So, I’m home sick (what else is new) and I get this message from my man Dirty Biker.

10am in mexico.

Motherfucker is living the dream.

To say I'm "jealous" only begins to describe it.

You know what I like about taking antibiotics for a sinus infection?

I don’t like anything about taking antibiotics for a sinus infection.

Today is an important day around here at DC. Last year on this day I wrote a post  in honor of my friend. I decided that I am going to re-post it every year on this date as long as I am able. It just seems like the right thing to do. Whether you decide to read it or not, just do me a favor. Try to find some time to ride today.

When I meet people from the DC family out on the trail, the one question I get the most is “How do you know Big Jonny and how did you end up writing for the site?”. I am reminded of this story every year around this time, and today seems like the best day to share it.

I always try to adhere to two rules when writing a post. No politics and nothing too heavy. I am going to have to make an exception here and get a little serious.

I have known Jonny for about seven years now. Before that I was just a fan of the site and only knew of BJ through our fantastic bike community here in Arizona. But I never really hung out with the man. It isn’t hard to keep tract of the years we have known each other.

Seven years ago our friend died.

His name was Kyle, and if you have been reading this site for a while you may have stumbled across his name. We were close acquaintances and riding buddies at best. I had never met his family, knew his birthday or any of the things close friends know. But the conversations we had and the rides we shared make me proud to call him a friend. He was an original member of the Drunkcyclist crew, and he was a hell of a guy.

When he passed, you could feel the sadness move through our cycling community lie a tidal wave. We were grieving and we were going to handle it the only way we knew how. Ride and drink. The call went out over this web site and via word of mouth that there was going to be a memorial gathering. Leave whenever you want, ride whatever you want. Just get to the top of South Mountain. I met up with Jonny and a small group of like minded vagrants at the trailhead and we rode the National trail up the hill. We told stories of our friend and we talked about his favorite trail that we just happen to be riding on. It was never discussed but it seemed like we were all riding at a parade pace, a slow march in memorial to our fallen friend. It was one of the most memorable rides of my life.

When we reached Dobbin’s Lookout it was an amazing sight to be seen. There were people convening from everywhere. Mountain bikers coming up trails, roadies coming up the road, and non riders in their cars. I liken it to when you see one ant on the sidewalk then your eyes focus and you notice that there are now 50 ants. They were are coming from all different directions as if they are materializing out of the desert.

Waiting for us at the top was Kyle’s family, a minister, and a keg of beer. The Family said some words and the minister facilitated some amazing story telling. We shared stories for who knows how long. We laughed about our friend’s shenanigans and grown men cried. As I looked around at all these people that came here to pay homage to their friend, there was one common theme. He was just a really nice guy that would do anything for his friends. My thoughts turned to my own impact in this world. How many people would show up if I died tomorrow? Would anybody say these amazing things about me?

At that time, I was a broke, angry, and out of shape looser settling into my position under the bell curve of society. I was living beyond my means and talking shit like it was my job. In short, I wasn’t a very nice person.

This moment was a tipping point point in my life. That evening, as I sat on a rock overlooking the city, everything changed. It may sound over simplified and cliche, but that day I vowed two things. To live my dreams every day and to just be a nice person.

Fortunately, I have kept in touch with Jonny over the years and it has eventually brought me here to you guys. If you have a DC 10th anniversary jersey you will notice a name and some dates on the back. This has been the story of that man. If you are in AZ and find yourself riding up South Mountain road, look for the little memorial across from the ranger station. Stop and pour a little water out for the cactus that’s there. I do it every time.

Our friend was only around for a short while but his impact will be felt for a lifetime. Make time today to go ride, to think about your friends, and to appreciate life.

-Thanks for the life lessons brother. See you at the end of my ride.

Looks like a great course. I have to sell some shit in my basement and get a CX bike. Anyone with a 58cm to sell on the cheap?

—bp.

Friday – Devou Park Cyclo-Stampede
I had committed to working this race a while back in exchange for a free entry. Based on my lack of riding in the last month, let alone “training”, I had two goals – 1. Smile. 2. Stay upright. Easy enough. I took some suggestions, brought a trainer to spin my legs beforehand, and wore a full balaclava to cover my mouth and keep my breathing warm. The air was moist, it wasn’t too cold, I looked like an idiot, but fuck it. I just wanted to have some fun. I was especially stoked that we had 2+ inches of rain the day before which meant mud, and lots of it. It did not disappoint.

For some reason, mostly due to Masters CX Worlds being in Louisville in January, and some rule that masters can’t have UCI points, they lumped all the 35+ women in one race cat 1-4. So I was racing against women who normally race in the elite field with KFC. Whatever. I wasn’t in it to win, that’s for damn sure.

Photo source: Karen and Doug H.

The laps were tough, the course was tough, but it was rad. I did not “race” – I rode it. I didn’t even try to pass anyone, and I waved women on past me. We had hills, logs, soupy fucking rad mud, more hills, leaves, wet grass, more hills, and more mud. I never went down.

Photo source: C.M. McDonald

Crossing the finish line, I did the fist pump into the air like I won or something, just to make people laugh. I smiled. I had fun. And I only beat 2 women.

The Raleigh RX 1.0 survives the worst conditions

After the race, I stayed all day to “work” a course crossing. I hung out with a bunch of local guys I know, they passed around a bottle of Woodford Reserve, and drank PBR in between. At the end of the day they were wasted and I was kind of glad I don’t drink. They did make things a bit interesting.

There was one guy there from Tucson. He is coached by our very own Jake the Snake which was pretty cool. Apparently this dude knows some of my old school homies from back in the day. He saw my DC jersey and thought I was from AZ!

Ram Rod, as Snake calls him.

Sunday Harbin Park
Once again, the 35+ women were all lumped together. They blew the whistle at 9:15am, which was really 10:15am since we did the clock change shit the night before. It didn’t help the chill in the air and the balaclava really saved me. Into the first lap, we went through some slippery soupy mud and there was a clusterfuck of women who went down. I went down too. When I got back on my bike, my saddle was turned completely sideways, the nose pointing left. Not real comfy. We turned into some slick off camber and thats where I actually got off my bike, punched the saddle a few times, and got the nose turned slightly back to normal, still on the left a bit. Fuck it.

I continued onto to the big false flat – a long stretch that was a killer. I could hardly pedal.

Into the first sandpit, I jumped off my bike and half assed ran/walked through it. The next part of the course was more twisty turney stuff, and back around through sandpit going downhill. I ran it, jumping back on my bike and there was mud, some 180′s, some pavement, passed the pit, and onto my favorite part of the course, where they decided to place the barriers on an uphill (not a good place for pictures!), around a bend, and a HUGE downhill, which was all muddy and slick. I was scared I might go down, a friend broke his collarbone on this hill a couple years ago. I didn’t go down, and I powered up the hills and back through the crowds.

Finishing my 1st lap, the UCI rep dude yelled that we would hear the bell which meant only 2 laps for us. I think they shortened our race so the pro’s wouldn’t have to race in the dark. I was just feeling warmed up, and I wanted to do 3 laps. The last lap pretty much consisted of me trying to keep one rider back, and passing the girl in front of me. I succeeded – she had to run a hill I was able to pedal up. I ended up 28th out of 34 or some shit like that. Suckage. I wasn’t feeling too happy – my legs felt like bricks and the air was cold enough that when I got off my bike, the cough started. Then the headache.

After I spun my legs on the road to cool down, we waited in line for the pressure washer for damn near 30 minutes. Normally I would have stayed to watch the pro’s but I was done. I felt shitty, physically and mentally. It’ll be ok if I don’t hear anymore cowbell for a while.

Lola's first bike race

Raleigh

Raleigh tent

Raleigh’s Craig Etheridge was on the podium all 3 days in the SS category. He’s a baller.

Photo source: Dino’s Gorilla Grill

This past Halloween, I did not party like in years past, mostly because I don’t really know anyone here in Colorado Springs to party with. In lieu of drunken debauchery, I went to a Halloween criterium put on by the Women’s Mountain Biking Association of Colorado Springs, and I’ll tell ya, I had a damn good time. I didn’t ride, but I did take some photos, which are here for your perusal. Gotta give props to a badass local organization. Any group that gets the ladies on bikes is good in my book, and this was a helluva event: fun for the adults, fun for the kiddies. Lots of cool schwag to be won as well. More events like this need to happen…

Bike people. They’re good people.

**As a disclaimer, all photos are copyright © 2011 D2 Photography D2photos.net.

The first lap. The gentleman in the lead's costume made sense when you saw it with his wife's costume. He was Guiness, she was Bass. He's black, she's Mexican. Together, they were Black and Tan. The sense of humor was out in full force.

Charlie Brown can fuckin' huck.

Voodoo bikes well represented with some ass-end air.

He's ethnic.

I don't think this dude touched the rocks throughout the entire race.

Some cows jump over the moon. Some cows just eat shit.

Fuck Hammer Gel. This guy's got mocha latte.

Hide your daughters. This kid's a pimp.

The FIRST HUCK. It's all downhill from here.

Some cows jump over the moon. Some cows eat shit. Some cows eat more chikin.

Boo, you two wheeled drunkards.

The Cincinnati UCI Cyclocross Festival kicked off yesterday. Dion, of Velo Vivid Photography, captured this crash, not even two minutes into the first lap of the men’s pro race.

My friend, Average Joe, wrote some pretty cool words on his blog today. I shared it on our facebook this morning, but I felt that everybody should see it up here on the front page.  It’s a great story and great inspiration to take us into the weekend.

In 1995 my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, and in 2008, Alzheimer’s. In the prime of his life he was a renowned Clinical Psychologist, a pain in the ass, and a great dad—funny, strong and trustworthy. Now he spends his days in a nursing home playing with dolls he steals from old ladies.

About five years ago, my dad got a hankering to join me in the El Tour De Tucson. I had already signed up for the century ride, and I agreed to have him join me for the 35-mile adventure. What the hell was I thinking—and what was he thinking? He was a full-blown Parkinson’s victim with tremors, bad balance, early onset dementia—the whole nine yards. But how would I tell him no—and who was I to tell him no? He was told by his doctors that he shouldn’t try to ride a bike, that his lack of balance made it dangerous. Thankfully he disregarded their warnings and my concerns, as the bike proved to be what kept him “alive” until the disease got the best of his next chapter.

I knew riding my road bike would prove to be a challenge at the speed I anticipated, so I bought myself a big fat beach cruiser with huge 24×4? tires and ape hangers. Dad needed a bike too, so I got him a classic 27-speed comfort bike. He never shifted, said he hated it and it was too complicated, yet he latched on to that bike with love, riding the wheels off of it for the next few months, never taking a ride longer than a few miles, but loving the independence and benefits cycling gave him—a brief respite from his Parkinson’s.

Flash forward to the big day. Dad’s Parkinson’s was in high gear. His balance was horrible, his nerves were kicking, his tremors were heavy, and his muscles were very rigid. It was not looking good. Plus, being stubborn as can be and a little crazy from dementia, Pops had already been in his helmet for five hours prior to the ride.

Dad was helpless and slow as we approached the start. I had to push both bikes up to the crowded staging area. We waited in the back of the pack to avoid clustering. When the crowd took off, Dad couldn’t even get his leg over his bike. I tried to help him and was joined by a nice stranger who saw what was going on. She and I grabbed his rigid leg and swung it over his bike, then together, we grabbed either side of him and ran with him until he was launched almost balance-less toward the crowd ahead. I ran back and grabbed my bike and quickly rejoined him.

He never said a word as he rode. Never stopped at an aid station—probably for fear of not getting back on or off the bike without injury. Never drank a sip of water. Never acknowledged anyone. I rode next to him on the climbs and shifted gears for him in order to make it more bearable.

Our pace was incredibly slow by the halfway point but he kept on pushing. At one point, about five miles from the finish, spectators and emergency staff were getting concerned by his appearance. People were approaching me asking if he was okay as we rode by. At one point I was about twenty feet behind him, and someone asked as I rode by if the old man in front of me was okay, to which I replied, “He’s better than okay, he’s amazing!”

Finally, with the finish line in our sights, I was overwhelmed by the magnitude of what we had done. We finished, he finished, it was finished—we did it. We were in with the last of the last, and it took us a grueling five hours to complete the 35-mile ride, but we did it.

As we got to the finish line, I helped my cold, clammy, sweaty, rigid hero off his bike and onto the curb. He hung his head and stared at the pavement. My eyes were drenched with tears. “Dad, I am so proud of you,” I said in awe. Moments later—and still wearing that damn helmet—he looked up at me and said, “I just couldn’t let you down.”

By far, that was one of the best moments of my life, shared with the man I love the most, doing the thing I love the most.

That was the last time I rode with my dad, since his health, stamina and brain have deteriorated so much. He doesn’t recognize me anymore, and I don’t know if he remembers that day, but I will—always. And I hope that one day I can look at my kids after having dug deep inside of myself to overcome my own battle and say, “I just couldn’t let you down.”

Check out the results from that year. 974th and 975th across the line out of 978. Baller.

Have a great weekend everybody!

You can decide for yourself but by what  I got out of this video is, Hammer product is for the poor?

 Part Olympian. Part bike racer. Part Green Man …National Champion and Singlespeed World Champion

But most importantly: Adam Craig is a drunkcyclist

I wanted to take a quick minute to recognize a true fucking badass.

Meet Meg Fisher, one gear, one leg, one hell of a bike racer.

Track, Mountain Biking, Road Cycling, Triathalon (on and off road), 24 Hour Solo Mountain Biking, this gal does is it all, with national and world championships to prove it.

You’re always climbing in Flagstaff.

Up, up...and further up. She may look pretty from afar, but she'll beat you to your core up close. Copyright © 2011 D2 Photography D2photos.net

Anyone who has ridden there knows the first hour of the ride, at least, will be all uphill. You may get a brief respite during the twilight of your ride, but you’ll go back to town, take off your bike clothes, stow your ride away, and it’s all uphill again.

You reach the top of the climb...and you keep going up. There's always more to overcome. Copyright © 2011 D2 Photography D2photos.net

I’ve been thinking a lot about this because of some of the comments in various posts over the last few weeks. The idea of choosing where to live is a tough one, especially as you get older. Do you stay near the trails, and your friends, and the free-flowing booze, or do you move somewhere more affordable, where you might be able to find work and buy a house? Do you sell out for the job and the easy life? Do you drive to the trails instead of ride to them, because riding to them usually means you sacrifice so much in other parts of your life?

It’s a struggle I’ve had all my life.

So many times I chose where to live based on what I could do with my bicycle. Was this place close enough to trails that I could ride to them? Was there a bike community that was worth investing in? Can I get work in a shop if I need it? For perhaps the last decade, these are the questions that drove my decision making.  Now I live in a place that requires me to drive to trails. It’s not infinitely beautiful here, and I don’t go downtown on a Tuesday night and find ten people I know who are ready to have some fun, some booze, and some talk about bikes.

I’m strangely okay with that.

I’ve had a chance to get to know my bike more personally since I’ve moved away from Flag. The riding I do is for fun, and even the fun rides stay FUN; no hotshot racers who pick up the pace to show off how they’re training to catch Lance. Just fun. Beers mid ride. Trails. Bullshit. Fun.

This is not to say, of course, that I don’t miss Flagstaff. I miss my friends there, I miss the trails. I even miss that big brown mountain staring at me from my back door. It’s an amazing place, but I got tired of climbing. I climbed on the bike. I climbed off of it. And I never got to the top. Never.

Sometimes you need to leave the places you love to find the places you need. Some people are never lucky enough to learn that. Copyright © 2011 D2 Photography D2photos.net

Some will call me a sellout for moving away, especially to a place that requires me to drive to trails. Call me whatever the hell you want. Call me shit-ass, but I know I wipe. I know who I am. I know why I left. Now that I’m gone, I’m doing the things I only talked about for so long. Yeah, I was THAT fucking guy.

Quick story about THAT FUCKING GUY: When I graduated from college, I had just finished writing my first novel and was working on number 2. In the meantime, I was waiting tables in a restaurant. On my first or second day in that shit heap of a restaurant in the Dirty Water, one of my co-workers—a generally nice stoner who was sometimes coherent—told me that he, too, was working on a novel.

“How far into it are you?” I asked.

He pointed to his head and said, “It’s all up here, man.”

I feel like I was that kid when I lived in Flagstaff. All talk, no do. Great plans, no follow-through. But the fact of the matter is, it ain’t a novel until it’s on paper, and you ain’t the person you want to be until you start taking steps to become that person. Put the fucking pen on a piece of fucking paper and push.

I will always love Flagstaff, but that place prevented me in a lot of ways from being who I wanted and needed to be. I’m not saying I’ve ended up in the place where I will become that greater person, but I took a step, and it was a good step. I am climbing again, but this time I feel like I might reach the top. I might find what I’m looking for. I’ll take a drive to the trailhead for that.