Last week,before my trip to Lake Powell , I took a shot at this year’s installment of the Squealer. Now I know that 90% of the people reading this site are not from Arizona and some are even on the clear other side of the world. But let it be known the if you are ever near central Arizona on Easter weekend, you have something to do. This annual gathering of the tribe puts man against mountain and it is an incredible amount of fun. To me, it is everything that mountain biking is supposed to be. Grass roots, register at a bar, the timing is done by hand, and no governing body to kill the vibe. Your “number plate” is only a little sticker you put on your fork leg. It simply states your starting position and your start time. Don’t be late.
What our very official start like looks like. I'm not a morning person
Being of the slower variety, my start time was pretty damn early. It felt especially early this day as I pushed up the hike-a-bike to the start at 5:30 in the morning. As buddy MP put it “I think I got bit by a tequila monster last night”. I think the same guy bit me too. That could explain the amazing headache and nausea I had that morning. Not racing really wasn’t an option. So the only course of action was to have another beer in the parking lot, and get on with it.
It was a perfectly warm morning and I couldn’t wait to get started. Armed with my #occupybikeseat t-shirt and a single speed, I set out on my race run at 6:07am. Damn, I was having some fun, The first few miles flew by and I felt like a million bucks riding up those hills. Cutting diagonal across a paved road I sat up for a brief moment to take a big pull off of my water bottle and catch my breath. I knew the fun section of trail that was coming up and I wanted to enjoy it at full speed.
As I rolled into the first little chunky technical section my front tire decided to “burp” off of the rim. I don’t know if you have ever experienced this before, but I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. In the blink of an eye, your tubeless tire comes unseated from the rim. You have a split second to think “well now that was a funny sound, I wonder what that was”. Then tire sealant squirts everywhere, the front end washes out, and then you probably hit the ground. Well, at least thats what happened to me.
Last year I had the pleasure of telling the story of Gnome’s victory at this race. This year, I can say I was the one that brought home the trophy. That little flat tire incident, regardless of my finishing time, won me the “Bloodiest Rider” trophy.
I really didn’t think it was all that bad. But come to find out, not too many other people crashed and nobody else seems to bleeding. Since competition was so slim, I got the trophy and a bottle of champagne. To the victor goes the spoils.
Photo courtesy of DurtGurl http://tinyurl.com/7jrz4c3
DC brought home the hardware again this year. I can’t wait for next year.
Remember this guy? He was not your average pro roadie even when he was winning world pursuit championships and breaking Moser’s hour record! Graeme Obree always seemed to do it his way, whether it was building his own bike and/or even inventing new TT positions (i.e. the Superman).
Now at 46 he has recently announced that he is going to attempt the Human Powered Vehicle (HPV) land speed record (81mph) in the U.S. and without the help of Pat Mcquaid (i.e. the UCI).
You have to love someone that can piss the UCI off just by being inventive and fast, and opt’s out of riding the prologue of the Tour “because it is apparent I’ll have to take drugs” (see website). This guy has always been a class act and one of the good guys who rode and apparently still rides for the right reason(s). I think it may be worth sending a DC correspondent to the salt flats or wherever to “assist with” the record attempt.
Cheers,
AK
The world is a better place because men like Graeme Obree are in it.
These children watched their father die in front of their eyes, and no charges were filed.
This is wrong.
Please help us take this viral.
I have offered this:
The Nashville Bicycle Lounge will fully sponsor a memorial ride. We will supply a bicycle for the Ghost Bike. We will also be happy to tow the bicycle. The only contingent is that the ride begins and ends in the street in front of the residence of the person who killed Stacey Floyd.
From the article:
The incident happened just after 7 p.m. on Oak Hill Road in Coffee County.
Officials from the Tennessee Highway Patrol said that a family of five was riding bicycles on Oak Hill road when 40-year-old Stacey Floyd was struck and killed by a vehicle. Investigators said that there is no shoulder on this road and they believe the driver’s sight was limited due to the sun.
I was sitting at work the other day trying to think of some fun stuff to do that would have a lower impact on my body. I have been beating myself up pretty good lately and needed to take it easy for at least one weekend. That is a lot harder for me than one would think. I get bored easily and all I can think about lately is bikepacking. Then it hit me!
I inherited a kayak a few years ago, and although most my friends have used it, I have never actually sat in the thing. What could be more low impact than paddling across a lake to do some camping?! This big orange boat is even big enough to strap my bike to. And just like that, I had a plan.
Two days later, I find myself scouting the shores of Lake Powell looking for slickrock to roll. There is a lifetime of lines out there and I spent a day exploring as many as I could. I made camp on the sandy banks and spent a warm night under a huge, clear sky. I wasn’t very far off the beaten path and I still had phone service so I sent a picture out to the DC crew. Mostly to make them jealous, but also just to let somebody know where I was. Right when I was about to fall asleep, I get a text from Big Jonny:
BJ: I don’t know where you are but it looks pretty awesome
DB: Right now I am in my sleeping bag on an island in Lake Powell. Paddled my kayak out here with my fatbike strapped to it
BJ: you alone or do you have a lady with you?
DB: I’m flying solo. Just me, some Brass Monkey and a sixer of Bud heavy
BJ: You are a hard man
DB: Shit. I’m as soft as the Pillsbury Dough Boy
BJ: HA! You are like the Mark Cavendish of adventure touring!
That gave me a good laugh. With friends like that…
Paddling out across the lake the next morning, I saw a buoy directing me to Antelope Canyon. Now I have done the “hike” from above, complete with the exorbitant entry fee, and it was OK. But something about sneaking around the back way for free was really appealing. Curiosity got the best of me and I paddled up the canyon until it narrowed and came to a stop on a sandy beach. I got out of the boat to sip a lunch beer and have a walk around. The canyon kept going for a while and had a flat (ish) sandy bottom. Logically, I unloaded the bike and pedaled up canyon for probably about an hour. There were a few sections I had to get off and push, but most of it was ride-able. I finally turned around when I reached a giant boulder chocked into the canyon blocking my way. Almost out of water, and really hungry, I decided this was a good spot to turn around and head back to the boat. It was much easier rolling back since it was slightly downhill and I already laid down one set of tracks. At certain points the canyon would narrow so much that my handlebars couldn’t even fit through. It was an amazing experience
For the first time ever, I made a video of one of my trips. I have never made a video of any kind before so be gentle. It was actually pretty fun to do and hope to make more if you guys dig it…
Had a tasty 30+ mile MTB ride here in Flag the other day. Would have made it longer but to quote my friend The M.A.F.E. “my sauce was pretty weak”. The trails here have become rideable so early it still looks like Fall out there. Hardly any leaves and lots of wind and clouds in the sky.
I have been wanting to get on to dirt as close to my house as possible and now that the Flagstaff Loop Trail runs across the urban trail from Thorpe Park (right by my house) it is possible to not only ride dirt but a fun single track as well. I recorded the track with my iPhone but forgot to start it until was a few miles into the ride. Check it out here if you care to. If you follow the link for the loop trail you will see a link to an interactive map of the whole thing. Next time when I get to Snowbowl road I plan to hook left and ride up to Friedland Prarie Road and over to the new ‘Twisted Sister’ trail. That will make for a close to 40 mile ride.
I’ll leave you with a couple of photos. Take it deep.
On the same weekend as Paris-Roubaix, The Squealer had its day too. It’s a mainstay of a smaller circle. And this year it even saw a bump to nearly 80 riders. That’s not the most the event has ever seen of course, but from last year, which I think saw about 45 riders, that’s a lot more heads. And after 14ish years, it’s still filled with familiar good times.
Jake sets the pace
I arrived to the startling line with 4 minutes to spare, already kind of pissed. In no condition to “race”, I can’t knowingly pass up this event no matter what reality says. If any race matters, it might as well be the race in your old backyard. I still had to try. Kirtpatrick in the pic above was my minute man. I stayed with him to the top of the Mormon climb, only to see him slip away as we came over the top. Next came Chewy. With a fist bumped, he pedaled on.
Chewy working into the edges
Then Bennett. Then Dejay. They were all flying. My money was on Bennett, but on the day, Dejay won the overall & SS posting up a 1:32. Holy balls that’s fast.
Dejay passing fans on the way to the win & overall
King FOTP
Jim, in the above pic, has been running this show for 14 long years. There have been highlights in that time that can’t be explained. For those of us who get to be a part of that history, it’s a pretty rad thing. It’s like our own little piece of underground and we love it.
Maybe it’s just another phase, but this year I ran a long travel AM bike; the Marin Attack Trail. At 160mm of travel, I characterize it as a good climbing pig. If I hadn’t been such a little bitch that morning, I might have been more man about pedaling it up the hill. This was a first ride of sorts given the bike. It’s capabilities were obvious and somewhat ridiculous. It’s a FR rig at heart. On any pitch down, it seemed all I needed to really do was just hold on. But damn the uphills.
Rotating a Switch
Coincidentally, Mike Mahowald who also ran a 160mm trail bike tapped out a 7th place finish with a time of 1:39ish.
And people wonder why I dislike hydralic disc brakes. It is because I cannot fix them in the field. I can, and have, sorted out cable actuated breakes more times than I care to recall. Some guys can undoubtedly make the requisite repairs I am currently unable (or unmotivated) to perform. Good for them. I’ll stay a friggin’ progress hate’n luddite, thankyouverymuch.
Don’t worry folks, a working brake was switched from another bike and she was able to finish the race.
When I got to the finish, I found out that I had finished 1hour and 40 min behind Carena. I couldn’t believe that I still had about a 20 minute lead in the Women’s GC and was thankful that I had that despite how awful my day had been. I was completely exhausted. Everyone was laying in the grass at the hotel when I arrived. I slumped down into the grass – a defeated mess. The saving grace was our room had an actual toilet which I hadn’t seen in days. I also had a tepid shower for the first time in many days. I was emotionally exhausted. I tried to nurse myself back to life with a lemon sugar pancake, milk tea, and spring rolls. I anxiously waited for Jeff to get back. I was very worried about him and his health; he had to ride a yak over the pass, hike down the back side and get in a jeep in Muktinath. I was also hoping one of his brakes held up and I could take one of his. I racked my brain to figure out how I’d finish the next day. His rear brake was completely blown out, but his front worked -the brake I needed. http://www.sonyalooney.com/?p=3976.
And hey, remember this negative commenting guy: if you say something denigrating about Sonya, it’s clearly obvious to the rest of us that you are just overcompensating for your own insecurities and that you are nowhere near as tough or hardcore as she is and that you probably cry when you get a flat tire during your Wednesday night group ride.
I’m afraid that preceding paragraph may just act as jerk-bait. But, what the hell do I know? I can’t even fix disc brakes.
Just check out that sweet beer gut growing out from beneath the DC jersey…you know, the one just above the lycra and a bit below the burgeoning double chin.
That gut contains Ranger IPA, and Boulder Porter, and O'dell Levity, and shamefully, a Honey Brown.
Mr. B and I went for a little jaunt through Williams Canyon just outside of Manitou Springs, CO, and the weather was perfect. 75 and sunny, but shade in the canyon. There was even flowing water! That may not sound all that special to you east coasters, but in the desert southwest, encountering running water is like encountering a virgin in a whorehouse. It just doesn’t happen.
Mr. B killed it today on his Voodoo singlespeed. I asked him what he was weighing in at these days, in preparation for the Whiskey Off-Road. "145," he says. I've got 40 pounds on the guy. It's all hidden right beneath the DC jersey.
The ride started with a 5 mile climb up a dirt road from Garden of the Gods. This was perfect prep for Mr. B, who is headed to Skull Valley pretty soon when the Whiskey Off-Road goes off. I suffered through that bitch of a climb a few times. It’s the kind of self-flagellation that could get a guy cast in The Da Vinci Code. Brutal, hot, boring, long…but bookended with pretty killer singletrack. Luckily, the climb up to Williams Canyon today also featured some stellar singeltrack.
The trail was a bit more technical than I expected, and I have discovered that I am not riding with a whole lot of intensity lately. I think it’s time to step up my game…ride with MORE INTENSITY.
In the words of my man Legs via text message this morning:
Dominate performance, we just witnessed one of the all-time greats and it was live on US tv, incredible.
It was like watching Michael Jordan on the top of his game. Or, the pre-meltdown Tiger Woods when he was on fire. It will be remembered as one of the all time great displays of athleticism in the world of sport. He owned that shit today. He absolutely owned it.
He just rolled away. Didn’t look like much, did it? Boonen took a few looks over his should, as if in disbelief. I felt he was asking himself, “Are they really just letting a gap open?”
Yes. Yes, they were letting the gap open. They were all looking at each other to do the work. And, as we all know, such conduct almost always doesn’t work out well. And, I suppose they all thought 60k was suicide.
I will be watching the expanded coverage on US television this evening. Here in the states, they show us the last two hours of the race. Most years, it’s like watching the second half of a football game – you catch all the action that matters. This year, not so much.
Boonen was alone and in full flight by the time our coverage began. His team mate Niki Terpstra wasn’t around long. I have seen the attack (video above) and a few of the crashes of other favorites. But, damn if I won’t be sitting there watching it on the big screen again later.
Boom Boom Boonen is a baller. I say again, BOONEN IS A BALLER.
Like my man flodizzle said last week after the Tour of Flanders:
Tom Tom is going to be skiing some figure 8 powder runs, racing his Lambo and banging every 18 yr old Flemish chick he can find tonight on the streets of Bruges!
That would be funny if it wasn’t true. Sorta like this April Fools joke. When I read it – and I’m not kidding – I thought it was a true story! Then I thought, hey now, and noticed the April 1st date stamp. Damn if it ain’t totally plausible.
The vehicle was found upside down near the castle on the grounds of Baron Casier Park, with Boonen stripped to the waist standing on top of the overturned super car, twirling his shirt over his head, singing loudly to the LMFAO song “I’m Sexy and I Know It.” According to anonymous bystanders, the female companion was clad only in “her knickers.”
Remember, this is the guy who has been excluded from participation in the Tour de France, not once, but twice for testing positive on an out of competition drugs test. Each time, cocaine.
Best of compilation:
The best way to win a classic is to cross the finish line alone.
Early Thursday afternoon kicked off with a sense of relief as I had just finished the second draft of my thesis. After six weeks of feeling as intelligent as a third grader, rewriting two chapters because my advisor didnt like the structure of them anymore, and debating whether or not ditching school in favor of fleeing to Mexico was a good life choice, I had that fucker all buttoned up and ready to go. My afternoon plans were simple, head home, crack a beer, go ride my mountain bike for a bit, then crack some more beers. It all seemed rather simple, but instead I got make a detour to the CSU health center. I was entering an underpass (coming down a slight hill), when a cyclist traveling in the opposite direction swerved into my lane to get past a pedestrian. I had time to grab the brakes, but knew that we were headed for a crash. I got up off the ground, and when I went to asses the damages, and see if the other cyclist was okay I noticed that my finger didnt look normal.
Something about this doesnt look right
Yup my well used middle finger didnt know how to bend anymore, and my ring finger didnt look too good either. After determining I sustained all the injuries stemming from the crash I started to make my way to the health center. A good samaritan (actually the pedestrian who was getting passed) was kind enough to walk my bike to the health center with me. The good news was that I didnt have to wait in line, and got to see a doctor ASAP. The bad news was that on top of the messed up fingers, I had a deep cut to my left elbow, a dinged up right shoulder, cuts and scrapes on my right leg. X-rays were ordered, cuts were cleaned and stitched up, and I got a full once over to make sure there weren’t any other injuries that had been missed. My helmet didnt show any signs of a major impact, but I was fucking happy to be wearing that thing. The x-rays came back negative, nothing broken in my fingers or hands, but I had “mallet finger“. Basically the tendon in my finger got torn and that’s why it looked all fucked up.
Look Ma, Nothing Broke!
Right now I get to wait until Wednesday to see a hand doctor who will decide if any sort of surgery is needed, or if the tendon should be able to heal on its own over the next six to eight weeks. With that I was sent on my way home with a bag full of medical supplies, a bottle full of pain pills, and an immobilized middle finger. Walking home while holding a bike next to myself is my equivalent of the “walk of shame”, my bike was the pair of heels the 19 year old girl carries in her hand, and my bandages were the equivalent of her ruined makeup from the night before. While I wished no one had seen, I knew that plenty had and through a reasonable thought process they were able to figure out what had happened to me. As far as my personal stuff, only my helmet was a casualty, everything that had been in my pockets and in my Dank Bag (computer, charger, orange, beverage, etc) survived.
It looks like I'm always giving someone the middle finger, life could be worse
My bike was another story, looks like the carbon fork on my old cross bike is weaker than the bones in my middle finger (not surprising when you consider I’m from New Jersey), and the handlebar got bent to a point that it is only good for hitting someone I dont like in the kneecap. Not sure what the future will hold for this dear bike of mine, I’ve ridden that Jake the Snake for countless commutes to work, pedaled it on paved bike paths, back country New Jersey roads, back woods Montana logging roads, ribbons of singletrack, and on trips to more liquor stores than I can count. The debate begins as far as whether or not to fix this baby up, or scrounge together some funds for a replacement steed. Now read Dirty’s post below, chock full of boobies and skatepark radness.
Carbon, not as strong as the bones in my middle finger
