager's jacket isn't blue, it's sea foam green! He must dress with a Crayola box nearby.

9:51p When did the Magic adopt the Philly Phanatic? What is that green thing bouncing behind the halftime crew? The Stuff? No wonder mascots get laughed at, not with.

9:53p The halftime show in the gym looks like they're trying to flip into Kenny Smith's head. Barkley just asked if you have to have a college degree to be a mascot. Hehe

9:55p The Most Interesting Man in the World! Stay Thirsty my Friends!

9:58p Barkley v Rocky the Nuggets Mascot from way back. Giggles ensue!

10:09p Rafer Alston has scored the first seven points of the second half. Has anyone mentioned that Orlando is streaky? I'm not sure anyone made mention of their streakiness. They certainly didn't tell me the Magic are streaky because they rely on three point shooting, no sir.

10:13p 9:40 in the third and Cleveland just scored.

10:14p Alston buries another three. Cleveland up by 5. The Magic look confused on the defensive end.

10:18p Jimmie Johnson begging basketball fans to watch NASCAR. Really?

10:20p Mo Williams looks like he's going to back up his "guarantee." Very fired up.

10:21p Rafer Alston es EN FUEGO! 13 points in the third!

10:22p Varejao nice steal from Turkoglu, no bucket though. Cavs by 2

10:23p Both teams going small, could be fun!

10:25p Howard and one. And a technical for taunting Varejao. That's a terrible call, he's fired up and can't tell the other guy to kiss it? Weak. Stan Van Jeremy isn't very happy either. Patrick Ewing got a technical?!

10:27p The crowd is shouting "Bullshit!" TNT Producers are sitting on puckered asses right now. That NBA sure has a rep for awful officiating, now I see why.

10:28p James just nailed a sweet fade away three. Dude's a beast.

10:30p Mickael Pietrus must have sights on his hands or does he see like the Terminator? He's shooting everything behind the arc.

10:32p Shaq! Mixed emotions for the Magic fans with that man.

10:33p Is this a Ben Wallace resurgence? I know his corpse was being trotted out, they must have finally exhumed his mojo. A big frenzy of activity today, a block, a basket and he took a charge in three possessions.

10:34p Rafer Alston has 15 of his 21 points in the third. Cleveland up 79-78 Tiiiiight!

10:36p Wendy's ads just reek of writer's strike.

10:38p Sager interviews Ron Van Gundy, with one rambling question, this earns him the patented “Stan Van Gundy I AM OUT OF MY FREAKING MIND WITH STRESS! AND YOU! YOU'RE FREAKING JABBERING! SILENCE UGLY COAT! SILENCE!”

10:40p Great possession for Orlando, they look like Memphis, lots of drive and kick, Pietrus finishes with the three.

10:41p Tied at 83, Alston wide open for three! Career playoff high! Woohoo! He was a good acquisition from the Rockets.

10:44p 88-83 Orlando has hit a cold streak, lots of missed buckets past two minutes.

10:45p Miller Lite Mafia "Protection" ads. The condom companies could copy these verbatim, just change the product the dippy attendant is holding.

10:48p Courtney Lee dropping a big J to put ORL up 8. Looking good for the blue, if they don't go cold. LeBron is going to have to win this.

10:50p Errant pass from LBJ needless turnover, he's not happy.

10:52p Dwight looks awful trying to post up Illgauskas. He needs more time with his “Big Man” coach, Ewing.

10:53p The Magic aren't scoring enough to keep the lead, they've got to get something figured out, and force the LeBrons into their 1v5 offense.

10:56p McDonalds and fresh products, I'm kind of disgusted by this.

10:58p There we go... LBJ vs. 5 guys in the paint. Lost the ball and turnover.

10:59p Fouls to give are on the floor for Cleveland, Alston misses a wide open three. Varejao just got a three point play on the other side, 3 point lead with 3:04 left in the fourth quarter.

11:00p Did an NBA official just call traveling? There's no way! REALLY? I'd be less shocked if Simon Cowell was kind.

11:04p Offensive foul LBJ, Elbow to the jaw on Mickael Pietrus. Varejao has some sneaky hands, he's getting in the way a lot.

11:05p ORL up by one after James soared into the lane and dunked. 96-95

11:06p Dwight missed the first of two free throws: Hack A Shaq the redux? Got the second, two point lead. 1:39 remaining.

11:07p Alston's gone cold. Short on a BIG three. 1:05 left. 5 fouls on Howard, 98-97 lead for CLE.

11:08p ORL won't go in the paint, probably going to lose.

11:09p Delonte West slaps the ball out of bounds with 6 seconds remaining, who will SVG call on, to win the game? This is the allure of crunch time, baby!

11:12p No inbounds pass, SVG is shouting and drawing, diagramming a play, or maybe blocking his next scene. Which busty mistress will Mr. Jeremy select?! Err which play?

11:14p Lewis nailed a huge three with 4.1 left. 100-98 Ron Van Gundy drew up a good one!

11:17p You're freaking kidding, Pietrus trips LBJ to go to the line for a tie. He hit the first one, will he get the second? There's 00.5 seconds left! This is clutch! Earn your crown! THE ROLL! It BOUNCED IN! we're tied! LeBron has played 24 straight minutes, tied at 100 with 00.5 second remaining. Overtime without a miracle. Doug Collins and Marv Albert chatting.

11:20p Questionable no-call on Varejao sends us to OT!

11:22p Bird's steal from Isiah, that's a sweet play. The NBA where amazing happens, on occasion.

11:24p More sticky fingers for Varejao. Dude is on point tonight, being a complete pest for the Cavaliers.

11:26p Varejao blocked out Howard for a free possession rebound. Three points Cleveland.

11:26p Howard has all 6 points for ORL in the OT.

11:28p Varejao just fouled out, not sure why he got called for anything, way to go referees! Make sure the players don't decide the game, no one thinks that's acceptable.

11:29p Pietrus for three, ORL up 4 1:53 to go.

11:29p LeBron looks very tired and very unhappy, as you do when you're at 28 straight minutes with no rest.

11:30p Howard with the put back, ORL up 111-105 this is great! 1:12 left.

11:31p Chris Paul being in an NBA Cares commercial is pretty funny. Did he punch the camera man in the balls if he didn't look good in the scene?

11:33p Howard blocks LBJ, but Lewis fouled him. More free throws to decide the game. 39 seconds.

11:35p Dwight Howard on the line with 21 seconds left, anyone else not feeling good? Dwight nailed 'em both! 113-109 two possession game. The Cavaliers first two series were impossibly dull, but the Conference Final has made up for that.

11:37p Jump ball? What the? Ok, better than fee throws. Black Betty! Stadium sound guy is playing Black freaking Betty! The “Stokeometer” is reading a solid 9.3! Tipped to Delonte West, bad shot from behind the arc for the King. Zydrunas Ilgauskas shooting three throws, 113-111 ORL 6.4 left.

11:41p Lewis fouled on the inbounds pass, 115-111

11:42p Stan VanGundy is chewing on his pen lid, he'd make a great crazy general in a war movie, with the cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth while he barks orders over that mustache.

11:43p HOLY Three! King James catches, turns, bucket! Cleveland is down one, 3.2 remaining in overtime, Lewis on the line, HE MISSED THE FIRST FREE THROW! CLEVELAND IS STILL ALIVE! 116-114!!! 3.2 left.

11:44p Hail Mary three bounces harmlessly off the backboard. The crowd explodes! Orlando is up 3-1!!!!

Le Sigh

2009-05-27T07:52:00.004-04:00

I've got a running diary from last nights overtime thriller in Orlando to post later today. So this is just a quick post before work. In the mean time, dig on Common & Pharrell

Wednesday Weigh-in: 206.5 Bummer, it's going the wrong way!

Basketball!

2009-05-26T11:42:00.003-04:00

Apparently the Nuggets stomped the Lakers last night. Stellar! For all the things I loathe, I love under dogs just as much. Admittedly, I'm not the best NBA fan, I don't have years of observance, I couldn't list all 12 guys on all 30 rosters. But I will always pull for the David. Of course, this Denver team is fun to watch, it makes it easy to root against Kobe and his purple and gold amigos. Last year the Finals were "Me v Team" I don't think "Me" will make it that far. I also just hate the Lakers. They had the magical three-peat when I was younger, and there's been a loathing ever since.

Hopefully Lebron, Me-East, won't spoil this year. I'm pulling whole heartedly for a Nuggets - Magic finals. That would be exciting, lots of threes and some killer dunks, just the sort of things that gets everyone fired up, and makes SportsCenter fun to watch.

Numero Uno!

2009-05-26T11:00:00.007-04:00

My first foray in to the so-called blogosphere. As the title states, I'm a mountain biking addict. Two wheels whipping betwixt trees is wordless poetry, the thrill eluding description with the ease of a whispering wind escaping one's grasp.

I guess I should have a mission statement. This blog will post only the finest, most important, and otherwise impressive moments, shenanigans and goings-on of it's author.

See? The shenanigans have already begun! Mission statements. Bah! There will be "NSFW" posts, there will be postings to make sports fan world 'round cringe. Opinions will be spouted, and deepest desire will be pinned over. We will laugh, we will cry, the agony of defeat will ravage our souls, success will flow over the collective spirit like a flowing river. Maybe there will be epic metaphors! There are myriad possibilities!

Now introductions are in order! As stated in the "About Me," I am a soon-to-be-competitive cyclist who also has a thing for sports in general. American football is unquestionably my favorite sport, and followed the closest. Baseball is my summer maiden, and basketball a rather strange third wheel in the whole affair. Hockey, for as much as I love watching, seems doomed to relative obscurity.

The other partition of my personality is the obsessive-compulsive computer nerd, ergo the fancy vernacular and deluge of syllables. Nerd-pop will make it's presence felt. Man gotta rep his roots, right? Something for everyone and for everyone, something. This is the opinionated half, and will be very obnoxious, hateful and any other derogatory adjective you can slap on.