Even After Everything @jasenthorpe - Tumblr Blog

Fuck Comfort: Rampage 2018

“Art should comfort the disturbed & disturb the comfortable.” ~Cesar Cruz It’s Red Bull Rampage week. And also, I just watched the climbing movies, Free Solo and The Dawn Wall back-to-back. And also, also, I had to overhear audience discussion of each movie, before, during and after the show. And finally, also, I know the Red Bull chatter outside of the freeride/mountain bike communities on social media is only just about to begin in earnest. Rather than start killing the couch-riding, comfort-seeking, safety-craving, judgment-spewing masses, I thought I’d offer a plea for understanding, instead. Clears throat: here goes. When you describe an extreme athlete in mountain biking, climbing or other action sport as being insane, or being an adrenaline junkie, you’re using a form of othering that is disrespectful to the athletes, to people who have mental illness, including addiction, and probably even to adrenaline. Your words are dismissive of the combination of innate ability, opportunity and work that have brought the athletes to the level they are at. You dismiss their processes, their progression, their calculations and their trust in their support groups and family and friends and equipment and everyone else that has been part of their journey. While watching Free Solo, there were two things that particularly stood out to me: when Alex Honnold talks about needing to be so good at, so familiar with, so comfortable with every move he makes on the face of El Capitan, that he could execute it in front of a stadium full of people, he means it. And he practices and visualizes and prepares until he achieves that level of awareness and proficiency. And then he climbs. Also in free solo, when Honnold is getting the brain scan that reveals he doesn’t feel fear/anxiety in the same level or in response to the same things as many of us, I actually thought about a conversation I had with Lennard Zinn years back, when he described white water kayaking (or whichever solo boat-is thing he was doing) as offering the right level of anxiety for his sporting interests. I put a huge value on having shared that conversation with him, and having shared that understanding, and for the concise way in which he communicated it. In The Dawn Wall, I loved the way they showed Tommy Caldwell’s process of exploring and mapping and remapping his route up the eastern face of El Capitan. Having to chart your own course over extreme terrain is such a next level commitment to the sport and the challenge and experience, compared to following a proven line. And it’s something that can only be done through experience and observation and awareness of your own abilities. It’s the model that Rampage is literally built on. Also in The Dawn Wall, watching Kevin Jorgensen struggle with a traverse that Caldwell more comfortably sends, and then watching Jorgensen and Caldwell choose different lines to circumnavigate or send a big dyno move in one of the subsequent pitches, in its way, and in the context of unprecedented route selection, and creativity, that was everything. So apply those ideas to Red Bull Rampage. The athletes are all asking the same questions of themselves and each other: Is this humanly possible? Is it possible for me? With my ability and equipment? In these conditions? They’re all seeking their own perfect route up or down the hill. They’re all trying to answer, what’s possible? And then they’re trying to decide: is it worth the risk for the chance to prove that it’s humanly possible and that I am the one who can do it? Everyone has a different answer to each question a hill might ask, each opportunity it might present. To dismiss their work, their intelligence, their judgment, their ability, their courage, and their willingness to take measured risks, out of your own need to feel less inferior, or out of your fear of seeing someone else get injured or killed, even though its in pursuit of something meaningful to them? That’s a disgrace. To serve up justifications about what it might mean to their loved ones, or what medical or rescue costs it might incur? That’s as bullshit oppressive as when Caldwell’s teachers labeled him as retarded, and basically dismissed him as a human being with his own unique worth, from his earliest days in school. I don’t expect many to understand. Even within the cycling community it’s not uncommon to see extreme athletes harshly judged by riders from other disciplines, disciplines that are predicated on the accepting the risk of riding full-gas around other riders and cars, and chance of being taken out, through no real wrong doing of your own. You know, like somehow the risk of randomly being put to the pavement, through a fence, over a wall or under a car is somehow more sensible than making a calculated judgment about the terrain, the conditions, your equipment and your skill. And even after everything, spare me about the risks of paved mountain road descents. Same thing. Riders, skill, judgment, conditions. Show some respect. #Fistbump of solidarity to @IamJenSee - end -

The Case for Technical Trails: A love letter to hikers and equestrians

I swear that, by the end of this post, in addition to making the correct argument that all trails should be technical and awesome, I will get to the point of showing how we can align the political positions and experience needs of mountain bikers, hikers and equestrians. And that I see all three modes of trail usage as totally valid. I’ll even sympathize with equestrian and hiking participants that have struggled to share trails with mountain bikers. And as an added bonus, I’ll align the interests of actual mountain bikers, mountain bike advocacy groups and mountain bike manufacturers, which, you may have noticed, are so fucking far from being aligned that it would make me laugh to the point of inducing my own death, except that I actually care about mountain biking, mountain bikers, mountain bike advocates and mountain bike manufacturers. Hell, like I said, I even care about hikers and equestrians. But I’m still going to start with this: In relative terms, hikers and equestrians give far fewer fucks about trail conditions, maintenance, erosion or litter than do mountain bikers. As evidence of this, I would say that, while I do see on-trail/trailside litter from mountain bikers (inner tubes, food wrappers, CO2 canisters), and that I do see off-trail erosion from mountain bikers, I have seen far more damage from hikers (off-trail erosion and dog shit bags, especially) and from equestrians (horse shit and actual damage to trail beds). Within Boulder county, this is easily evidenced by comparing trail conditions at the myriad hiking-only locations to trail conditions at say, Heil Ranch, which is a favorite venue among mountain bikers. And, relative to where I lived in CA, to be fair, equestrian use in Boulder is a vanishingly small amount of the total trail user population and it’s rare that there is much equestrian-caused damage here at all. But if you’ve lived in higher-volume equestrian use areas, you know what it’s like to hike or ride a trail after horses have been through on a muddy day. Anyway, the reason I bring this up is not to bash hikers or equestrians (except on the animal shit. I mean, fucking seriously.) I bring this up to say, the trail use debate that often rages between user groups about how trails are built and about erosion and sustainability and switchbacks and grades and reverse grades and whatever is total bullshit. Most trails are very sustainable. Few trails get built by accident, and few trails that are genuinely unsustainable last very long. The rest is really just a fight over access between the various user groups. The real issue is that mountain bikes are relatively quiet on the trails and mountain bikers often travel at higher rates of speed than hikers or equestrians. This creates a situation in which hikers and equestrians can easily be startled when approached unexpectedly by a mountain biker. Nobody really likes to be startled in this way. When people are startled or scared, they often react angrily. When horses are startled or scared, they often jump, rear, and generally freak out. People on horses that do this get startled and often react angrily. It’s all pretty understandable. The mere existence of mountain bikes was disruptive to hiker and equestrian experience on trails. But just because hikers and equestrians are more established groups than mountain bikers, doesn’t mean they have a more valid claim to use of public lands. So rather than argue that point, these groups eventually settled on a tactic of getting mountain bikes banned from trails by claiming that they cause more trail erosion. This was largely the catalyst for the entire conversation around trail sustainability, or at least for the conversation taking on such outsized significance in land management and access policy discussions. It was a way for hiking and equestrian groups to reclaim the calm, quiet, uninterrupted backcountry experience they felt entitled to and had become accustomed to. Never mind that research has shown that mountain bikes do no more trail damage than hikers, and that equestrians do more damage than either. So this has basically been the context for a war between otherwise politically and environmentally aligned user groups for better than three decades now, with damage done on all sides, and animosity growing over time, though it’s pretty clear that mountain bikers have taken the biggest losses. The biggest problem, beyond splitting outdoor user groups politically, is that the way the mountain bike advocacy community responded to claims of mountain-bike-caused trail damage has made the debate worse and deepened divisions between user groups. How? Mountain bikers largely responded by getting heavily involved in trail maintenance and trail construction and trail research as a way to address the claims of hikers/equestrians and show commitment to trail sustainability, stewardship and responsibility. In addition to researching causes of trail damage, mountain bikers developed and implemented a number of means by which trails could be built to be fucking bombproof. Minimize gradients, build switchbacks, reverse grade, armor wet sections, eliminate trail features to prevent off-trail use (as newer, less skilled riders avoid said features), use a system of obstacles/gating to prevent cutting corners, etc. The result of this approach and the resulting trail work is that we now have an increasing amount of super-durable, very easy to ride trails. This has had the effect of making mountain biking more accessible to less experienced riders, and it has had the effect of making trails faster for all mountain bikers. Wait, what? Right. By addressing the trail-damage/trail-erosion claims of the hiking and equestrian communities, mountain bikers have actually created a situation in which they entice more riders to trails and get them to ride at higher speeds, which leads to increased instances of hikers or equestrians being surprised by mountain bikers, WHICH IS THE ACTUAL THING THAT HIKERS AND EQUESTRIANS DON’T LIKE, not minimal amounts of trail erosion. So, the part about aligning trail building around the needs of hiking, equestrian AND mountain bike user groups? Build more technical trails. Make existing trails more technical. This will do two things, ok , three: One, it will slow mountain bike speeds, which reduces the chance of mountain bikers surprising hikers or equestrians. Two: It will decrease the number of mountain bike participants. And three, it will do so by using trail design to favor the interests of mountain bikers who are most committed to the sport – those who will pay their dues and learn to ride more technical trails to get the backcountry experience that they’re after. BLASPHEMY. I just said we should do something to decrease the number of mountain bike participants. I know. I did. And I meant it. This it the part where, after aligning interests of hikers, equestrians and mountain bikers, I throw in the added service of saving IMBA and BMA and other, similarly minded advocacy groups. The only reason to try to build easy trails to entice more people to mountain biking is in an attempt to sell more bikes for the mountain bike manufacturers that are among these advocacy groups’ biggest stakeholders by dollars contributed. This approach actually puts mountain biking into conflict with other user groups, which has resulted in a constant loss of trail access, nationwide, since mountain bike advocacy actually became a thing. Advocacy groups should take the approach of building more technical trails as a means to repair relationships and live harmoniously with other trail users. This, in turn will enable us to open more public lands to mountain biking, increasing access and participation and selling more bikes. It will do this AND simultaneously align mountain biking politically with other outdoor groups. Can you even imagine? Even better or, you know, at least also good: actual mountain bikers would be aligned with mountain bike advocacy groups. (Also, I’ve deleted my Amazon wish list, so, in lieu of gifts, please contribute here: http://www.sustainabletrailscoalition.org/how-to-help-index/#write-congress )

¡¿WHERE IS YOUR FATBIKE?!

With warm temperatures and clear, sunny skies, spring is rolling into Boulder County in style this year. Which is my way of saying, damn, there were a ton of people on the trails today. This made the perfect riding conditions slightly less perfect, but seriously boosted the opportunity for an impromptu sociology experiment and market research study. Free of charge to you, the results follow. You’re welcome.

I’d estimate that over sixty people failed to immediately decline to participate in my study prior to me blurting out the one question that the study consisted of: ¡¿WHERE IS YOUR FATBIKE?!

Results of the study were surprisingly mixed. I’ll first share my observations of the various responses, followed by my conclusions.

Most of those surveyed simply responded by looking perplexed, slightly cranky or some combination of amused and uncertain. Conclusion: your hanging-chad vagueness has no place in my research. Try harder or beat it.

A significant majority of mountain bikers did not seem to know what a fat bike was. This was true of a much larger percentage of pedestrians. Conclusion: Oddly, not everyone works in the bike industry.

Less than ten percent of respondents seemed to have a positive reaction to the question. Conclusion: these people could probably be my friends, but they really don’t need that.

My most positive encounter was with a road rider, who passed me on my ride home from Heil Ranch. He actually laughed at the question, and then started a conversation about things and stuff. Conclusion: road riders are clearly nicer people than mountain bikers or hikers.

No equestrians were encountered or surveyed. Conclusion: equestrians hate fat bikes.

No actual fat bikes were encountered. Conclusion: ¡¿HOW CAN THIS BE?!

Less than four percent of respondents indicated that yes, they should buy a fat bike, or otherwise wish that they had one. Conclusion: there is sufficient demand to justify the creation of at least 7000 more fat bike-dedicated companies, and for any lingering full-line or off-road manufacturers to enter the category.

In summary: Frivolity has no place on the trail on the first day of spring, and I am strongly encouraged to do more research in the future. Survey question and topic suggestions welcomed.

Cyclotossers vs the Tree Huggers

Really, the best part of the US #CXNats debacle has been watching the largely liberal cyclocrosser community come to terms with the reality that their national championships were crushed by a left-wing tree hugger co-op (http://www.austinheritagetreefoundation.com), in an officially recognized #keepitweird town (http://www.keepaustinweird.com), and that Fox News is probably the biggest and most unlikely media ally that CX will ever have: http://www.myfoxaustin.com/story/27823266/cyclo-cross-nationals-postponed-to-protect-zilker-trees

The less-best part has been watching the effectiveness of off-topic fact-free argument in derailing all open national championship races except for the 1X1 class, which cannot be derailed, of course.

The way it works is pretty simple: the Heritage Tree Foundation people only want the park to be used in ways that align with Tree Foundation sensibilities. So while cyclocrossers and hipsters may want to have a race there, Tree Foundation people would prefer that they didn't. And torn-up grass was probably all the visual call to action needed to get the Tree Foundation all worked up, even though, for the purposes of this article, grass is not trees. (There is, apparently, a grass tree, but it is only in Australia, not TX: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xanthorrhoea)

However, rather than have an open debate about whether or not cycling is a valid use of the park, the Tree Foundation and other faux-environmental groups know that their goals are best achieved through indirect argument. So they make stuff up: "Bikes are going to kill the trees, and no mitigation plan or financing could bring back our trees in less than 200 years." I think we all know the facts here: bikes won't kill the trees. Tree root systems are far more robust than that. And there is a mitigation plan to replace/repair the grass, which does grow back nicely. Hell, as we learned earlier, it even grows on trees (Though only in Australia now, perhaps TX could import these trees in a grass-market-demand-spike emergency.)

So now, rather than having an open an honest dialogue about the validity of bikes and their recreational use in the park, and/or the validity of the damage-and-replace/regrow model of turf usage, we end up with an argument about the durability of tree root systems. The Tree Foundation doesn't even have to win the argument. They just need to generate enough noise and concern for the argument to be seriously considered by blow-with-the-wind politicians/bureaucrats, and for that consideration to last long enough to force a change in the event scheduling. So it's particularly effective to raise these types of concerns with as much political force as possible within a narrow time window prior to the event. Sound about right?

Yeah, thought so. And it's basically the same argument model used by Sierra Clubbers and other hiking/equestrian-only organizations against mountain biking. Why have an open debate about the validity of various off-road recreational activities and the access to which they should be entitled, when you can further your personal position by making up some crap about mountain bikes causing more trail damage than hiking or horseback riding, even though it is easy to prove this argument to be factually untrue?

Emotion trumps reason more often than we'd like. All it takes is a quick tour of Chautauqua trails (no bikes) and Heil Valley Ranch (primarily bikes) in Boulder County to see that the no-bike trails are massively more likely to be widened and have alternate/off-trail routes created. Chautauqua is a disaster by all traditionally-defined trail preservation concerns. Heil is damned near pristine by comparison. But no one is yelling about banning hikers from Chautauqua.

But I digress. This isn't about mountain biking. This is about faux-liberals using faux-environemental concerns to bend the world to their personal needs rather than share otherwise public lands and open spaces with others around them with, perhaps, different needs. It's an approach that's all too common in more established (and particularly in more affluent) once-actually-liberal communities. And indirectly, it's about the damage they do to actual liberal and actual environmental efforts. Bottom line: if groups as ideologically disparate as Fox News and Cyclocrossers can agree that you're a bunch of tools, then you're probably a bunch of tools. However, you won this round, so congratulations. Well played.

And, even after everything, until the cyclocross, mountain bike and other similar communities devise better means of combatting the faux-environmental political approach to the access fight, we can expect organizations like the Tree Foundation to notch more wins while we wait for them to age out of relevance/existence.

Related: Whether you see the Tree Foundation as heroes or idiots or both, the race never should've been run in Zilker park. The promoters and USAC and Austin Parks should have had a better discussion and understanding of what would happen if it rained (even though we all expected a grass crit), and committed to going forward, within the USAC race and safety guidelines, no matter what; absent that level of consensus, the national championships should've been held elsewhere.

Just Another Night With el Chavo

A Mexican, a Jack-Mormon on his way to ex-Mormoning (or whatever), a Belgian, a bike company shill and yours truly head out for dinner. No, I’m not setting up a joke. True story. I think maybe Matt Phillips joined us as well, but I can’t recall for sure. So far, there’s nothing that really distinguishes this night from say, most any other at that time in my life. Over the hill from Burbank, into Hollywood, straight to El Chavo, and then on to the Good Luck Bar for drinks. Or water, or Coke, or whatever, because I think at least half of us in attendance didn’t drink, though we’d all get over that in due time. The Belgian had been vacillating between funny/charming and insufferable most of the day, while The Shill and the Mexican and the rest of us alternated between back-in-the-day stories and arguing about bike technology and patent law. (Which I like more now than I did then, because that makes this a back-in-the-day story at least partly about telling back-in-the-day stories.) At one point, the Jack-Mormon and the Belgian were talking about cars. Something was getting lost in translation, because the Belgian was adamant that his car produced 2.5 horsepower. But then something else got lost in translation when I tried to help, and the next thing I knew, the Belgian was angry. “If you make fun of my car, I will punch you in the head!” I pretended to take that as a joke, as well, and the moment passed. Sometimes I have that effect on people. More then than now, but still. Anyway, Hollywood. Low lights and good food with el Chavo at El Chavo. A big smile, some introductions, small talk and a characteristic, exaggerated laugh from the Mexican. And then to the bar. Blah blah bikes, blah blah racing, blah blah Durango 1990, blah blah, some other VERY IMPORTANT crap. Empty glasses. Time for another round, except we can’t get the attention of the bartender, even though there’s only one other guy in the place. The guy’s back is to us. Long, dark hair, beads, some other stuff, but definitely a guy, and definitely a hard-earned solo-drinking barstool posture. The Belgian gets impatient first. You could tell because his hands were fidgety as fuck, and I was seriously beginning to worry that he was going to start clawing at the acne on his neck if something didn’t happen, and soon. He kept touching his face, running a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. Finally, he gets up and goes over to the bar to order the drinks. Strikes up a conversation with Long-Haired Solo Drinking Guy while he waits. I get up to use the restroom – Cokes, right? When I come back, the Belgian and Long Haired Solo Drinking Guy are still talking. Now everyone else is getting impatient for drinks. So I walk over to the bar without first sitting at the table. Just get it handled. Long Haired Solo Drinking Guy turns out to be Fucking-Loaded-Native-American-Guy. And he and the Belgian are mind-meld, alcohol-fueled, hetero-soulmate-connecting like I’ve never seen. Most of the conversation is happening in English, but there’s occasional instruction, phrases and words in a foreign language I can only assume was some sort of Native American dialect. The Belgian and I nodded along, but neither of us could follow much. So many hand gestures were being wielded, you’d think I’d introduced Trio Of Excited Italian Chicks to the story, but no. Right. Drinks. The bartender eyes the round of drinks and shrugs at me for instruction, having given up on the Belgian and Fucking Loaded Native American Guy. The Belgian may or may not have been partly on his way to being the Fucking Loaded Belgian, but only partly. Maybe. I’m jacked up on Coke without Jack, so that makes me the bartender’s only hope without having to spend the energy to walk to the table. We sort out that the best thing is if we all go back to the table with the Mexican , the Shill, the Jack Mormon and maybe Matt. Still can’t say for sure if he was with us or not. But I think so. And that’s how Loaded Native American Guy joined us at the Good Luck Bar. At first, it was actually interesting. The guy was talking ancestors and spirit animals like no one I’ve ever met except perhaps Neil Browne. But really. Really, he was (I’m not making that part up, either), with passion and urgency and sincerity and a bunch of slurred words in any of several languages, including some Spanish, I was starting to pick out, but mostly in English. But you’ve already guessed that the good of this couldn’t last. I’m sure my interest started to wane first, or maybe the Jack Mormon’s, because we’re both like that. (Buddy, I respect your culture, but at this point, I don’t care if you’re from outer space. You’re no longer interesting and I would rather talk about Durango 1990. AGAIN. Or Horst Links. Or Disc Brakes. AGAIN.) But pretty soon, everyone had joined us on the journey from interest and respect to politely nodding at the novelty to condescension and eventually to outright disdain. Well, everyone except the Belgian, who still looked like every word from the Loaded Native American Guy was hitting him like a drag on an opium pipe. Blissful-but-engaged like that, I have never seen since. This time, the Jack Mormon loses patience first, and it’s his turn to do anything at all to move things along. He’s actually been a bartender before, so he knows the drill – better to ask the employees for assistance than to directly tell Loaded Native American Guy to beat it back to his bar stool. So Jack Mormon goes over and mentions something to the bartender. Bartender probably could’ve used a drink to calm the fuck down, because at this point, he totally overreacts. Doesn’t just come and get Loaded Native American Guy back to his barstool. Rather, he physically escorts him out of the bar and throws him out onto Sunset Blvd. Gives him a firm shove in the back, anyway. And that’s when things got uncomfortable. At first there’s silence around the table. Then some effort at small talk. Then we give up. It’s tense. We’re not exactly sure why. The tossing out of Loaded Native American Guy shouldn’t matter that much. But the night is coming to an end, or at least changing significantly, at that point, the way nights unexpectedly do, and we can either fight it or go with it. No one seems to be willing to lead the rally to stay, so we head out onto the street as well, partly talking about other stuff to do in LA, and partly making plans for the next morning’s mountain bike ride. Loaded Native American Guy is nowhere to be seen. The Jack Mormon offers up a bit of disbelief about how the bartended overreacted, and through this, the Belgian finally pieces together that the Jack Mormon had a hand in getting Loaded Native American Guy tossed. Only one thing can happen at this point, and it happens. (What? I said there was only one option. Work with me here, people.) The Belgian. Loses. His. Shit. Pretty soon, The Mexican, The Shill, Maybe Matt and I are getting between the Belgian and the Jack Mormon, physically restraining the former while trying work out through non-verbal cues with the latter exactly what we should do. Meanwhile, the Belgian is screaming, in reference to Loaded Native American Guy: “¡¡¡HE WAS THE ONLY ONE OF US SPEAKING THE TRUTH. ALL THE REST OF US ARE SO FULL OF SHIT. AND YOU GOT HIM THROWN OUT!!!” Etc. Like I said, hetero-soulmates. And even after everything, it remains hard for me to imagine that then-World-Champion Filip Meirhaeghe could possibly have been using steroids. In fact, to this day, to anyone who claims as much in my presence, all I have to say is this: “I will punch you in the head.”

That which has become known as The Travelodge Incident

Either I had just arrived, or someone else had just arrived. Regardless, a handful of us were connecting at the Monterey Travelodge and staying there for the duration of the Sea Otter Classic weekend. Early 1990s. At this point, I’m too dumb and too old to remember exactly who all was there. Only four or five of us, I think. But I know, or at least I think I know, that Cushionbury was, if for no other reason than we’ve talked about this so many times since. It was already dark. Well past dinner time. I’d eaten in my old white Ford Ranger on the way up from LA. Probably Carl’s Junior, because a Western Bacon Cheeseburger combo with a Dr Pepper was undeniable even then, and In-n-Out was still printing religious crap on their cups and the family hadn't gone down in a plane crash yet. Whatever the meal was, it was for sure eaten with the truck windows down, because trucks with functional air conditioning cost more than trucks without. So we were standing in the humid, dark, Monterey cold, making small talk under the hotel parking lot lights as we unloaded shit from vehicles. Glad to see each other, a hint of race nerves building, and a bit of fatigue from the drive. Only five-something hours, not including the down time for the annual speeding ticket in Santa Maria, but long enough that the idea of a shower and a stretch kept intruding on other thoughts and overriding the more dull instances of conversation. We could hear it well before we could see anything, and we knew what it was before our minds had the time to convert the sound to words. Just one of those sounds. Drifting. A car drifting. I forget what kind of car, but in my memory it either was or has become some sort of Asian import. Modified, but not THAT modified. Something of a precursor to the big tailpipe nitrous-burning, carbon-wrapped scene that would soon engulf California. Maybe a Supra. But drifting tires are drifting tires, regardless of vehicle, and the sound is the sound, so we knew. The Monterey Travelodge is conveniently located in the southeast corner of the junction of Hwy 68, which goes from Monterey past Laguna Seca out toward Salinas, and Highway One, which is, well, Highway One. We didn’t know it yet, but the drifting was happening on the offramp from Highway 68 to get onto Fremont Boulevard, which at that point, basically parallels One North, but only briefly. The offramp more or less results in a ninety degree change in direction of vehicle travel, but does so via a pretty big radius. Hence the drifting, for a long time, around the right hand bend. Hearing long before seeing. I don’t recall all the detail of the inside of the corner, at least not until whatever was or wasn’t there gave way to the Travelodge hotel parking lot. Sidewalk, planter, parking blocks, parking lot a few rows deep surrounding most of the hotel. Kinda well lit, but not that well lit. Lots of lights, low power bulbs. Of course, there was a driveway cut into the curb and sidewalk, because cars have to be able to carry people to hotels, and cars don’t drive over curbs so well. On the outside of the corner, in which the drifting car was still not visible, though it’s sound was growing louder, I remember something of a hybrid median/retaining wall. Concrete curb, some sort of sloped, inset brick feature, maybe, then some plants. Highway One not so far beyond. Both visible and audible. When the car made it’s long-awaited entrance to our visual reality, its drifting back end couldn’t have been farther out if it was the hindlegs and ass of a stray mutt chasing a filthy, illegal foodtruck in Boulder. You know, if Boulder had either stray mutts or filthy, illegal food trucks. The driver was doing an ok job of counter-steering, but he didn’t seem to be giving it enough throttle. Of course, I suppose he could’ve given too much throttle, swapped ends, and fucked us all into oblivion, but that didn’t happen, either.

Things were happening FAST, but in silent slow motion, the way that they do, save for the sound of the tires, which somehow continued in real time and real volume without de-synchronizing from the visual and physical components of the action. I’m not sure how that’s possible, except for: fuck yeah, brain. Some sort of halfway-in-the-zone because whatever was happening was a risk, but we weren’t completely in the thing yet. Close. Either the driver wasn’t that good, or the situation was past salvaging, or both. The left rear tire finally clipped the curb of the median, which redirected the car pretty much straight into the Travelodge parking lot. Or almost straight, anyway. Not up the driveway, but over the curb, through the planter, rotating sideways, starting to high-side, then clipping the parking block and full-fucking-Hollywood-movie-rolling between a few parked cars without hitting any of them. Ultimately, I think the car missed us by less than 15 or 20 feet. But we were all from LA, so whatever. No big thing. Happens pretty much every day, except in LA, the cars catch on fire, too. And the drivers burst out with guns and stuff. This one didn’t catch on fire. Instead, it came to rest on its wheels. Then it did something unexpected. It kept going. The driver guided the car at a reasonable, safe, hands-at-two-and-ten speed to the end of the row of cars, took a right, and then turned right again into a parking space on the left side of the hotel (from our point of view, facing the front entrance). The passenger side of the damaged, but surprisingly more intact than expected car was now facing us, and well lit. Driver and passenger doors opened, the car now maybe fifty feet away from us, and: commence YELLING.

I remember not being able to make out many words, but the female passenger was clearly in an adrenaline and fear induced rage, and giving hell to the male driver. He was loud, but quieter than her, as if he knew there was no winning, but he had his own adrenaline to burn off and some pride to salvage. His fight may have been halfhearted, but he took his shot when she finally came up for air or ran out of insults to hurl. His part to play in our memory rang clearly through the night: ¡¡¡FINE, NEXT TIME YOU FUCKING DRIVE!!! Then he passed out, right there next to the car. Straight down. Lights out. G’night. And even after everything, that remains one of my favorite Sea Otter memories that doesn’t involve approximately destroying a room at the Double Tree while dying my hair Manic Panic red.

If you can't fucking ride...

The recent talk of back-in-the-day mountain biking (not in a good way, but still good memories. Suck it, Ryder, Rollie, etc.) has me thinking of a couple stories, both from the early-ish years of the Sea Otter classic. One in-comp, one out-of-comp (you’ll know the second one well, Cushionbury). For today, I’m thinking I’ll share the one that shows how competitive things were back then. Just in the amateur classes, let alone in the soon-to-be-doped-beyond-recognition pro field. Anyway, competitive: none of this baggy shorts, single speed, bro-brah crap. Well, there was that, too. And it was good. But it’s got shit to do with proper racing. And had less to do with it back then. And little did we know that magazine editors weren’t the only ones getting fucked and fucked up and then fuckeder in campers at the venue. (Yeah, fuckeder is a word. Shut it.) But I digress. Anyway. Typical SOC expert class start. Early in the season, so everyone thinks they’re going to win, but none of us really has any effing idea about our actual fitness relative to the rest. Because whatever with Cactus Cup, that’s why. (Specialized never has made a tire that worked in the desert.) So we’re like 80 riders wide and a billion riders deep in the start grid on the Laguna Seca race track, and Sutton sends us up to the corkscrew and then off into the hills. I’m in the top twenty, wishing I was in the top ten, but everyone in the top 100 thinks they should be in the top ten, and we're all riding like it. Just adrenaline and elbows and kamikaze lines wherever they can be found. Onto the dirt (the course used to go in the opposite direction, btw, but it felt about the same in terms of last lap pain), and it’s wheel-to-derailleur, knee-to-hip and helmet-to-chamois as we funnel from the unimaginable width of the race way to a glorified double track - an undulating neon sea over rolling terrain until we get onto the first short switchback climb. As for the trails, on the low side, it’s about 10 feet elevation loss into a muddy rain run-off creek. High side passes for central coast chaparral, but there is little sage. Mostly tall grass and some scrubby low bushes. Because of the configuration of the switchbacks, almost the whole field is visible. The top eight guys are getting a proper gap. Everyone through thirtieth is hanging on and sitting in, and then there’s everyone who’s already lost (like psychologically scarred for the rest of spring LOST, not like, yeahI-got-ninth-but-wish-I-did-bettter lost), no more than 15 minutes into a 2.5ish hour race. In theory, everyone else can still save and/or rationalize their hopes for the year. Or fake a flat.

The rider in front of me starts to crack a little. I try to be patient. He got there before me, he’s earned his shot. Besides, you can waste a lot of effing energy passing too aggressively early in the race. But then he really cracks. Like how-did-he-ever-get-there-in-the-first-place, pull-the-ripcord, get-out-of-the-fucking-way-or-screw-up-the-race-for-everyone-else CRACKS. And shame on me for being behind him, apparently. Shoulda thrown one more elbow or passed on one more non-line. Track. Nothing. TRACK. Nothing. Fuck it. RIDER UP. Up onto the grass and shubbery, high-side off-trail pass coming up. But the guy moves up off his line to try to block me. This isn’t like getting a little frustrated in the sand at Sagebrush behind Kirk Molday. This is bullshit. Instant anger-inducing, not-going-to-make-a-difference, disrespectful-but-very-very-common racing for that time. Like I said everybody thought they were going to win the Otter. Every year. Everybody. Anyway. The high ground, morally and physically is a good place from which to start and end a fight. So I tell him to fuck off and (knee/hip-to-handlebar/elbow) put him into the ditch as I retake the singletrack. Everybody’s got to learn someday. That day was his turn, I guess. Bang a left through the first switchback, and I can look back down to see him climbing out of the creek, bike on shoulder, looking for a gap to get back into the parade. I mean race. And then it happens. The seventh most violent thing I’ve ever personally witnessed during a race. One of the other riders, who apparently saw me put the guy into the ditch in the first place (and why) yells, clearly: ¡¡¡IF YOU CAN’T FUCKING RIDE, GET OUT OF THE WAY!!! Then he kicks the guy, like SPD-cleats-to-the-top-of-the-helmet KICKS the guy back down into the ditch. And even after everything, I can’t help but think, fuck yeah, 90’s mountain biking in CA. Thanks everybody who was a part of that. I wasn't good enough, but I should've doped anyway.

Another Roller Bag Kick Squad win. Sorry, @jayprasuhn, game over. #interbike #rbks

Stream-of-feverish-consciousness tribute to Breck Epic Stage 3: Mount Guyot.

What the fuck, 2:00am?

Go back to sleep

Shaking, soaked in sweat. Get a new blanket Sleep 5:00am alarm Coffee, eggs, toast, water More water More coffee Prep bike Take feed bags to race venue 45 degrees, wearing t-shirt, hoodie. Sweating through t-shirt. Back to the condo Hang with the kid for a bit, say good morning to the Mrs. Change into riding kit, roll out for warm up and start. Hug McCormack, who’s so busy running the race, he may or may not know that I’m even there Stomp up the Carter Park switchbacks a couple times, try to kickstart anything at all. Ache, shiver. Back into the grid for a third row start. Far enough up to avoid getting bogged down in traffic, not so far up as to be disrespectful to the guys who are killing it. Pocket rain jacket. AC/DC Blah blah blah, announcer stuff. Go. Spin, conserve, draft, sit in. Block the jackass coming up on the outside (over the double yellow, behind the police escort pace car). Just because. Block him again as he tries to move to the inside. Just becauser. (Don’t look at him. Let him wonder if it’s on purpose or just dumb luck) Spin, shiver, cough, conserve. Neutral pace vehicle pulls off, and BAM. (¡BAM!) Onto the climb. Spin, conserve, grab a wheel, hang on. Ache. Stay calm. Keep your shit together. Just like the Off-Road Vehicle area near home. Steep, loose double track. Fucker, if you can’t ride, get out of the way. (That was about skill, by the way, not velocity. That line choice was inexcusable) Spin, conserve. Damn, I wish someone made a saddle that didn’t feel like you were on a rivet when you’re on the rivet. Steeper. Downshift. Hang on, hang on, hang on. Sliding back. Fuck. Redlining at decidedly low rpms today. Again. Sit in, make the best of it. Cough. (Hey look, chunks. Wonder if that’s better or worse than mucus. Sorry if I got any on you.) Finally, gradual/flat flowing terrain. Pure Breck shale, off-camber ripper of a singletrack traversing the face of some hill or another. Yeah, oops, there, buddy. Try not to let your wheel drift over the edge. You ok? Tractor time. Cross the river and up the steep section onto Little French. Rider up, please. Let it rip and stretch. Best sound in the world: tires gripping, sliding, gripping, sliding, spraying rocks (big rocks) and water everywhere. Smile. Feedzone. Brake check. (No, really, brake check). Hard left. Be polite, grab bottles. Onto French Pass. Relentless. Spin, conserve. Fuck it, I’m going slow enough, I might as well try to clean what sections I can. Doing well. Feeling hot. Really hot. No need to worry about focus when your vision is closing in. It’s automatic. Hang on. Dismount through the gate, hike past the stream. Back on. Grind. Grind Grind. I know Toast cleaned this shit. Fuck. Dismount in the loose/steep lefthand hairpin. Pretty much the crux of the whole climb in terms of whether you ride it cleanly or not) Feels like Winter Park. Sort of. Sometimes. Almost. (Except last time I was in Winter Park, Missy Giove was still racing. Don’t ask why I remember.) Back on. Above tree line. Grind. False summit coming up. Too pissy to warn anyone. Just roll it. (Heartbreak is the price of being a rookie, anyway, right?) The final pitch. Grind. Halfway up and... Walking. Not bad. Not great. 1, 2, 3, 4, ... More. Raindrops. Only hitting us on the back. Tailwind. Storm coming. Fucking drill it. See how long we can outrun this thing. Thunder. No, wait. (Looks back.) Wow. Pure Colorado amazing. A view worth every pedal stroke. And a couple bonus raindrops. 12.5k feet. Not much air in the air. Riders strung out forever in the distance in both directions. Now drill it. Over the summit.

No snow field this year. Actually, it’s there, just not over the trail anymore. August now, not the old July event time. Off camber, sliding, hang on. No brakes. Let it ride. Hang on some more. Body English. Pure faith in experience. Got it. Smile. Watch for that one rock that flats like 20 tires every year. Back on the gas. Raindrops, thunder. No jacket needed yet. Just go. Go. (GO) Ripper rough/loose rock descent like the best, lesser-known singletracks of So Cal’s Angeles National Forest. Feed two. (Two bottles, banana) Onto the fire road. Thank you, French Pass, see you next year. Next up, Georgia Pass. But first an assload of moderate, rocky fireroad climbing. Yeah, a lot like Modjeska Grade on Saddleback Mtn in Orange County. More or less. Not as steep. Maybe more like sections of Blackstar Canyon. But still not as steep. Heh. Hail. And Rain. But mostly hail. No jacket yet. Just draft the treeline for shelter. Chills. Cough. Go. (Once into the woods, the rain/hail won’t matter as much) OK, ok, ok, jacket time. Hail is better than rain, you don’t get as wet. Hail piling up on the ground. Going to make the descent interesting. Spin, conserve, cough. Last pitch up to and across the pass. Grind. Finally onto Colorado Trail and (almost) into the shelter of the woods. Facial hair is a great protector against hail. Alternatively: fuck, hail hitting your ears and nose at 20-30mph? Yeah. That. Who feels shitty today? I forgot. Fuck yeah, this descent: roots, rocks, mud and hail – at first feeling like that singletrack in the Marin headlands whose name I can’t remember, then a little like some of the riding in Santa Cruz before shifting to a fucking undeniable combination of Big Bear CA woods and steeps with Nor Cal pine needle bedding and PA embedded rocks and roots. Mind over matter. Killing it for a moment before reality sets back in. ¡Strava! (I mean, “Excuse me, may I please come by when you have an opportunity?”) 3, 2, 1, reality. Off CT, onto the fireroad tucking and drifting to American Gulch. Conserve. Aid 3. Nonplussed moose in the distance (five of them!), but I didn’t find out about that until later. Smile, be polite. They don’t know how much you’re suffering. They mean well by their encouragement. Smile. (Smile.) Fuck. Two new bottles, another banana. Up. Then Upper. Then Uppest. That’s how American Gulch goes. Conserve now, because it’ll make you pay later. Grind. Hollow. Drinking, but not sweating. At least not sweating anything but droplets of soul. Or whatever passes for soul among the godless. Sickness sweat is different than bonk sweat is different than athletic activity sweat. Sweating bits of soul is a combination of the first two types of sweat and none of the third, while racing your ass off to go SO FUCKING SLOW. At least the rain has stopped. This feels kind of like some of the trails I’ve ridden in Sedona. Weird how quickly the dirt can change color in CO. Grind. Rest. Grind. Rest. Grind. Repeat. Over the top. Rain drops. Hitting us in the face. Hard. Headwind. Too many raindrops to count. Hey look, Enduro course marker. ¡¡¡¡¡¡BRRRRRRAAAAAAPPPPP!!!!!! Yeah. Nobody can feel sick, tired or shitty when you are gifted a rough, tree-root and puddle lined 30-40+mph descent in the rain, right? ¡¡¡¡¡STRAVA!!!!!! (Again, not really. But yeah.) Ripping fast. Not pedaling much. Just flow. No matter how rough. (Every trail has flow, fucker. Just because you can’t find it doesn’t mean we should tolerate your sniveling about it.) Through the gate... “¡¡¡FACES OF DEATH!!!” No, really, someone actually yelled that. (Ferrentino sees me for what I am on this day) Circle back for a photo, flip off the camera and smile. Ruin the picture because now I look happy/manic, not dead-faced. Cross the road (no cars) Home sweet home-ish. Mud, roots, rocks and crushing it again. If it wasn’t for the technical sections I might still be on course. #Motivation ¡¡¡¡STRAVA!!!! (Sorry, I mean, “On your right.”) Actually yelled it that time, because fuck it, that’s why. Coast in to the finish. (Thank you, JJ for introducing me to the miracle of post-race dill pickles.) Blah blah blah small talk Full body shakes, chills. Jacket on. Home. Eat Shower Eat Work Nap Dinner Bed Which is why Breck Epic Stage 3, The Circumnavigation of Mount Guyot, is the best fucking race course ever. Ever. No matter how you feel. Really.

Even after everything.

Bwrecked Epic, Stage 2: "WHERE ARE THE SQUIRRELS?"

So today: longer than yesterday; more climbing than yesterday. But I felt better-ish than yesterday, so I think I actually finished in less time. A lot less time. Go figure. Still some sort of fever/chest congestion thing going on, but probably not scleroderma. Which is nice, but also something of a let down. As a fan of the House TV series, I've always kind of had a thing for scleroderma.

Tomorrow's Breck Epic stage is pretty big. And it doesn't offer as much chance to hide as today's stage. It'll be telling. Either I'll recover well overnight and miraculously wake up healthy (or healthier) or I won't. We'll see. (@JeffKerkove posted the course profile here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeffkerkove/3423690449/ It's steep and rough and often cold, and there's this rock just over the top of the first big ascent that cuts about twenty sidewalls every year. Pro tip: don't hit the rock.)

But whatever. I dont' want to write about that. What's important to discuss today is this: ¡¡¿¿WHERE ARE THE SQUIRRELS??!!

The Mrs and the boy claim to have seen a few chipmunks, but I'm just saying: zero squirrel sightings. I will keep my eyes peeled and report back. This may be @NeilRoad's paradise.

As for that whole maybe-even-take-some-pictures thing? Not so much. Couldn't make myself put the mobile phone in my jersey pocket before the race start. You guys will have to come to Breck and check things out for yourselves. Or look at the millions of other crappy-phone pics on line from everyone else.

The squirrel hunt is on.

Bwrecked Epic, Stage 1.

I'm pretty sure I've got scleroderma or shingles or cystic fibrosis or cerebral palsy or sepsis. Maybe some combination of those. Yeah, that's it. Because having THE WORST DAY EVER on the bike during Breck Epic stage 1, I am CERTAIN, has nothing to do with you know, not training, and not really planning on coming to the event until, you know, a couple days ago. It's clearly something else. One or some of those things I listed. Clearly. Actually, today's BAD wasn't about fitness. But it was still bad. And bad is bad. That's what Michael Jackson said, I think. Or maybe it was PeeWee Herman.

Not that I came with high expectations, or anything, but damn. I got passed by children, old men with walkers on the front of their Enduro bikes (fixed to Enduro Walker Braze-ons!) and even one guy who was talking with his teammate about the great time he had at the Smurfs movie. I saw the pink blur that is Rich Dillen's Mister Fitness Dissent go happily whizzing by. Happily whizzing! Who knew Rich had it in him? And I saw Jason Sumner riding on a bike with like 10inches of wheel travel. (I was going so slow, he didn't recognize me, or pretended not too, at least, for which I am grateful. Dignity and all.) Worse, it wasn't just like it was a bad result. It was such an off day, there was nothing to do but embrace the suck. And Mike Ferrentino, because he was on course and embraceable in a big furry Kiwi sort of way. (The nationality, not the fruit or the bird or any other kiwi-esque thing.)

Wait, how bad? Yeah, that bad. Bad enough that you give up on anything but observing the bad, as if it is happening to someone else, knowing that it will make every subsequent bad ride feel damned good in a, "Hey guys, when I stop slamming my head in the car door, it feels kind of tingly and nice," sort of way. Andy-Schleck-Stomach-Of-Anger-I-Will-Fight-On-Or-Fracture-My-Pelvis bad. Cadel Evans, I'm-just-hoping-to-make-it-to-Paris-And-Suck-It-Tejay-You-Should've-Given-Me-Your-Wheel-In-2012 bad. (Not that Breck Epic ends in Paris, but if I'm going to push myself to the point of hallucination just to go, you know, SLOW, then they should at least be good hallucinations.) Ryder Hesjedal I-will-fight-another-day-in-silly-eyewear bad. That bad.

And by living to fight another day, I mean, maybe Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday. Or maybe next season. Definitely not at Cross Vegas. Probably not at Cross-anything. Maybe I'll just talk a lot about bikes at the fall trade shows and call it good.

The glass-is-half-full version of today, was that I met people. Talked with them. Watched them ride and succeed and fail and fall and keep going and do all other sorts of back-half-of-the-field racer-ish stuff. Like having flats and mechanicals, a few of which I helped to fix, a few of which I didn't. It was all human and endearing in some way that a better person than me would bother to capture in words or video or on some social media newer than Tumblr, whose name, let alone purpose, I'm yet to even hear. And there were hydration bags. Lots of hydration bags. Really, if there were a social media dedicated to whining about shitty performances in amateur competitions, you'd tell me. right?)

The other glass-is-half-full version of today includes yelling, "¡¡¡STRAVA!!!" whenever I passed someone on a descent (not often) or complaining that someone forgot to yell, "¡¡¡STRAVA!!!!" when they passed me, no matter where it was on course.

Usually, when I'm racing, I have a pretty narrow focus. Like on the trail, on the course map/profile (taped upside down on my number plate so I can read it and because fuck GPS, that' why), on the riders around me, and that's about it. It's a hard earned focus, and one that is damned helpful for going fast. But it's totally unnecessary for going slow. Going slow only requires vague awareness of stuff. Today, for the first time in over 500 miles of racing in Breckenridge, I looked around. And saw things. Holy fuck, it's beautiful here. And the abandoned mining equipment and related buildings have aged to the point of being interesting in their own way, a part of history now, rather than symbols of raping and pillaging the earth, or whatever liberals called it before global warming captured their imagination and making fun of mining was all but forgotten.

So maybe as part of my newly-formed (I mentioned this, right?), start-at-the-back-and-go-slow-and-hope-to-get-my-shit-together-before-the-race-is-over-(good-fucking-luck) strategy, I'll do some more looking around and maybe even take some pics. Just saying that makes me feel a little ill. If the twenty-seven-year-old me read that shit, he'd fucking vomit. But there it is. Race turned into vacation about fifty seven pedal strokes into day one. Shingles, or whatever, will do that to you. Or me, anyway.

That said, if I can shake this sepis/scleroderma thing, then it's game-fucking-on for the Mount Guyot stage. No, not because it has "Mount Guy" in it's name, because it's fucking awesome. Really. Fucking. Awesome.

neilroad-blog

jasenthorpe

¡¡¡¡YORZALLS!!!!

via neilroad:

This is going on now. (at Felt Bicycles)

Even After Everything

The bit about “Even After Everything” is that it’s a quote from an unlikely friend with whom I share much for really sharing very little, in that we both, I think, take some amount of pleasure in moments of clarity and insight provided by seeing the world in a way that requires the setting aside of personal connection, no matter how temporarily (and with recognition of how impossible this might actually be), to perhaps allow a glimpse or a feeling of the true nature of a thing – the thing of the thing – typically a very human interaction, perception or process, often mundane on the surface, but complex in some meaningless but important or, at least, significantly differentiating way underneath. More often than not this is somehow set-in or tangential-to cycling, because that's much of what we do, but really it’s just plain human, and even though, once communicated, the observation itself can sometimes come across as critical (mine) or contrived (his), somehow the corresponding feeling (ours, I'm pretty sure) is much closer to one that comes with true acceptance of the failings, oddities and humanity of humans in general. This, grounded in the idea that once you cease to be terrified of failures, shortcomings, quirks or differences, it's much easier to rummage around in them, discuss them, embrace, accept or alter them.

I think we also connect, at least partially, over the reality that people often seem to think that we see ourselves as above such observation and criticism, when closer to the truth is that much of our search for this clarity is really grounded in the idea that if we can see the world for what it is and still accept it, that the world (or some small portion of it) could do the same for us, or maybe - maybe - that we could do the same for ourselves. There's comfort in the torment, the breaking down, the rebuilding and the improving or embracing.

I also like the Even After Everything quote because it vaguely implies context while contextually facilitating vagueness and, in so doing, effectively invites the reader to bring their own baggage to the conversation. And even though I usually write opinion in a way that people perceive as assertion of fact, really, it’s the same invitation: tell me I’m wrong. Make a nuanced adjustment to my statement. Agree. Ignore. Whatever. Bring your baggage to the conversation. Kick me in the teeth, or feel some sense of relief in a shared perspective. In that way, it’s a virtuous circle (I think that’s the right bullshit phrasing) or at least a means to an end – it provides more opportunity to get that glimpse of the (perceived or actual) true nature of things and people, and it’s a catalyst for more of the same. Itch scratched and new itches revealed: the poison oak of communication and understanding, or something. Lately, I’ve been feeling, for the first time in a long time, like writing more, and certainly more than 140 characters, though many of you will have seen that Twitter has been my outlet for some time now. I try to make my writing readable, but only to a point. I'd prefer that a thought read closer to how it originated than to sacrifice nuance or detail for any sort of enhanced clarity. I also think it's more important for a thought to resonate with its most-intended audience than to risk muting its effect to give it more meaning for a broader audience. I don’t love writing in the way that some of my friends do. I love communication and connection, I love people (in a broad sense, and mostly outside of the context of enduring more than a few of them at once), and I love the process of thinking about how to articulate a thought once it has entered my imagination in whatever wordless form thoughts do, and I usually enjoy the result.

Vaguely, that should be enough context for what’s to come. Or not. We’ll see. As much as I've thought about writing more and more often, I’ve also thought about deleting social media accounts and crawling back into a cave, and I've already walked away from actual media twice. I suppose what comes next depends on the result, which I realize puts things in reverse order, but there it is, even after everything.

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