24 hours of Hot August Nights

Like any couple, Jamie and I wanted to take a trip this summer. Like any mountain bikers, we wanted to include some good riding in any trip. So what tops a season after two Canada Cups (Jamie’s of course), solo victories at 8hrs of Gore and an awesome season on the East Coast? It had to be epic, challenging both mentally and physically, a little crazy and a lot of fun—something to check off the bucket list.

After months of anticipation, the time for our longest race has arrived – The 24 hours of Hot August Nights at Albion Hills Conservation Area. We packed the team car to its roof – including a Kona tent, all our camping stuff, all our cycling stuff, food, clothes, tools, bike stand and our bikes – and took off for Ontario on Wednesday noon-ish. The drive was unexciting; NS and NB were boring with no traffic and wide open roads and their east coast rolling terrains, while Quebec was full of construction as the land flattened out. We spent the night in Levy and kept on rolling towards the ‘promised land’ the next morning. The drive actually felt alright – way shorter that I expected it to feel. We switched driving and napping positions regularly and kept the tunes pumping.

Our first destination wasn’t Albion Hills, rather we were kindly invited to the new Kozanczyn residence in Barry to prepare for the battle. Willow kept us good company sharing stories of lost earrings and bicycles crashes, while Chris and Christa made sure we started to load up our energy reserves with home made calzones, topped off with great conversation. Thanks so much!

We arrived at Albion Hills mid afternoon on Friday. The campground was buzzing already with people looking for a sufferfest – including our Nova Scotian friend Wayne Aspinall, who’s a 24 hour mtb racing veteran. We had plenty of time to set up, pre ride the course, sign in and chill. Not too long after we showed up we met one half of the team we were sharing our campsite with – Shake & Bake.

Weeks prior when we saw their team name, we wondered about the likes of Shake and Bake. Our thoughts were confirmed multiple times throughout the race that we were sharing a spot with couple of stoners. Aside from the bad twangy music, they were harmless and let us use their fridge. We made pasta for dinner and continued setting up. There was one glitch – a hole in the air mattress! We tried some duck tape, and then more duck tape, but with no luck. Then we tried to patch it with a patch kit, but the cement was all dried up. Our last hope was crazy glue and the patch kit. It worked. Then we chilled by the campfire making jiffy popcorn. We could hear the party going on at the chalet, but resisted the urge to join the fun and decided on a good nights sleep instead. With 24 hours ahead, it wasn’t a hard decision.

We woke up to a nice sunny day, but everything was still wet from the night’s dew. We had a huge camping pre race breakfast and got all our race food out under the tent. We decided that Jamie would start – we’ve heard things could get nasty and I wasn’t too comfortable in a speedy mass start, and there was a fairly wide 1km starting loop that Jamie felt was good for passing hordes of slow people. The more he though about it, the more he was inclined on hammering out a super fast lap. An intimidation tactic, perhaps? Or, just to say CSD’s Lambinator is in da house!! After a quick warm up, Jamie was at the start line, but quite a ways back—maybe 15 rows. Wayne and I went to watch the start. It seemed faster than a 2 hours race start (!)—at least the first bunch of rows—but as the pack passed the pace dropped; the tail end of the starting pack having already assumed the same pace they would maintain for 24 hours. The course had a short loop (about 15 to 20 minutes) than returned you to the main camping/chalet area; at that point, Jamie was riding in third place! Awesome. I think Jamie finished the first lap fourth overall, but definitely first out of the tag teams. Earlier we decided to do two laps at a time – it would give us more time to eat and recover, plus allow us to maintain flow once we started riding. So, a short hour and a half later, it was my turn.

The 16km course had quite a bit of singletrack. Each section had a sign posted with its name. All I remember of those is that the ‘Speedorama’ was not so speedy, at least not for me. 99% of the trails were root-free, rock-free, uncrowded, super hard-packed, super fast trails. Well, super fast if you didn’t break for all the turns, berms and twists. I knew from our pre-ride, my biggest technical challenge would be not to brake. Two laps went by quickly. A lot of the course felt the same – nicely groomed, twisty and turney, with almost no distinguishing features. The few land marks on the course were coming back near the timing tent and the main area; the feed zone on top of a hill about half way – were there were people giving out water, accelerade, and much appreciated encouragement throughout the whole race; the 5km mark, which was soon followed by the best part of the course – the Misfit Psycles dance party tent. By ‘dance’, I think they meant dance up the sandy switchback climb, because I didn’t see anyone dance, but there was loud music pumping and a crew of peeps with horns, various noise makers, smiles and cheers. The last landmark was the 1km to go sign, which was always welcomed.

When I finished my first two laps, Chris and Willow were at our campsite, paying us a visit. Jamie went off and I started to eat, stretch and chill with our visiting fans. Another hour and half went by quickly, I suggested that Jamie do three laps the next time. On my second time out, I started to feel really bad – headache, nausea, chills. My fourth lap was probably the hardest of all of them. I forced myself to finish it, hopping not to puke along the way, thinking I might not be riding for a while. When I got off my bike, we had more visitors at our site. This couple had been cycling across the country, from Vancouver to Halifax, and they happened to stop at Albion Hills to camp for the night. They seemed somewhat taken by all the bikes and people, and somehow they ended up at our site and Jamie let them set up for the night. Unfortunately, I was not in a social mode whatsoever; I crouched in our tent holding my head until I didn’t feel like I would puke if I moved. I was a bit worried, because it was way to soon to be feeling this bad. It had been a really hot day, and I probably ate too much for my relatively short break. So, I ate less, drank more, took bunch of electrolyte tabs and couple liquid gel advil, and had a nap. I felt much better when I woke up – setting an alarm was a necessity for the night breaks.

I think it was the next change over that Jamie and I actually stopped and said more than just few words to each other for the first time since the start (that was the start of my lap 5, our 12^th lap). The night laps went pretty well. It was cold and damp in the campground, but once you were riding it was warn enough and the woods stayed bone-dry. The plan was to just keep rolling throughout the night. By the time the sun came up we had lapped 2^nd place.

Sunday morning flew by. I did my 9^th and 10^th laps in the sunshine, feeling pretty good. I was tired and sore, but that didn’t matter. By then we had a two-hour lead; riding was easier in the daylight, and we were almost done. When I got to the campsite Jamie just off to do his last two laps; I saw he had made the usual camping pre race breakfast. Well fueled with food, sunshine and the finish in sight he put in couple of fast laps—enough for me to do one more.

The last lap was really hot; my hands and legs were on the verge of cramping more than once. I knew that I had plenty of time to finish the lap (every team had to be in by 1pm), so I rolled around the course, enjoying it for the last time. The Misfit Psycles crew added a number to their fan repertoire – a dumping of cold water over a rider’s head as they passed by. I thoroughly enjoyed that in the 30 some degree weather.

We ended up doing 26 laps in 24hrs 47mins 58sec. That turns out to be 241km for Jamie and 176km for me, and that turned out to be good enough for a win by 2 laps, not only in our category, but also over the men’s tag teams.

Next year? Solo riding? A whole contingent of Atlantic riders? Let’s make it happen!

Z

The Bear Scare 80: 2010 Inaugural Edition!

Wolfville- Roubaix, Cabot Trail in a Day, Tour De Nowhere and Jambro are all legendary rides that hang proud in the halls of Nova Scotia cycling lore. Add a new member to this perverse club of suffering: The Bear Scare 80. The idea was simple- host a 'everyone's welcome but take no prisoners' 80k mtb ride on a single loop that crosses hell's half acre known as The Mersey woods. Many old skoolers have done this route and continue to do so but they guard their trail secrets like old trappers with bad cases of beaver fever. Several scouting sessions by the WBL cadre in May and June were required to finally flesh out a course that combined high speed logging road with some teeth gnashing ATV trails. No less than 2 bear encounters led to the rythmic handle of 'Bear Scare.'

The event was posted, the course was marked and Camelbaks were locked and loaded for Aug 2nd. 21 adventurous souls- you know the types...marketers call them 'early adopters', psychologists call them ‘Type A’s’, their non-cycling friends jealously refer to them as ‘overachievers’- showed up on race day ready to stake their claim for gold, guts and glory. These types are not defined so much by speed- since some are uber fast and some hold a more modest tempo -but they all share the ‘suffer chromosome’ that makes them salivate at the thought of unnecessarily inflicting The Hurt on themselves. A notable absence was Mac-10 who was suffering from a UPI the previous week. Fortunately a gap on the National Calendar saw the heaviest of the mtb hitters- TYG- in town and ready to break some legs. The long lost prodigal son of NS cycling, Kevin Noiles (aka: The Noilinator) threw his ‘recently retired from the Pro life but still ridiculously fit’ ass in the ring too. Nick the Flying Scotsman of 1990’s vintage also showed up to add to the mythology of characters.

A psyched pack rolled out casually and confidently from the Bike and Bean Train Station in Tantallon and in true Wolfville-Roubaix style rode a mellow opening 8 kms to ensure that some on-the-bike socializing could germinate. Although a bit of barking and nipping began to appear after the 8k marker generally everyone was playing nicer than a Sunday school picnic until TYG began to crack the throttle briefly if only to inform the heavyweights that the day’s results weren’t open for debate.

At 20k someone cockily remarked that the main logging road was like a highway. The Gods of Lactic Acid charged their lightening bolts and the race immediately turned onto the Bear Blister- a 10km section of beat to hell logging road that featured some short snappy climbs, washouts and an increasingly narrow atv trail that finally dumps riders into a muddy trench straight out of The Western Front. It was on this Bear Blister that all hell broke loose as TYG and Chops drove the pace while desperados such as The Old Man, Noilinator, Simmer, JB, The Kluester, RG and Green Shorts Guy flailed away to hang on. Elbows were flying, jerseys were being madison’ed off of and head butts were numerous enough to make Mike Tyson proud as riders fought for placement heading into the tight doubletrack at Defcon 5. Minutes later when the course erupted back onto the dusty logging road the KIA’s and WIA’s were added up. The bloodshed surpassed an entire season of American Logger episodes. The lead group had been chopped down dramatically with TYG’s 550 watt saw.

The cutting crew of TYG, Chops, The Old Man, JB and Noilinator continued rolling steady on the front for another 20k until, again, TYG threw in a from-the-front, check–this-shit-out attack on the flat open fireroad that cast off our favourite firefighter and the ever-suffering BC ‘home for a nice relaxing visit’ Noiles. Although they would get back on this pattern would be repeated ad nauseam as TYG demonstated who the newschool Patron of the Pack is. Endless kms on the front never looking for help, never concerned about the energy saving draft he was offering to the other 4 jackels. Ridin’ like The Boss.

Attrition eventually took it’s toll and things fell out as they should. Chops and TYG tore away from The Old Man and Noilinator on one-too-many climbs at the 55k mark. As the K’s ticked down and Chops began to fidget and salivate like an 8am crack addict that a sprint finish might be possible TYG had to dig deeper into his ammo bags for some armour piercing clips and unleash a torrent of World Cup level firepower on Chops to dislodge him. These 2 heavyweights TT’ed to the line with TYG building on his April Roubaix success by winning the 1st Bear Scare 80 in a touch under 3hrs. The Old Man forced himself to get harder than De Niro in The Deer Hunter and rolled solo for 3rd while JB and Noilinator went Ali and Frazier on each other and rolled in together for 4th/5th. The Kluester cashed in on a brilliant set of legs and rolled in for 6th with Green Shorts New Guy beside him. The Z-Machine brushed off the previous nights 60k ride to mark the course and stomped home as the first woman. Most Sport(wo)manslike Conduct award goes to the fairer half of Team Graller, heavy hitter Enid, who stopped to provide some trailside mechanical assistance. Not to be outdone RG threw a patch kit to Simmer to save him a 40 k walk back to the pits when his spare tube proved to be as hole riddled as the one he was replacing.

Riders rolled back to The Bike and Bean and promptly settled into patio party mode, downing brewskies and grilled panini’s while cheering on the other finishers and shooting the proverbial shit about their rides. Topic commonalities included: cramps, heat, flats, bear shit and good times. Thumbs up was the general consensus- Thanks for coming out and looking forward to seeing you all again in ‘11.

Conquering the Pass

From the Tienanmen Square to the moon and the Mariana Trench, humankind has exhibited a clear predilection for conquering the unknown. "Do we have enough ammo to maintain power?" "Will the Challenger 2 find Atlantis?" With these more important questions answered yes and no, respectively, the attention of humanity's collective mountain bike consciousness (Atlantic Chapter) has wandered to "can my legs survive 100km of baby-heads?" and "if I miss a feed, will I have a religious experience at kilometer 81?"

Hub Cycle's Conquer the Pass, in its second year, has already taken the title of Most Epic Shit Going in Atlantic Can. It's 20km longer than Elgin, the prior champion, and though lapped-format races often result in a longer win-time, they don't have you riding over 100ft beaver dams, underneath 100-series highways or past abandoned-and-since-ransacked logging camper trailers akin to a scene from The Road.

The 100km category kicked off shortly after 9:00. Z-Machine and myself, having forgot a pot to go with our camp stove, took off for the truck stop, returning to a happily still-large registration line up at 8:50. Most hard-hitters tucked themselves in at home, secreting hoping everyone else would party themselves into a dead sea of lactic acid come the morning.

Lining up behind Conor in his firetruck, an angry scope across the peloton made it obvious the day would be one of pain and/or a vision quest. All Atlantic heavy-weights were in attendance; from Ryan Taylor to TYG, the field was stacked--we were only missing Lorenzo.

TYG, signing up for the 70km category in order to save his legs this weekend, assumed his destined position at the front of the pack, drafting off the fire truck as it helped to "start us neutrally". I joined him on the bumper, and Conor just accelerated, stretching out the field to a 70+ rider death-march less than 2km into the race.

With no KOM prize this year, the crew put it in lactic cruise control upon hitting the climb. TYG and Mac-10 took off, but were soon absorbed by a group frothing with the power of the Simmer, The Old Man, Marty, Da Burge and JR Cormier. We chilled somewhat at the top of the climb, but once we burst out of the double track onto a 5km dirt road section--seasoned with 40km/h cross-winds--the metallic slam of falling guillotines began to ring across the Cobequid Hills.

Falling to the severity of pace applied by TYG, TOM, Mac-10, and myself--and also due to their being taken surprise by having to ride in an echelon with a squirming shock and knobby tires, JB, JR and The Simmer fell off the back of the train, with Marty following shortly after.

TYG continued to hammer with the reckless abandon that only a 70km race can allow; TOM and I held his wheel and enjoyed the free ride, while Mac-10 bounced from the front to 10 seconds back depending on the brutality of the descent we'd just shredded.

Much like Viggo and Son in The Road, we'd been torn (well, ok, we were jubilant volunteers) from the comforts of modern life and placed in a ragged state of nature. The grind of the KOM opened the race akin to Man and Boy scouring the apocalyptic first-world skeleton for anything to post-pone their demise, followed by the intensity of the cross-wind section to compliment the primal fear struck by the roving cannibal gang.

Having collected a massive kinetic reserve, we entered another ATV trail and began the now-legendary 5-minutes-of-babyheads descent. Last year this was like descending a stream bed, with water splashing against face and hissing rotor--this year we enjoyed bone dry shreddage as we skipped across the clattering rocks like a menacing chorus of Somali AKs.

Thankfully--much like Man and Boy escaping unscathed from the cannibal house--we reached the bottom with aching hands and arms, but suffered no crashes. However, complimenting the Boy's mental scarring, I flatted towards the bottom. Marty and The Simmer passed me as I was awash in Stans and curses, but I got back on the bike in a furious anger ,only to blow past the right turn onto the road where the 45km feed zone was. I kept rolling down the dirt road descent at 50+, fully tucked with my forearms on the grips. After 5 minutes of that I heard a truck behind me on the horn. "Fuckers, there's like 2 cars per hour on this road--I've moved over more than enough." They pulled up with the window down and I expected to hear about how pretty my mouth looked, all resplendent with dusty gel, but it was the Da Kine rep and Derrick Ozon telling me that I had to turn around. Even better. Functioning between Australopithecus afarensis and an alligator, I screamed back some animal noises and finally thought to ask them for a drive. Thankfully, they obliged, and I threw my bike on top of a table they had in the bed and held on to it while truck-surfing back to the corner I'd missed. (The Road connection? Getting the drive = finding the bomb shelter.)

I met a haggard Taylor at the feed zone, who seemed almost comatose with fatigue; there was no reply from the islander when I said hi. (Actually, I said FUCK! blah, blah, blah...) I grabbed my seconds Camelbak which was filled with a litre of coke and a bunch of gatorade, and hammered away at the long grinder that began 100m from the feed table.

Meanwhile, back sur l'avant, TYG was driving hard like the Spirit of America ,and pulling TOM and Mac-10 around in his contrails. He was "dropping out" at 70km, though, which would be a source of much hilarity if peaking for nationals wasn't such a respectable excuse. As I was burying myself I was thinking that closing 15ish minutes in 2.5-3h is pretty doable, if I have a particularly strong finish--especially up the climb in the 30k loop.

At the start they told us that we could either come through the 70km check point (also the start/finish) and either run through a river (riding through = disqualified) or run up/ride down a bridge. I was the first to run through with my bike over my head. There was an awful lot of cheering making me think that they were joking about the river run, assuming everyone would take the bridge. Oh well.

Someone said TOM and Mac-10 had 6 minutes on me at that point, and I buried my arms on my grips and battened down the hatches for a 5km time trial on the paved road into the ski-hill-side mountains. The course took a right, crossed a river, and then began a long, long torturous grinder of a climb to the top of the mountain somewhere behind the ski hill.

Towards the top I began to catch riders from the 30km category, and as I approached the first one I thought it was TOM or Mac-10. I was getting ready to yell "I'm comin' for you Lennox!" but soon imagined that neither of them likely changed into a t-shirt at the last feed.

The best part about the whole race, post-flat, was meeting the Comeau family on the climb. It was pretty much like a off-road version of the Tourmalet; grinding up a steep pitch as sweat was swinging like a metronome from the top of my glasses, Luc and Oddette rode beside me screaming. I definitely got an extra 2 or 3 watts per decibel out of their enthusiasm.

The Comeau's told me Mac-10 and TOM had about 2 minutes on me, and to close that on the descent and final climb up to the Hostel would be tough, but--I was hoping--doable. After the climb finally levels out the course rolls along a logging-shaved plateau before taking a left into a section of ATV trail that's filled with rocks under tall grass. I was expecting a left to come up, and took the first one I saw that was marked with the pink tape. This mistake (one that plagued a bunch of riders in the race...) was likely do as much with my panic-stricken, starved-wolf state as with local rednecks who probably vandalized the course. The "trail" petered out to nothing in about 150m, but was beaten down a fair bit by 30km riders who made the same mistake. Rather then walk back up through the mess of poison ivy etc, I bushwacked across to the grass/rock descent and halfheartedly resumed chasing.

After the grass descent the course resumed its typical ATV trail with loose rocks type stuff, and if not making time, I was enjoying myself as there was company/carrots present in the 30km riders I was passing. This was short-lived, as I took an off camber corner hard, getting around a huge puddle, and my tire bead left the rim enough for the latex tube I'd put in earlier to expose itself and promptly explode. George Carlin would have referred to that occurrence as "just fuckin' dandy". (Connection to The Road? The Man getting shot with the arrow when they reach the coast.)

Of course, I had no spare tube, and had to beg for salvation from the 30kmers as they cruised by. The first Samaritan who stopped gave me a schrader tube. I was almost in tears as I gave it back, them having never heard the term "presta" and me not exactly feeling like taking advantage of the teachable moment. I assume they thought I must have cramped when I ran over to get it from them, or that a 100km race kills more brain cells than agent orange. After a few minutes, Matt "from the group rides and shorttrack" came by and gave me his tube. I threw the rest of my co2 in it, and thought i'd pumped it up enough as he let me use his pump just in case, but I soon realized that it had about 15 lbs in it. My goal for the rest of the race became keeping air in my back tire and keeping an eye out for an approaching Simmer or Marty.

I rolled down to the gravel pit, along the highway, up the Hostel climb and down to the picnic park a beaten man. Getting into the river was as good as I'd thought it'd be for the last 20 minutes.

Mac-10 and TOM had a ferocious battle across the final 30k. They rolled hard into the climb, where the sylph-like Mac (sorry, that's not an insult--Cyclingnews described Contador that way!) shed TOM once the dirt angled up harshly. He had about a minute gap by the top, but was foiled by the same wrong turn I made later--into the clear-cut he went. He realized it quickly, but not before TOM blew by, ignoring the tape and smelling victory on the rough descent that laid ahead.

They nearly drag-raced on the highway section, with TOM in sight of Mac-10, who was about 500m back. Mac dug his grave on this section, thinking that the course must follow the old Trans-Can straight back to the picnic park, but TOM saved something for the climb up to the Hostel that laid ahead, and sealed his victory with a mixture of redbull, blood and powergel.

The Simmer rolled in for 4th, with Marty shortly behind. We expected JB to fit somewhere in there, but a rock had flown up and severed his rear derailleur cable--he (understandably) stopped at 70.

Kaarin Tae won the women's 70km, with Enid 15ish minutes back from her; Z-Machine back about 30m from Enid. Suzie was the sole woman to brave the 100km distance, but a cracked and dragging rim had sapped most of her energy and morale by the 70km mark.

With a race that long, awards took a while after the first riders landed in the river, and we sprawled out on the golf course of a picnic park and soaked up even more sun. Warm beer flowed, and aching calluses were soothed by smooth glass. Just like last year, we've got to thank Bruce, Daisy, Conor, Brad and the rest for an awesome event. Incredible for them to mark all 100km of this course, much of it weeks and days in advance. Extreme thanks, and extreme props.

Pictures are up on the Hub Cycle Facebook page, and The Ol' Man has Garminized the whole course for your viewing pleasure: http://connect.garmin.com/activity/39248542

Results: http://hubcycle.ca/about/conquer-the-pass-2010-results-pg184.htm

Woolastook: The Next Generation

Cycling scensters from the Atlantic hinterlands often glance fondly into their memory bank when recalling past Woolastooks; Andrew Lowery and his crew have done a meritorious job in ensuring all roll out with cheshire grins after filling their synapses with dirt and gel. However, the big man’s time has come to an end, and Norman Siebrasse et al. have taken over in a big way.

With months of compounding hype across internet land, online registration complete with no additional fee for the unlicensed, a solo or team of 2 or 3 format and a roughly 8km course of some of NB’s finest singletrack to slice up, riders were salivating their stem bolts in place and stockpiling both Cytomax and hemoglobin.

CSD sent a redoubtable legion of hard hitters, embarking from Hali on Saturday evening. In Car 1 was Z-Machine and the author; Car 2 was piloted by Jason “Andretti” Martin, with Ben and our francophone connec, JP, the designated DJs; D-ral was the king of Car 3, and carted Robinson and Marty Gras up to the Nouveau.

We stormed the campground like a hord of mujahideen--a barrage of dust and ABS braking marked the end of our auto car race and we began a ridiculous search for a campsite away from both change tables and false teeth. The area designated for the race party was empty both of decent tenting spots, and also any partiers. In fact, all that was there was about 4 inches of cut hay. We got back in the cars, and went exploring in search of something decent before Jason’s hay fever required an air-ambulance and sinus transplant.

Having found a perfect woodsy little nook in the unused section of the grounds, we made ourselves at home, blasting Ratatat remixes into the pitch-black canopy, hoping to scare off the rain. This was mostly successful, as only a few drops came down, and Ben kept the fire roaring hot enough to melt our tents together.

The morning was off to a rocky start. First, Jason realized that he’d dumped all his Cytomax on the fire, being a proper Smoky Bear the Burge would be proud of. This initial hardship was followed by the discovery that our cherished decaying motel restaurant had closed. We had to go into Fredericton to find something; the Coffee Mill on Prospect St. is henceforth highly recommended.

We pushed off the start blocks at 10:00, with the author jamming it up the feed zone hill and into a deep field, only to be taken by surprise by a careering Simmer; not 2 minutes into the 5 hour race, Jeff had attacked into the first section of singletrack. The pack shattered like a porcelain sink dropped from space, with Marty and myself the only riders to hold his 29” wheel with much trepidation. I remarked a few times—as the attack stretched into the second lap—that perhaps this strategy isn’t likely to bear much fruit by the fifth hour. My commentary was received as entertainment, not advice, and the Simmer hammered on; I doubt he grabbed the reigns of Victoria’s Secret any more forcefully. The sense of lactic foreboding hung in the trees like we were trespassing on the Manson family’s front porch.

Marty was the first to crack, despite my screams of “come on Daughter Power!” echoing from switchback to switchback. He’d torn his rear tire on one of the many sharp rock sections—the Stans spraying back into my face—and although it sealed up quickly, the Simmer and I thought it might have let go. But no, Marty Gras simply cracked like a schizophrenic in a lion’s den.

The Simmer boiled over shortly after, which mostly marked the end of the day’s intensity. I didn’t want to roll alone for 3 more hours, so I throttled back and spent most of the rest of the race spinning the climbs and having as much fun as I could slashing up the singletrack.

Unbeknownst to any of the elite NS racing clique, Mike Davis (Radical Edge) had worked his way back to us and had made it past Marty. We’d been checking the rear-view keeping an eye out for Martaaan-of-Edmunston, but none of us realized Davis was a solo rider.

With a few minutes gap on the Simmer, I stopped in the feed zone to chat with the team players, grab my second Camelbak and pet Conor’s new puppy. During this meticulously efficient and militant stopover, Davis must have passed me. I came by him later on during the next lap, and he asked me what category I was in. “uhhh, veteran women?” “well, you’re the leader!” At the time I thought he was just a nice guy out on course, happy to chat. Before starting the last lap, and to ensure the Simmer and I could rock the insane-killer high-speed bench-cut final section of the course together, I stopped at the top of the last climb and ate a Powerbar. Lots of people I’d passed came by, including Davis, and I offered encouraging banter with my mouth full of sweaty fake food.

Having been sipping a Camelbak full of Coke and just fueled up, I tore into the last lap, hoping to turn in the fastest lap of the day. This was not to be, however, as torrential rain had begun and my Bontrager XR1 tires were about as predictable as a rabid shrew. I went by Davis and brought it home with a decent gap, thankful it had ended uneventfully, devoid of slashed sidewalls and crashes.

Z-Machine had a tough, yet rewarding time, staying out on the course for a final lap—began inside the final five minutes—that sealed up her 2^nd place finish. Spending that much time (6h!) strengthening the pedal-bars-brain link will no doubt pay off later in the season.

Full results have yet to be posted, but Marty and the Simmer hung on for 4^th and 3^rd. Daryl became increasingly intimate with TYG’s 9.9 over the course of his hard-man solo effort—reports of shredded hands and nightmares of random wash-outs have made him appreciate the beef and contact patch of his C’dale 29er all the more.

Jason, Ben, Rob and JP finished strong, with enough left in the tank to stay awake and enthusiastic all the way home—I’ve got a feeling we’ll see them rock harder and harder as the season goes on; the crew will be so strong and so deep in September we’ll air off the climb at French Fort Cove in full Snowbird synchronicity!

This weekend is the Riverport Road Race, which will be a welcome respite from the off-road world’s grip on my reality—hopefully there’ll be a stacked field of maritime hard-hitters to make it deservingly epic.

Tonight is Cyclesmith Short-Track #3—hope to see you there!

Woolastook pictures: http://pauljordanphotography.smugmug.com/Other/Woolastook-5-Mountain-Bike/12561471_k3Mbj#901538261_RaaVH

Tremblant Canada Cup: Resurrection, Redemption and Ruination

As many keen local hard-hitters are no doubt aware, TYG has been on fire this spring. He's been burning carbon around race courses across the continent, tuning himself up for the giant hurt-locker that is the Canadian calendar.

First stop was Baie-Saint-Paul, where TYG left a bit too much in his legs to go home happy, finishing an uncharacteristic 36th, and 6th U23. Whether it be dropping margarine from his diet, or acupuncture before bed, something clearly had to be done come Tremblant, the following weekend.

Thankfully, when TYG slunk over to his CSD-decal-adorned Team Car, he was not setting off for the 'blant all by his lonesome; Cody Canning, of 'BERTA (as he'd soon be christened), provided a most welcome shoulder for a cranky son to cry on, and his oilsand-hardened demeanor meant that even when TYG kicked and screamed in frustration, 'Berta could simply turn the other cheek and take it like a whipping boy. [Ed.--actually TYG didn't get particularly upset about his 36th, but that wouldn't make for much entertainment, now would it?]

The duo rolled into an awesome condo TYG sorted out months before, and began the lengthy process of synaptic pruning required to thoroughly brand a course upon a rider's frontal lobe. The condo assisted mightily in this pursuit, as the crew were actually sleeping only 100m from the course itself. All systems looked cued for shreddage.

'Chops touched down on Wednesday, and TYG tore town to Dorval in his then-bikeless TDI to being him back to the promised land.

The course we sessioned that afternoon, and an incredulous 'Chops stood back in awe at the next generation's mastery of new-fangled gadgets, as TYG organized his helmet cam to demonstrate to 'Chops' elderly ass what modern course scoping looks like. The lap was first taken at a relatively chill pace, followed by TYG and 'Berta leaving 'Chops in their dust as they committed a race-pace lap to flash memory.

After 2h on the mountain, CSD settled down into a nice creek for some 2 degree torture/leg constriction. This boon to recovery was neutralized by spending the rest of the afternoon tanning on the deck running BIG vs. Taylor Swift remixes--it was presumed that this was met with full approval from stuffy New York landed gentry vacationers, as they were never confronted at gun point.

Having not seen rain all week, the course was in amazing shape--a great mixture of steady climbing off the start, awesome singletrack and a steep mid-lap climb to crack things up a bit before the KILLER final descent back into the village; 4-5 solid minutes of hand-pumping, rim-bottoming, berm-g-ing glory.

CSD co-founder DA BURGE and lola rolled in to the 'Blant on race-eve; the cheery hour of 10:30 was not conducive to the morning's then-pending performance. Unfortunately The Burge wasn't registered either, and that combined with the fact that he'd been off his bike for weeks, wrapped up in his course, led to the decision he'd have a better time helping lola make the best of her first DH race (which went well--1st place Master!), and ensuring his boys got proper feeds.

TYG and 'Chops warmed up together an hour before the race, first sessioning the bike paths, and later the steep roads paralleling the village. 'Chops was especially concerned with not burning too many of his few matches in warm-up, and sat through staging (at the very back!) wondering just how he'd do on a month of panic-training. TYG was not phased. He got his lounge on before the staging, chatting up belle femmes with nary a care in the world, save to shoot a glance over his shoulder toward the crowd of riders every so often, as if to say (in the words of JT):

"I'm wakin, up in the morning
Hustling to the stage and fuckin performin'
Bustlin' through the hate and bustin' the door in
Lately nothing misses I must've been scorin'
Speaking of the Misses I'm watchin' 'em pour in
Just like a drink that I'm enjoying
I don't mean bottles - you're welcome to join in
Just look at me soarin' - Feeling like Jordan..."

'Chops listened intently to the announcer, hoping to be called anywhere in the top half, if for no other reason than a commissaire's sense of nostalgia. [Ed--right...] The 91-strong field tore off the line at high noon, with 'Berta in 2nd row, TYG in the top 1/3, and 'Chops eating dust at the very back.

'Berta was off to the best start of the crew, running hard with the front of the race, even taking the lead from Plaxton at one point. A massive dopamine influx got the best of him at this point, however, as by the top of the climb a fully schizophrenic state had developed between the godliness of mind and the physicality of tire. On the descent a violent break with mtb-reality occurred, his bike flying one way and his body the other. This proved difficult to recover from, during the heat of battle, and a now-dysfunctional Lefty didn't exactly lend a helping hand. 'Berta was outta' commission.

TYG, hammering just slightly behind 'Berta's psychedelic pace, was on fire. All the course scoping and helmet-cam vid watching was paying off, with all but one U23 left in the dust thrown up by his Geax AKA. He joyfully snatched feeds from an ecstatic Burge, and winked at Lissen [Ed--read about her on his blog) as he stomped the feed-zone climb and sliced up the descent for the 5th time to land 16th overall, and 2nd U23--a total turn-around from his experience in BSP, made even sweeter by the fact that Tremblant is one of the selection races for the U23 Would Championship Team. BAM.

'Chops actually had a decent race [Ed: !], rolling in 28th at 12 minutes down, proving his worry about the 80% rule was unnecessary, and setting the stage for a more confident Hardwood Hills this weekend.

On that note, Ya Crew convened at Hardwood this afternoon; the course is absolutely killer as we've come to expect. It's harder to race well at HH, as you really have to concentrate to hover on the edge of control while slicing big-ring singletrack for 2hrs--as opposed to mashing a 4 minute open climb, as in Tremblant. Everything is so tight and hardpacked that it always feels fast, whether at red-line or cruise. All the time the crew has spent in the Deep South over the years should come in handy, however, but as TYG said today, "they'll be no substitute for following a local wheel."

We'll see what happens.

On a random, motivational note, the Editor read about a damn interesting study today: endorphin levels were measured in rowers when rowing alone, and then when rowing in groups. The group members had double the pain threshold of the soloists, and likely their "high" was more intense as well. After a month of mostly solo early morning torture sessions, to battle neck and neck for two hours probably left me with endorphin stretch marks across my forehead--stoked to be able to do it again this weekend!

Wish us luck!

Fort French Cove – Sailing home fulla LOOT

Fort French Cove – Sailing home fulla LOOT.

T’was a clear n’ crisp morn when the team car set sail from the bowls of Hali, embarking on a crusade to the Francophone North. Crew members included Ya Boi Marty, The Young Gun, GuestriderZ and the author.

A 6:30 departure combined with a 10:00 cut off for unregistered riders meant that the voiture de l’equipe had to run hard through the Wentworth Valley—the first race of the day was against the clock. We got there at 10:30, as a coffee and gas stop was mandatory, and a frisky Young Gun pranced over to the registration table to try his luck. Hilariously, they told him “maybe” and that they’d bring him a plate to the line—if they decided they could make room for some World Cup heavyweighter talent.

With the rest of the crew pre-registered, the earth began to turn smoothly again. I arrived last to the line as Sheila was giving her pre-race warnings against riding helmetless in the parking lot after the race, and other tidbits. I threw my second Camelbak towards the feedzone and snuck up to the front through the throngs of kids and masters riders.

Taking it off the line was a young son on a dirt jump bike, who sprinted like he was Brian Lopes bustin’ off the gate. Eventually, the lack of a big ring caught up with the duder, and the pain train of CSD cruised on by. I made sure to give the jean-adorned kid major props. Lespy and I hit the first climb together, and made sure to intimidate any and all challengers with a duet—Foreigner’s Hot Blooded. Mwahaaa! We “passed the mic” back and forth while an incredulous Acadian contingent cocked their heads in shock and awe.

Slicing through the open hardwood over bone dry hardpack, we burst out on an ATV trail and passed some course marshals. Unbeknown to us, some ATVers had chewed off a piece of course tape, hoping that a crew of young city folk would happen upon their hunting camp complete with pretty mouths. Not to be fooled, CSD realized their mistake after a few minutes… Much cursing and skidding ensued, and we hauled the front of the pack around to retrace our steps. The tape was by now back up, and we ripped into the singletrack like relocated hyenas, uncaged and fresh off tranquilizers.

Martin Peltier made the turn initially, and was now separated from us by probably 20 riders. TYG and I tore into the trail, dropping all behind us in a blitzkrieg of mini-skid turns and cheater lines. One of the highlights of the day was how we could swing our rear semi-slicks around like rudders on the hardpack, shaving seconds from every corner.

We caught Martaan on the third 45m lap (he was killing it, thinking that more riders were ahead) and promptly shut down our all-out psychopathically anti-social pace in favor of a more relaxed “we only go hard where it’s fun” strategy. He hammered the climbs while we exchanged looks of concern, and we took turns gapping him in the light speed singletrack. This is total Hard Wood Hills type stuff we’re talking about.

With 1.5h to go, we were dicing up the first section of single, when Ya Boi Marty came a hootin’ and hollerin’ through the canopy. We jubilantly screamed back through the trees, and CSD was soon reunited in attack formation. The four of us stayed together until the longest, fastest section of singletrack, where our Halifax-honed, root-annihilating pace cast Martaan from the caboose of the pain train. He hit the ground running, and stayed ahead of the hord for 4th, but the race had gone up the trail.

Early in the race, when TYG was killin’ it like Blackwater on Sunnis, I coyly suggested how great it’d be if we all rolled it together like something out of a fairy tale. He scoffed, and filed the idea away for later use. . . . Pounding through the last 70 minutes, I started to feel better and better, and in one section detached the rest of the train from my rear Jet S. Lespy wasn’t impressed, and exclaimed: “what the fuck!? We just dropped Marty!” upon his reunion with the front. He wasn’t feeling so hot himself though, and began to fade dramatically as the minutes counted down. Martin found this just wonderful, and picked and poked at TYG’s fragmented armor—such a race moment of weakness in our junior destroyer was not to be wasted in Martin Land. TYG got crankier and crankier with this onslaught of insults to injury.

With Martin and I now riding chill in order to preserve the integrity of the pain train, Lespy suggested we all ride in together. I smirked, and said sure. If Martaan was to catch us again the contract would be void, but barring that, we decided we’d roll in together in a stunning display of bromance, and then split the prize money. I took the “win”; Marty second; TYG third.

GuestriderZ had a KILLER race—her second event ever—and rolled in third in sole female! No doubt 5 laps of the best speed-tech course in the ATL will upgrade her skills to another level.

Once rolling in the Team Car, we promptly got lost in the ‘Chi, while looking for the “Irish Pub”. We somehow ended up at a skatepark on the outskirts and upon pulling in to turn around, were swarmed by a few kids on DJ bikes who offered to trade bikes for ours. After much thought, we declined. One of them was accompanied by their father who sort of helped us find the pub: “turn around” was quite helpful. I think there was some language barrier in effect.

We eventually found it, and Lespy kicked the party off by ordering soup. “What soup do you have?” “Soup of the day is cream of leek and yam. It’s blended.” “Blended? Ahhhh, TOTALLY!” “Yeah, ummm . . . I’ll get that.” The rest of the table laughed, but coming from someone who was fresh out of a post-race comatose-in-lawn-chair state, we understood.

The crew busted out the generous prize money, and was generous with the tip to top up our karma to carry us safely through a moose-ridden highway 11 back to civilization. Marty drove and teased TYG, while GRZ and yours truly slept and then authored this piece.

Overall, it was another day well lived by some of CSD’s heaviest weight mercenaries. Anyone who hasn’t experienced the glory of Miramichi’s Fort French Cove trails should make the trip. There’s about 15km of some of, if not the best singletrack in the Maritimes. It’s the only “speed-technical” stuff I’ve ridden on an Atlantic race course; probably our sole taste of real, sustained hardpack. Major props to Incline Sports and all who made it happen—you guys rock.

‘Till next time,

Ya Crew.

(Photos stolen from the event's facebook group.)

The Wentworth Spokebender

It's been a damn long while since the last update from ya crew, but we've been out getting all our planets and mitochondria aligned for this Sunday--the Wentworth show-down.

With TYG and Gmoney fresh back from 'Games, The Ol' Man, Randall, Marty, Da Burge, D-Ral, Robertson and other choice players ensured the stacking of the start line. TYG, myself and Da Burge rolled up fashionably tardy, as per usual, and cast a steely-eyed Natural Born Killer-type survey over the field as we slid into the front row. (Yes, we love ourselves!)

Lespy and Gmoney, with all their unbridled confidence and hematocrit of youth, began yelling from one end of the front row to the other about how they were going to hammer off and then pinch the field as they cut in towards the center to slap each other's bums. This was not to be tolerated by the elder statesmen. I assumed a representative role for Old Man Strength and sliced through their play time to take the hole-shot. Whoohooo! I won the start!

Gmoney quickly exacted some revenge, however, as he shot past me at the top of the steep opening grade and began what would become a kamikaze attack on the 1500m climb. . . . Midway through the first rock garden, a season on the road caught up with him as he spun out and came to a stop, with more dabs going down than a bingo hall. That marked the termination of his time sur l'avant, as TYG took the reins for The Youth, with another rope virtually tied to my headtube.

On the top section, before the first descent, TYG and I thought we were running free of the frothing field behind us, but a quick scan back through the poplars reveled a rabid Burge machine-gunning over the root bed. I screamed back words of encouragement, but he didn't get on the train in time to flow the upcoming descent--a manicured section of course more killer than David Berkowitz.

I tried to recover, sitting on TYG's wheel as we slid our semi-slicks around the tight brush like rudders. After 5 glorious minutes of mini-skid pump-track stoke time we burst out onto the maple sugar road and then began the technical climb to the field. With TYG in 6th gear cruise control I clung to his wheel by my fingernails, managing to stay on him to the top of the long, buff doubletrack climb that followed the field. We tore into the descent like starved arctic wolves and soaked up the stoke provided by the days of raking done by Conor and his crew. No where else but Wentworth will you rip a swoopy 50km/h hard-pack descent; other than the foot-wide swath of manicured dirt aligned with our plates, the rest of the course was a blue and green smudge in peripheral vision.

After the next climb we worked our way to the bottom, tires skimming rocks and stanctions heating up like AK-47 hammers. With a perfect feed from Jeff Simms' GF, we embarked on the second trek up the brutal cart road, number plates pointed at the sky. Our gap increased steadily over the next lap, as Da Burge began to cramp in his calf.

Hitting the long, mid-lap doubletrack climb for the second time, I led TYG as we approached the top. This provided my lactate-drenched legs to roll their own pace, hopefully ready for his inevitable surge over the top. Well, this lap there was no surge, rather the whole grid got scorched by an electrical storm of first-testament proportions. I dug deep and bent the shovel on a rock bottom, but couldn't keep his rear Crossmax in sight, as it was surely being propelled by his big ring.

With Lespy stamping his family seal on the point series up ahead, I dug in to hold onto second place. My mantra became "feel the fear!" as I made repeated shoulder checks and hammered harder into the now silent hardwood--lest an Old Man or a rejuvenated Burge blow past me on a second wind. Other than a broken spoke as I pounded through a compression on the first descent, things were on "red-line cruise-control".

Rolling comfortably through the final descent to the finish, I had flash-backs to the Spokebender of 2000, when I first moved to elite to battle The Old Man. He got me in the sprint, but I was stoked out of my helmet vents to be there with him. TYG's summer of learning at the top of the sport, only to come home after the Canada Cups/World Cups/Canada Games and handidly stick it to us all, makes the memory come full circle with the present. Brace yourselves, for it is truly a new era!

Da Burge held onto 3rd, taking out Simms (4th) and The Ol' Man (5th). Marty rolled in 6th, followed by Gmoney in 7th. Randall had a KILLER ride, posting up to the staging area in 8th, ahead of Ed, D-Ral, and Robertson.

Our B-blaster Enid was taken out due to a pinched nerve in her back that made taking the start unbearable. Fans shed a few tears; men in cat. B relaxed and unstuffed their chamois. Perhaps we'll see some dual Graller power in action at Fort French Cove on the 20th.

CSD guest rider, Zuzka, celebrated her 31-days-on-a-mountain bike anniversary by throwing herself into the B race. She held it down for two laps--crash free (!)--and professes to have improved by at least 250% as a rider. The Editor is just as stoked :)

Repeatedly, the Hub Cycle crew shows the world how to put on killer, well run events. The course was just about perfect, shit ran on time, results were timely, commissares were great people and assets to the scene; even their prizes were awesome and appreciated. There was nostalgic talk about how races drew 200+ in the hay-days of "mountain bike on the roof of every 90s SUV", but with events like this the numbers could very well return.

I like to consider the point of racing not simply to satisfy some primal urge for chase or competition, but also to get closer to the point of true human potential under relatively harmless circumstances. Stories of a mother lifting the back of a car off her child, or someone benching a 700lb boulder off their chest after a landslide abound, yet most mope around the daily grind well within the narrow confines of comfortable exertion. Racing doesn't simply let you satisfy some innate urge to chase, selected by evolution to ensure bison or zebras make it back to the clan; it distracts and motivates you to the point where suddenly your window of exertion extends into that forbidden territory of the true bodily red-line. That, loyal readers (haha), is what physical fulfillment is all about--truly drawing from a psychosomatic well of performance that only approaches its real depth during exceptional circumstances. What happens when you drill that deep? Cramps, crashes, tendonitis, heat-stroke, the tearing of connective tissue, the shredding of bronchi and also a heightened sense of self-awareness that only exposing one's all, both to the mind's eye and to those of spectators and other racers alike, can provide.

Thanks, all, for a thoroughly well-lived and real day!