I AM (mini)SPARTAN!!

Well folks, it has been quite a while. I’m certain that you have suffered in my absence but I assure you that my time away from the blog-o-net was well spent. I cleaned my apartment. I got a haircut. I even went so far as to organize my collection of bike movies. They are now arranged autobiographically of course. And the pants I’m wearing right now….yeah…they’re new. Bam! How’s that for excitement? Can you contain yourself? I can. Mostly because of the pants.

My mountain bike race schedule for this year has taken a slightly less than busy turn. With just four races marked on my calendar I had a little room for extraneous competitive outdoor activity. This new found flexibility and lack of direction has left me with far too much freedom and far too little self-control. I like racing. Let’s be really honest here, I just like competing. I’ll compete at anything; cycling, gum chewing, board games, traffic, drinking(except milk) or anything else with measurable comparisons to the performance of other people. The event and the outcome are inconsequential. I just want to go head to head with other people at something. Anything. And this is why I entered the Spartan Race. Those unfamiliar with this event can roll on over to www.spartanrace.com. It’s ok to be frightened by what you see there. You should be.

This event was the most fun I have ever had in a pair of running shoes. Running is pretty stupid on its own but with the Spartan Race you get to wear costumes. I entered as a three person team alongside the Little Italian and the female half of my favorite Michiganian couple. By entering as part of a three person team I had the distinct advantage of being able to throw mud at other people in the spirit of team building. Had I thrown mud at random competitors rather than my teammates I’m certain those people would have punched me in the face and you know how much I dislike that.

The race began with a light run off the island at USNWC and over to the first obstacle. This involved nothing more than rolling on dry ground under a net and then jumping a four foot wall. Not very Spartan –like in my book. I was a bit disappointed and told the Little Italian that this was going to be too easy. Then we hit the first mud pit. From that point forward my day was much more damp, sticky, fragrant and bad-ass. The mud was thick and deep. No, really deep. I sank up to my chest and proceeded to wade toward the rope climb at the end of the pit. I made it to the rope climb only to find the rope too slippery to ascend. I made it about 3/4 of the way up and promptly slipped off and fell back into the mud. This time deeper. How deep? Deep enough to know that the mud didn't taste very good. My failure to top out on the rope resulted in the forced completion of 30 burpees. I hate burpees.

The next few obstacles included a long slog through the Catawba river followed by a series of increasingly taller of walls to scale. So far so good. After another light run through the woods we hit my favorite part of the course. I spent 100m on my stomach slithering under barbed wire like a marine. A very tiny yet conveniently slippery marine. I found that with a good push I could slide for a significant distance. Never mind the sticks, rocks and other assorted debris in my way. I would have gone through twice if they let me. And if I had been wearing a cup.

So here is where the day becomes a bit of a blur. The walls got bigger and the obstacles more diverse. I used a chain to drag a cement block, crossed a river on a cargo net, ran up a hill with a sand bag on my shoulder, threw a spear at a straw target and even jumped over a fire. I was successful in clearing most of the obstacles but not all. Each time I failed at an obstacle I had to complete another 30 burpees. 120 total for the day. Stupid burpees. The walls were the one challenge I refused to fail on however. As they got taller they became much more difficult. Once we hit the ten foot walls I knew I was in trouble. There were steps to assist the women but we men were left to fling ourselves over without assistance. I made it over every one through a combination of stubbornness and what I suppose could be called ingenuity. Sadly, I cleared the tallest of the walls by using my man bits for leverage. Bad plan. I walked it off but can't say I was too happy about having nearly castrated myself in the name of sport. That one navigational error directly led to an afternoon spent watching Golden Girls reruns in an effort to avoid any inadvertent.........well, you know. If you don't know, I have a book you can borrow. It contains pictures. They are pretty confusing.

The race came to an end with a body cleaning swim followed by crossing the finish line hand in hand with my teammates. T-shirts, medals and free beer all around. Great success! I came out of the event without much in the way of photographs but given the volume of mud that covered my entire body I doubt a camera would have survived. I'll leave you with one shot taken at the finish line that seems to get the point across quite nicely. This is me wearing my finisher’s medal, soaking wet, smiling ear to ear. I'll be back at this event in 2013 and all who attend will fear the mudhawk.

Back Where I Belong

For a VERY brief period I found myself piloting a bicycle other than my greatly adored Stumpjumper. What can I say? I’m weak and have commitment issues. When a shiny new single speed came my way I felt obligated to throw a leg over it. Stumpy got pissed but being an inanimate object was ill equipped to retaliate in any meaningful physical way. Instead, she just stared at me longingly from her hook in the bike closet while I tried to ignore the empty feeling I got while riding a different bike. Fortunately the universe knows what is best for me and conspired to put me back in the saddle of my one true big-wheeled soul mate.


I’m sure Diane Fossey was hiding nearby when I took this picture.

The Winter Short Track series has taken a decidedly pleasant turn following my crash and near leg amputation in the first week. I did skip the second race in the series because it was cold but the past two races have gone fairly well. Yes, skipping a race in a winter series due to low temperatures is pretty lame but in my defense, I have no natural insulation. I am 135 pounds of skin, bone and an internal organ or two. I live in the South for a reason and it sure as hell isn’t the ethnic food. Unless you consider pulled pork and fried chicken ethnic food of course.

So how did I place in the past two races? Just below mid-pack. I’m cool with that. My little bird legs were not built for short efforts. I have actually shown improvement over the course of the series. In the first two races I got lapped twice. That made me sad and caused me to swear repeatedly in a British accent for reasons I still don’t quite understand. Last week I only got lapped once. That made me much less sad. Someday I would like to actually finish one of these things without getting lapped at all but let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.

As I look ahead to this Sunday and the final race of the series I find myself navigating unfamiliar waters. For the first time in several years I am racing as an independent with no shop affiliation and no responsibilities. The rest of my season is uncertain at this point. The good side of this change is the fact that I am not obligated to do anything other than that which my little heart desires. The bad side is that this could negatively shift the cosmic balance. You wouldn’t put a 9 year old sugar addict into an unattended candy store would you? You would….. Oh, well that makes you either a bad parent or a kidnapper with a sick sense of humor. Either way you have two hours of hyper-active misery followed by vomiting and a severe sugar crash in your near future. Better keep some handy wipes close by. Freak.

So here is the basic plan for the rest of 2012:

05/20 Riverfront Classic
06/23 12 Hour Tree Shaker Challenge
08/25 Rivers Edge Mountain Bike Marathon
10/06 6 Hour Grind on the Greenway

I’m not out to prove I can have all the fun I need with just four carefully selected events. I simply suck at planning. Something tells me the gaps will get filled in with random last minute event entries based entirely on how I happen to feel on any given weekend. Will more mountain bike races be added? Yes sir. A running race or two? You betcha! Road racing perhaps? Hell no, that is a ridiculous question and I’m a little offended that you asked.

So until next time I leave you with a picture of my dear friend Stumpy and I flying neutral colors and doing what we do best………No, I don’t know what we do best either, but at least I look sexy in tights.

Confirming the Existence of Gravity

Happy January 16th everybody!! Just like New Years day only two weeks later and without the hangover. Ok, so the holidays have passed, the world has returned to work and I can now go on living my snarky little anti-consumer existence without having to justify my lack of a shopping list to anyone. My relationship with Christmas has been fading for years but this past holiday really sealed the deal. Was it the mace attack that made my day? Nope. How about a bunch of people fighting over cheap waffle irons at Walmart? No, not that one either. My personal favorite was hearing that all three malls in the Queen City had to be shut down and evacuated because of the fighting that broke out over the new limited edition Air Jordan sneaker. I saw a young lady on the news explaining to a bewildered reporter that while pushing through the crowds to get at this new shoe she actually managed to lose the shoes she was wearing. To wait in line for 12 hours only to return home with a net loss is not so good. Hee Hee.

I love January for just one reason. Ok, make that two. The first of course is having the opportunity to call people up North to ask them about the weather. I like to do this while sitting on my balcony. I like to tell my Northern friends that it almost cool enough out for me to need a sweater. Almost. Something about that conversation always makes me smile. The second reason I love January is that it marks the start of the Winter Short Track Series. Yesterday was the first race of the series and it did not disappoint. The weather was fantastic, the crowd was huge and I was...well, I was there.

First and foremost, I was there on a new bike. I like new bikes. They are the only thing I really spend any money on evidenced by the fact that I am writing this post while wearing a shirt I bought during my sophomore year of college. That was the best $11.99 I have ever spent.

For the foreseeable future I will be riding a Felt 9 Solo. Yes it is a 29er. Yes it is a single speed. Yes it is awesome. As awesome as my Stumpjumper you ask? Well, the jury is still out on that one. I'll need to spend a little more time in the saddle before I'm comfortable enough to commit to that. Either way, it certainly does look good...


New bike day is the best day.

Armed with my shiny new weapon of choice I lined up for my first race of the season yesterday afternoon. Of course, I was in the single speed class. Why do I ride and race a single speed? Because I am very, very stupid. You should all really know that by now. Please try to pay attention.

I was actually pretty optimistic about my chances despite the fact that I have not ridden my bike much in the past three months. I could even go so far as to say I felt strong. The first lap was a mess as always but that had more to do with the fact that I always line up at exactly the wrong spot in the middle of the pack. I did manage to move up four spots by the end of the lap and even fell into pretty nice rhythm. Two or three laps in I was moving well and seemed to be picking up speed. Then it happened....I cramped. First in my left calf and then my right. I have had cramping problems for the past eight months and can say with the utmost confidence that I am not a fan. But, given the short distance of the race, I kept going and just tried to hold my position. When the call rang out that we had one lap to go I took off with everything I had. That is never a good idea. It turns out that just because you can make the bike go really fast it does not necessarily mean you can control it. For those of you out there wondering if the laws of gravity are still in effect you can sleep well tonight knowing you won't be floating away any time soon. I hit the ground hard and just for good measure I slid for a while. That was fun. I lost a few places while dusting myself off and limped through the finish line with a slightly rearranged left leg.


Are you hungry? I’m hungry. We should get salad.

As you can see, my season is off to a bumpy start. There are four more races in the series and if you put them all together into one race it would still be too short for me. But alas, I love racing in any form I can get it. Keep your fingers crossed next Sunday and maybe, just maybe, I’ll keep my bike upright and my legs intact so I can deliver a good and proper mid-pack finish. Momma always told me to aim high……

Putting Another Stamp on the Man Card

Sunday was a very exciting day indeed. Why? I got to drive a truck! Ok, so I also bought a washing machine and I guess that is pretty great but I have a penis and therefore must focus on what really matters to the men among my readership.

Whenever I come into possession of large objects that need to be transported to my sprawling estate, I run into a small problem. I drive a Toyota Corolla. This is not the most useful vehicle when attempting to move furniture, appliances or life-sized porcelain giraffes. It also has the unfortunate effect of making me look like a high school kid. My youthful good looks certainly help with that image but it is not one I particularly enjoy. If only I looked like Ryan Gosling. He’s so dreamy. Or at least that is what I have been told. By women. Lots of them. And they were all naked.

Sunday afternoon began with a quick trip to the northeast corner of the city to pick up a vehicle that changed my life for exactly two hours and forty seven minutes. In order to move my new washing machine I tricked a friend into letting me borrow his Toyota Tacoma. I told him I was using it to pick up the pony I bought him for Christmas. I can’t believe he fell for that. I don’t celebrate Christmas. Anyway, with the truck in my possession, The Little Italian at my side and the GPS leading the way I rolled out in style. Almost immediately I noticed a change in myself as I drove. I was suddenly just a little bit taller. The hair on my body became fuller and richer than before. I’m pretty sure I even started growing a mustache. And then, let’s just say my fabulous man bits became exceedingly impressive. Apparently they became magnetic as well. Women were throwing themselves at me so hard that their heads were denting the side of the truck. I’m sure they were fine though. Not that I was about to stop and check. Aggressive women scare me so I just left them heaped up along the side of the road.

They make a cute couple if you're into that sort of thing. I wonder what the kids would look like.

Upon arriving at our destination TLI and I promptly embarrassed the person who sold us the washing machine by declining his assistance and loading it into the back of the truck on our own. He seemed impressed by the ease with which we did this but just for good measure we did a few hand stand push-ups in his driveway and then my beloved threw his car into a lake. My memory of this event may be a bit foggy but I am pretty sure that is EXACTLY what happened.

Getting our magnificent new laundry cleaning contraption into our home was a snap. Up the stairs, through the door and into the hallway we went. No hood required. This is where the only real problem of the day arose. Once the machine was in place I went into a state of shock. The large white cube made my hall closet look painfully domestic. Where there was once enough space for a track bike there was now only the infernal machine. I breathed rapidly into a paper bag but it did nothing to ease my panic. Sniffing glue didn’t do much either. I thought my head might explode but then a beautiful solution hit me right in the face. Rude but effective. The Little Italian went outside and I went to work. All it took was a few well-placed bike stickers to bring my heart rate back into normal territory. And when my wife came back inside? As far as you know, she was pleased as punch.

It may not be particularly aerodynamic but the stickers definitely make it look fast.

I scoured the pages of the UCI rulebook and found nothing banning a 7 Cycle 2 Speed. I'm sure that will change. You know how they like to reject new technology.

So that is where my day began the inevitable slide toward a stiff nightcap. I jumped into the Tacoma one last time to bring it back to its rightful owner. As a matter of course, I made a quick stop at a gas station to fill up the tank. Have I mentioned lately just how much I love my Corolla? I have never seen a gas pump run for so long. At one point I actually knelt down to look under the truck because I was fairly certain gas was draining right out the bottom. My dreams of owning a truck may have been shattered by an expensive trip to the pump but at least I can still grow a totally sweet mustache.

Bring Your Hoff to Work Day

Every once in a while I wonder if I I’m married to a crazy person and then something happens to confirm that I most certainly am. I was looking through some pictures on the laptop the other day and stumbled across a few photos of The Little Italian sharing time with another man. Most husbands would find this scenario to be quite upsetting but upon close inspection of the photos I knew I had nothing to worry about. I did not find a scandalous pictorial filled with images unsuitable for work as many readers might have expected. Instead I found that The Little Italian had kidnapped my two dimensional German friend and taken him to work for the day.

For the past year or so my wife has been working for Crossfit Eternal. One would expect that because of my deep appreciation for Crossfit that I might have joined her there on multiple occasions to share in a workout or simply kibitz with friends. That is what most people would think. Yeah, but no. My fierce loyalty to my own gym, and a desperate lack of free time have led me to neglect this important marital bonding opportunity. Apparently The Little Italian thought that if I wasn’t going to join her there she would take The Hoff instead. This was either a ploy to make me jealous or maybe just a desperate cry for help. You decide.

After a day at the box this is what she left me…


Apparently they attempted some combination of overhead squats and box jumps. Box jumps prove to be very difficult for The Hoff. He is mounted on a stick after all. You try jumping on one rigid, wooden leg and see what happens. As for the squats? Forget it. Splinters. That’s all I can say. Horrible, horrible splinters.


From box jumps and squats the intrepid couple moved over to the pull up bar. I don’t know what you see when you look at this picture but all I see is The Hoff. Do you see something else in this picture? I think that makes you a racist.


Although I’m sure the pull up bar was fun, the rope climb is where my two-dimensional friend really stood out. His power to weight ratio is quite impressive. He easily won the rope climb race pictured above. The Hoff has skills.


What was the best part of the day? Well, The Hoff loves ladies. Here we see him casually observing two lovely young women as they enjoy a good stretch. I’m sure it was only a matter of time before he managed to charm the two gym-goers. Poor girls. They didn’t stand a chance. How could any woman resist a man with a perm like that. Hot with a capital O.

Inspired by this employer based Hofftastic adventure I have decided to bring him to my office next week. Every good BD guy needs a wingman. This is going to be sweet….

I Have a Tiny Caveman in My Pants

That right there is a working title I should have spent a little more time on. Perhaps it will aid in drawing a new and exciting demographic to my little corner of the interweb. Grab a blanket and get cozy new friends. Just don’t sit on my side of the couch.

While stumbling through my 34th summer on this planet I came to the conclusion that something was missing from my life. This realization came in the form of an often repeated argument with The Little Italian. We have long enjoyed a sort of Mexican stand-off in our home directly related to the somewhat bizarre cycling tradition of male leg shaving. I don’t suppose it is truly fitting to identify this particular stand-off as Mexican seeing that she is Italian and I am a mish mash of pasty, light skinned people from the continent but for lack of better terminology that is where I have landed. You see, dear readers, I have shaved my legs on many occasions in the past. Most of the time, the removal of my leg hair was timed specifically for a race that I deemed to be important. Most of the time. But every time without fail I have been met with the same threat from my beloved. I have been warned time and time again that I can shave my legs as often as I want but as soon as I do The Little Italian will stop shaving hers. I’m sure you can guess which one of us has the will power to stay strong in this scenario. I’m weak, oh so very weak.

After years of allowing this fight to rage on we finally hit a wall. There would be no more threats, no more playful yet sometimes bitter back and forth. The time had come to find a permanent solution once and for all. I of course suggested that because I am the man of the house whatever I say goes. Did I get hit for that one? Yup. Did it hurt? Yup. Was there bruising? Of course not. The Little Italian was kind enough to drop a bar of soap into a tube sock and hit me with that. The bruising was minimal. The damage to my pride was not.

So how did I finally end this dispute? I got a tattoo!! She has told me many times that shaving my legs made me look like a girl but a tattoo could reverse the effect. Victory!

The location for my tattoo was never an area for much debate. I’m a cyclist. I wanted a tattoo on my leg and my calf seemed like the best place based on my analysis of a pain to visibility ratio. What to get was the challenging part. Many cyclists have images of various bike parts inked into their skin so that was automatically out. I thought something cool like a cowboy riding a dragon through a ring of fire might be sweet but that idea was quickly shot down as well. I also toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo of my calf on my calf only making in twice as large. There were some artistic issues there so I settled on my little lifestyle mascot, Grok. For those unfamiliar with Grok you should go buy Mark Sisson's book. The fast and dirty overview is that modern man is a damn mess and we could learn a great deal from our primal ancestors. This is a concept that I have internalized over the past couple years and it seemed only fitting to make it a permanent part of me. Behold my greatly improved right leg:



I have discovered one small problem with my new two dimensional friend. He has a rather kinetic quality about him and tends to only look cool when I am doing something active. When I am running or riding my bike or wrestling a rhinoceros he looks awesome. While darning my socks, painting a fence or feeding the squirrels? Not so much. I guess this means I have to do really awesome things all the time now. Who’s ready for some base jumping? You go first.

I can't possibly talk about my tattoo in this space without taking a moment to thank Dennis at Carolina Ink. This may come as a surprise to you but I am a bit of a nerd. I actually spent several hours researching the history of tattoos and looking up data on their prevalence in modern society. Did you know that one third of Americans under the age of forty have tattoos? It's true. Armed with my data I walked in to meet Dennis and discovered right away that he is much cooler than I am. He quickly dispelled any concerns I had about the process of having him repeatedly jam a needle into my leg and assured me that he wouldn't knock me out and draw a purple unicorn on my back while I was asleep. I appreciated that. The little details are important. I would love to tell you about the emotional transfer of getting my first tattoo but I was so tired the night that I got it that I nearly fell asleep on the table. All I know is that after an hour of listening to an annoying buzzing sound my leg was vastly improved. Groggy as I may have been I still had the energy to speak at length with the man responsible for my inky adventure. I stated over and over with great certainty that I would only get one tattoo. Dennis laughed and said I'd be back. He's right....

Interbike Exploration and Jubilation

Ahhh Interbike. The annual celebration of all things bicycle held in the city that stands as a monument to American excess; Las Vegas. It is a rather interesting pairing and with this being my first trip to the expo I wanted to experience both sides. Now that I have checked this adventure off my list I can say it was a fantastic experience but not necessarily one that I need to repeat on an annual basis. My story shall begin with the expo itself.

I have wanted to attend Interbike since the first day I laid eyes on a two wheeled human powered vehicle. After many long years of anticipation I can confidently say the event did not disappoint. It began on Wednesday morning and despite a long day and late night on Tuesday I was still up at the crack of dawn bouncing around like a kid on christmas morning. My traveling companions were super excited to wake up to the sound of me bouncing up and down on my cot at 7am. If only they knew what was about to happen them. Never bring a hyperactive bike nerd to Vegas. It only increases their already excessive energy levels.

So what did I see? Well, if you own a computer and have any idea how to use it for the power of good you have already seen everything at the expo on Bikerumor and a thousand other interweb sites. I'll do my best to tell my version of the story with a somewhat controlled photo dump. Spoiler alert, there is a urine joke in your near future.

This is where it all began. I was so excited to pick up my badge that I couldn't hold the camera steady. Either that or my camera sucks. You decide. Of course, if you choose the latter option and would like to buy me a new camera I'm certainly not above accepting gifts. In case you are wondering, I prefer Canon.

It is hard to put into words just how large this trade show is. It's apparently even more difficult to put into a picture.

First stop, Moots! The most beautiful bike at the show was their 29er. This is not simply my opinion. According to a statistic that I made up for this post, 118% of Interbike attendees agree that Moots created sex on wheels with this one. I didn't take this blurry photo so I defer back to the earlier comment about you buying me a camera. If all of my readers chip in just $100 each I'll have $200 to put toward this purchase. Thanks for doubling my readership, mom.

Stops 2-5. Yes, I went to the Moots booth on five separate occasions. Not sequentially of course as that would have bordered on creepy. But seriously, just look at that thing. Tasty times two.

No trip to Interbike would be complete without stopping by the Specialized booth. They had one of Jaroslav Kulhavy's bikes on hand. I may have touched it. There were unconfirmed reports of weeping. I don't know anything about that.

Tell me you wouldn't lick that bike if you had the chance.

So now is the point where this post could easily fall into a lengthy series of photos of various 29" wheeled bikes followed by my comments about how amazing they all are. I'll spare you that pain and go straight to my celebrity siting list. It is as follows: Chris Horner, Dave Zabriske, Levi Leipheimer, Ryder Hesjedahl, James Macilvain(yes he counts and no I don't care if you have no idea who he is), Chris, Sugai, Elvis and Ned Overend. Yes this is my second Ned sighting. No, I did not talk to him. I didn't talk to him last time and that approach has worked out pretty well so far. Do you have any idea what could happen? If I were to speak to him he might actually respond at which point I would pee all over the rug. Nobody wants that. Especially the clean up crew in Vegas. Look at how they respond such things....

That may be taking caution to an unnecessarily high level.

What else did I see? Every damn thing, that's what. And I went back to the Moots booth again. Over the course of two and half days I went to every booth at the show. Some were better than others of course and I was mocked relentlessly for touching every single tire but hey, I likes me some tires. There were more components, accessories, clothes and trinkets than I could ever cover here. So instead I present you with a picture of this guy:

I have no idea who this guy is. Apparently he was trying to sell some sort of ab machine that is so intense you have to wear sunglasses while you use it. It seemed like a great concept to me. Except for the ab machine part.

I also saw this thing:
For that very special person who loves the Stairmaster but wants to take in some scenery while they work on their fitness goals. Best to wear a helmet to protect you from the embarrassment of being excessively Caucasian.

The trip did include a short burst of exercise that I was very excited about. As if I wasn't already excited about everything else. Lemond Fitness had a stationary trainer set up with a power meter so Interbike attendees could compete against each other in a battle royale of watts supremacy. I didn't win. I know your shocked. However, I got to watch Dan, traveling companion number one, put up a number that held 3rd place until the end of the show. Notoriety and a free t-shirt for him. Free socks for me. Sweet.

I'm confident a gold embossed certificate of achievement will be arriving at the shop any day now.

Yes I rocked my sweet new socks with my sandals. No, people did not point and laugh.

Me, I put up 1146. Not too shabby for a little dude with chicken legs. Even less shabby when you consider that my score was 37 watts higher than a gentleman I shall only refer to as traveling companion number two. That is really not the most flattering name for him but he is currently in a safe house as a part of the 37 watts less than Dave protection program. The secrecy of this program is of the utmost importance and shall not be violated under any circumstances.

So that is the expo half of my Interbike story. What is the other half? Well, that would be the drunker side of Vegas. Oh the stories I will tell you through stilted prose and blurry photos. Don't forget, your individual contribution to my new camera fund will only decrease if you bring additional readers to my blog. Put on your reader recruiting hat and get to work. I like Canon.