FLEETING MOMENT OF DOUBT

In 2001 I moved to Duluth, owner of a 1991 Specialized Hard Rock Sport, a product of college graduation. When I brought it to the local shop for repairs, I walked out with a whole new bike, "sorry, we don't even have parts for that thing any more". I did some local riding and exploring for a year or two, then moved up to an intermittent short/Sport bike race. As life progresses, so does one's hobbies. More and better bikes, longer races, higher categories.

And maybe it's years in your profession, or the aging family, or the aging self, but the quest for adventure, challenge, self worth also progresses. Real long rides, 12 hour races. The last 1-2 years, spurned by certain instigators, and caught up in the excitement, I find myself pushing farther. I signed up for my first Winter bike race, the Tuscobia 75 miler. Then I'm in the Arrowhead 135. And I have a stack of Postcards on my desk for the TransIowa.

Sunday again up early, 5am, out the door about 5:35. Back to the Billy Irvin, meet up with the Instigators. We head West out of town, on the Munger Trail, a converted rail trail. Charlie and Rich turn around after about 2 1/2 hours, family commitments, after putting in 4 hours the night before. Eki and I keep riding another 30-45 minutes or so, then I have to head back for my own family commitments, he pushes on. About 2 minutes later it hit me. I'm now alone. A little hungry. A little tired. A little cold. And I'm 3 1/2 hours from home! What the heck is going on. What was I thinking. What have I committed to. Fleeting moment of doubt!

But the mile markers start going by. 'Carlton- 17 miles' is now behind me. The sun is out, the frost and icy patches have melted. I'm back in Duluth. I'm pushing up the last hill. I'm home, eating lunch with the family, walk with the wife and dog, catching up on neglected yard work. My 6 1/2 hour ride and 15 hours for the week are now just history and memory. Those postcards are sitting on my desk, and will likely see the mailbox this week.

RECOVERY DRINK

SUPERIOR STRONG ALE

Just kegged and carbonated, and just in time. Thick, malty, generously hopped. The perfect recovery drink after chasing a couple locos, I mean locals, around the singletrack of Duluth for 8+ hours on Sunday. William Irvin at 5am, Lester in the dark. Snubbed by the "naked man" trail runner at dawn. Sunrise on the connector to Hartley. Refresh after Hartley with aged, 3-year old Powerbar gummy things and 3-for-$2 Salted Nut Rolls (the kind your dad used to eat), which BTW, look about the same. Thru rocky Piedmont, where we finally found two other mtn-bikers enjoying the day. Ride with tears on our cheeks thru Spirit, seeing all the orange tape representing the upcoming Alpine Slide, which seems to follow the best of the Powdermonkey course. All muddy, we hit the gas station up for water for the trek home, then narrowly missed by the minivan racing for the McDonald's Drive Thru. Great stories of adventure, serious talk about patiently raising kids, bike talk including the singlespeed world championships. Arrive home tired and hungry. Scarf some leftovers from the fridge, then a couple Superior Strong Ales as a perfect finish.

End of Week Libations

If you like IPA's, check this one out. From a Pacific Northwest brewery that is known for their love of hops, this beer doesn't disappoint. Every Fall Sierra Nevada comes out with a special Anniversary Beer, this year it's an IPA style, heavy on the floral and local Cascade hops. Happy Anniversary!

Seventy-two.

72.

My high school football number, I was a big Ed "Too Tall" Jones fan at the time.

But no, I'm not referring to the Glory Days now. Three years ago I had a slight job schedule change that allowed me to commute to work most days. The first Summer, I commuted 71 times. Last Summer 69 times. Wednesday I hit 72, my new record. Now I know that's not a big number for a whole year. But take away a couple weeks vacation, a couple sick days, some days I still have to drive for work/meeting reasons. Days I have to be home for family schedule reasons. A few "rest days" prior to a races. And a host of other excuses to drive. And it's not a long commute, about 9 miles and 30-35 minutes each way. I know there are folks that commute every day. And others that commute 25 miles each way. But I'm happy with my commute. I think it's a perfect commute, concerning distance and time. And I can easily add extra time and mileage if I have time and so choose, including singletrack. I didn't start commuting to go green. And I didn't sell our second car. And it doesn't save me any money, I spend way more on my bike every year than I save on gas. I started because all of a sudden I could. And I do it now because that's just what I do now. Adding up the numbers, that's 72 rides on my bike, about 84 hours, and 1300 miles. 72 times braving the elements. 72 calorie burning, beer earning days. 72 trips to be alone in my own world, in my head. 72 mornings spent with Gitchee Gummi, touring the city, climbing the big hill at the end of the day. 72...and counting.

Check out the book Born To Run by Christopher McDougall. It's an entertaining tale of the ULTRA trail running world, the mythical Tarahumara tribe of Mexico, and delves into evolutional philosophy and physiology. It has a little local flare with stories about Proctor natives Dusty Olson and Scott Jurek. It even takes on the running shoe giants, including Nike. Just in time for the deer hunting season, you might find yourself running down a deer rather than putting that .308 slug thru it's vitals. And I must admit, it's so inspiring that I ran barefoot on the treadmill the last couple days, feeling wonderful, like I'd stepped back in time 20,000 years. Which of course took some imagination as I was wearing my iPod and watching Sportscenter. I can't wait for Summer.

FOREST GNOMES

The Forest Gnomes don't like me. They never have. I don't know why. Maybe it's jealousy of my stature, or the heavy-footed ways I trod thru the forests, or possibly because I've always found joy tormenting ant hills and any other hole/house I find in the woods. Whatever it is, they don't like me.

Case in point. Thunderdown. After a pleasant night sleep curled up with my bikes in the back of the Subaru, I wake to 43 degree temps and clouds. Good, maybe too cold for the Gnomes. First lap, settle in with the pack, into the singletrack, it doesn't take long for us to get spread apart. By about the 8 mile mark, I'm already riding alone. Having fun, then, BAM, front tire hits a big rock, handlebars turn sideways right into my kneecap. Ouch! I hear a laugh, maybe catch a little movement in the brush. Was that rock put there for me? The Gnomes. Laps 2, 3, 4, over and over, the Gnomes. A root here, a rock there, loose dirt on an off-camber turn. I don't remember those from the last lap. They're out for me. Every lap, another biff.

And I'm not alone. Look at Eki. How many times has he had his derailler ripped off by sticks? Now I'm no physicist, but sticks don't just jump. And I'm no math major, the probability just seems a little heavy. Isn't that derailler just about the level of a Gnome's arms? Lap 4, there's Eki, pulling sticks out of his wheel and derailler again. Does that stick seem like it's been sharpened on the tip?

Lap 5. About 1/2 way thru, my tank's running empty. Focus not quite there. I'm hitting more of their obstacles than usual. I hear more snickers, see more rustling in the leaves. Are there more this lap? Have they sensed my weakness? Do they have some sort of "squirrel express" messaging system to alert their friends ahead?

Lap 6. I took an extra long pit, extra calories and fluids. I need more focus. I go as hard as I can this lap. I feel good. A clean lap. Maybe they're done for the night. Maybe I've made peace with them. Maybe they were scared off by the gunshots and dog howls, bear hunting?

Lap 7. Put the lights on. My laps are getting slower, and it's going to be getting dark towards the end of the lap. Likely the last lap, it will be close. I go hard again into the singletrack, uphills, the switchbacks. The hills seem steeper, and more of them. I know dusk is the Hour of the Gnome, high alert. Bang! I'm down, where did that root come from. I'm up and riding again, new pains. I'm half way thru the lap, I hear a loud Screech. I see another rider behind me in the switchbacks, was that his disc brake, or sounds of the forest? I decide to ride as hard as I can, stay ahead of that rider if I can, avert my arch enemies, the forests' little people. I pull into the pit and Finish unscathed further, 30 seconds ahead of the other rider. It's dark now, and drizzling. My body's done, quads cramping, wrist sore from pulling the hills on the singlespeed, lots of little injuries from my spills. They've won. I have 1:40 left, but I throw up the white flag. I can't face them another lap. Not in the dark.

The other rider is braver than I, or maybe a friend of them. He returns to the forest for another lap. In the dark. A fast lap. Turns out to be the winning lap in the Overall. Who knew. I was focused on other things. Would it have mattered? Probably not. They had already won.

A week later. My knee is now healed. My wrist is improving. But I find a lump on my lower leg, there's an inch long sliver palpable under the skin. I see the entrance hole. It will likely need to come out at some point, but do I want to see? Will it have a sharpened point, little feather vanes?

THE LAKE'S NOT FROZEN YET

A little dusting of snow in the Northland, and the ice fishermen get a little antsy. Come on Melvin, grab your case of Blatz and let's put the house back on the foundation for another month or two!