Race Report


2007 Cranksgiving Race Report

The most important part was not the cranks but the giving.  Post-race all eighty five competitors plus crew pedaled their bikes to the St. Mary's Church and made a difference.  Several hundred items of food were donated to the ecstatic organization who in turn provided a warm and filling meal to the unfortunate this Thanksgiving.   

The format for the race was clever combining shopping and alley cat style bike racing.  Race organizer Ken supplied a Sudoku like puzzle with four rows and four columns worth of Manhattan grocery stores.  Only four stores had to be hit but the trick was each row and each column (representing one of four chains) had to be included.  Food options were also divided up into a 4x4 table which required one item from each row purchased.  I teamed up with Izumi, Cooper and Jeremy Cox on cracking this brain numbing puzzle.  If we went here we couldn't go there, if we went downtown we had to go uptown.  There was no stand out simple route and massive amounts of frantic scribbling on our maps took place before the final route was decided.  Brantley showed up late and put himself on our route.  Our plan basically made a large square out of Manhattan.

The field was maxed out with most of NYC's heavy hitters present.  Last years champ Yatika was missing but the usual protagonists Austin, Crihs, and Dan Chabanov were on the start line.  Pablo, Brantley, Izumi, Prentiss, Andrew, Prentiss, Fernando, and legendary Squid filled out the tough field.

Below is how the race unfolded.      

My body was static but my mind had already been suffering from the side effects of being switched to race mode five minutes early.  High levels of concentration and adrenaline are fully kicking by the drop of the green flag.  This mental preparation is key to the hole shot.  As Ken yells the start command I'm bouncing my bike down some steps, off a short ledge and onto the open road.  The 10th Ave dash began and I as usual having nothing but loads of daylight stretching out into distance.  I'm leading but quickly joined by Jeremy, child prodigy Cooper, and Pablo.  A few blocks later Dan and Crihs hit 10th Ave half a block in front of our group.  The pace is already hard but moderated by numerous red lights.  Traffic is suspiciously light so when Cooper drops us splitting a signal I raise an eyebrow of concern.  Dan and Chris pull off 10th pursuing their route.  A few blocks near 86th St.Pablo also goes his separate way.  My field hits the hard right at 86th with Jeremy, Prentiss, and Brantley still in contact.  Cooper remains off the front with a block and half gap.  Cross town traffic is thick and juicy but we're passing it like a knife through hot butter.  The race pace continues to rise as I pull the field through the Central Park transverse.  Prentiss hits it hard on the exit at 84th St. and I struggle to hang onto his wheel.  Every obstacle, vehicle, pedestrian, red light, and various road hazard melts away into a tunnel vision induces stupor which defies sanity.  The bike I'm on is brakeless which is good because I'm not slowing down for anything.

Brantley and I quickly organize a pact which will see our shopping duties shared.  Cooper is first in the store and first out followed closely by Brantley who has purchased huge double packs of dry stuffing.  While I'm outside attending the bikes a half dozen more riders dash into the store including Izumi who is thick in the main pack after a slow start.  The gap to Cooper is steady but Prentiss and Jeremy are now gone forever.  The south bound traffic on 2nd Ave is gridlock hell all the way from 86th to the Queensboro Bridge entrance.  Brantley and I are struggling to zig and zag our way through the mess but so is Cooper who remains within striking distance.  The road finally opens and the chase begins.  Brantley and I fly over a few short rollers while up the road the young kid frantically searches for skitches.  I'm nervous because I know if Cooper lands a lucky one it could be race over for the middle aged.  Near the UN we encounter the steepest climb, Cooper puts the power on over the accent but lifts off the gas on the decent and we instantly erase his lead.  At 34th St I grab onto a charter bus, Cooper is directly behind me also hanging on (and drafting!).  Brantley sensing the opportunity grabs onto the adjacent side.  The bus driver is a champ, his perfectly constant 23 mph pace hits every green light all the way to 14th St.  It's hard left on 14th and I'm almost taken out by a minivan forcing me hard onto the sidewalk.   Brantley follows but Cooper inches away again.

The C-Town on Avenue D is already being ransacked by Dan Chabanov with Austin on bike duty when we arrive.  I dash into the store with a frantic calmness.  The trick to the rudeness of this race is to do it with extreme politeness.  True I'm sprinting through the halls of a crowed grocery store demanding cranberry sauce but I'm doing it in a calm and courteous voice.  I am even ushered straight to the front of a five deep line because of my charity inspired explanation.  I'm out of there in half the time of Dan and Cooper and onto the next checkpoint.  The next store is relatively close on Third Avenue but cross-town traffic on 14th causes dangerous delays.  We hit a wall of fast moving traffic on 2nd Avenue and instead of waiting for a hole we make a hard right into traffic.  A few hairy blocks later we make a left on 17th and over to 3rd.  3rd Avenue is where we make our single blunder.  The MET store is on 17th but we get ahead of ourselves and head up 3rd and through 18th before the mistake is calculated.  Brantley hits his front brake and I hit him hard.  I recover from the accident and retreat to 17th.  It may be Brantley's turn to go shopping but he's nowhere to be seen so I readjust my strategy and barrel in.  I quickly locate the bean aisle, cut to the front of the line and find Brantley freaking out in front of the store.  Apparently my hit had taco'd his rear wheel but he's rolling again after truing it with his foot.  The bike has a nasty wobble and I mutter a fleeting apology as we head several blocks northeast to the final checkpoint.

The final checkpoint is an Associated Grocery store on Park and 22nd.  Brantley runs in without knowing what to get which is important because the wrong item at the wrong time is grounds for disqualification.  I'm double checking the manifest and chasing after him screaming instructions to buy canned sweet corn.  It seems like half the field is in the store on their second and third checkpoints so the staff is already less than amused.  A few moments later Cooper rolls in followed a few minutes later by Pablo.  The minutes tick by slowly waiting for Brantley to emerge.  I try to calm my nerves by chatting with a girl whose teammate is also in the midst of shopping.  Finally a heavily stressed Brantley reappears and nothing is left but the cross-town battle to the finish.  Up to this point I'm calling out every turn for Brantley who an instant before was my teammate.  Together we fought off our rivals and now the battle is to be decided between us so I'm giving nothing away.  We snake our way onto 23rd and the attacks commence immediately.  I'm sprinting hard but Brantley, busted wheel and all, is having no problem matching my pace.  I inch away coming to 8th Avenue but a horde of pedestrian targets swarm across the road.  I whip my skidding bike through a foot wide gap between a pregnant lady and another pushing a double stroller.  The resulting hysterical curse filled berating rolls off my back as I loose position to Brantley.  Another hard effort and we are back together and blowing smoothly through 9th Avenue.  The finish is at 11th Avenue and in sight.  10th Avenue doesn't accumulate the gridlock of the middle Avenues so the red light that greets us is followed by fast heavy cross traffic.  I go for broke and throw my bike immediately across two of the five lanes.  I've got one eye on Brantley and the other on the vehicles bearing down on me.  Lane number three is un-passable for half a dozen cars so instead of losing momentum I make a sharp right and head north a quarter block.  My peripheral vision senses a small opening and I double back diagonally across the two remaining lanes causing a symphony of screeching tires and horn blasts.  Brantley is momentarily out of site but he's there haven gotten through the intersection maybe twenty feet back.  I launch the sprint and take the win.

Here's a link to our race route and results

Race Route


Race Results

Chupacabra 100k race report:

 The good and the bad

photos

 

Good:  The start was insane with 3000 over hyped and overreaching mountain bikers starting in one big wave.  I lied to the organizers about my semi pro status which gave me a staging position in the top 150.  The pre-race energy level reminded me of the start of Monster Track but on a much larger and sketchier level.  The start snaked out of the staging area and onto a long flat seemingly simple dirt levee road.  A large cloud of dust descended on the field making the numerous pileups hard to avoid as riders were reduced to silhouettes.  I started fast and stuck to the wheel of my teammate Rufus who was gunning it through the field.  Soon we were somewhere in the top fifty.  The pace was criterium level with every wannabe racer launched attack after attack.  I used to think the Cat 5 peleton was scary.

 

Bad:  8 minutes into the race I was collected in a sketchy pileup and although I managed to stay upright my tire was knocked off the bead and the tube exploded.  I changed the tube in record time but when I used the co2 for inflation the damaged side wall let go and the tube came flying out of the side and burst.   I used my last tube and last co2 cartridge which malfunctioned leaving my tire with less then 15psi.  Then I utilized my joke of a mini pump (fuck crank brothers mini pumps!) and pushed the pressure up to a max 20 psi when I needed 40.

 

Bad:  I was beside myself with grief.   Thousands of riders were flying by.  I went from top 50 to somewhere near the rear of the massive field. 

 

Good:  A few miles later and several hundred positions later I came across a spectator with a floor pump.  Knowing that there was no way to finish with 20 pounds in my tire I stopped.  This guy saved my day but.

 

Bad:  The poor guy apparently didn't know how to use the pump and let all the air out of my tire and took a good five minutes to finally figure it out and bring my tire up to the proper pressure.  Meanwhile hundreds of riders I had just past again went sailing by.

 

Good:  Although frustrating there is nothing like barreling through hundreds upon hundreds of slower riders to make you feel like you have fast legs.  I was on the limit passing scores of riders everywhere.  Luckily my ignorance of Spanish let the curses roll off my back as I used elbows, bad language, and massive amounts of aggression to make impossible moves. 

 

Bad:  Driving my machine off course to make passes took its toll as I was always off line and on the roughest part of the trail.  Driving through the brush I got a huge stick in my spokes calling for further delays

 

Good:  The course.  The first 15 miles were on wide dirt roads running alongside the US border.  After this we shot through the drainage ditch of a true third world shanty town.  The crowds were huge with all the local kids and three legged dogs out to cheer us on.  The drainage ditch led the race out of town and towards the mountains off in the distance.  A few small steep sandy climbs led to a long twisty climb leading to a giant statue of Jesus Christ.  There were thousands of spectators and volunteers on call to offer water, bananas and loud vocal support.  The whole scene felt a bit like a mountain top stage of the tour. 

 

Bad:  Although I was feeling strong and still pushing the big ring the fact of the matter was that for as far as I could see stretched an impossible line of riders ahead of me.  I couldn't pace off anyone and spent many frustrating miles pushing my way forwards.  Once the trail became narrow technical single-track passing was even more difficult and the choppy pace was taking its toll physically and mentally.  I once found myself dicing with this Mexican girl with flat pedals.  She passed me back twice and was determined to make my life living hell.  This girl  was fearless over the technical rock gardens and big scary descents but obviously lacked the fitness to keep up her pace. 

 

Good:  Near the 40 mile mark I had worked my way into the top 150 and was still making progress through the field.  At this point we were way out in the desert and riding through the foothills of spectacular mountainous desert terrain.  The temperature was in the mid 90's with nowhere to hide.  The course started around 3500 ft and topped out around 6000 ft elevation.  The dry dusty air was painful on the lungs.

 

Good:  Mile 42 and we rode up to the base of a steep mountain.  I looked up, a continuous stream of mountain bikers hiked towards the sky.  This trail would have been hard to transverse with hiking boots much less in Sidi's with a mountain bike on my shoulder. 

 

Bad: Halfway up the hike I gave my rear tire a squeeze and par for the course it was nearly flat.  With nowhere to stop and no tubes left I continued on with the long hike pleading with my fellow racers for a tube.  At the top I realized the leak was gradual so I spent a few unfriendly minutes with my (fucking piece of shit) mini pump and brought the tire back to 20psi before starting a long fast descent.  This part of the course is the reason I ride mountain bikes with fast flowing corners, undulating rises, and dry rocky riverbeds.  After nearly stuffing it off a small cliff I found my rear tire flat again.  At this point I am out in the wilderness with no spare tube so I do what I can and get to pumping again with my (fucking piece of shit) mini pump.  This time the tire immediately runs out of air and I find a large thorn imbedded through the tire.  Game over?

 

Good:  While stooping in disgust over my disabled bike and getting stabbed with cactus needles I got a chance to chat with a fellow racer who was stopped on the course to massage his cramping legs.  Although I speak no Spanish and him no English the language of pain is universal.  I could tell he was in bad shape so I forked over some electrolyte tablets and asked to borrow his mini pump (which was only for Schrader valves so it was worthless)  After ten minutes of waiting (and after losing again several hundred positions) someone finally threw me a tube and I made the repair.  Of course the (fucking piece of shit) mini pump only offered 20psi.  Miraculously this tube would hold to the finish although the tire was completely trashed. 

 

Good:  After several more miles of single track we came to this steep climb that led to an old adobe church.  The climb was lined with spectators.  Near the top of the loose gravely climb I was blocked by several pedestrian racers walking their bikes.   I wobbled and as my foot was reaching for the ground some spectators jumped into action and gave me a huge shove over the top.   At the summit of the climb and within feet of the front door was an old priest in full ceremonial getup sprinkling us with holy water.  I'm not a pious man but I swear the water gave me extra power.  My position at the church is a lowly 396^th place. 

 

Bad:  The next few miles contained a horrible amount of these washed out riverbed sections.  The way through the deep gravel was to get in a high gear and spin smoothly.  Make a mistake of cadence and the tire would instantly dig in stealing power, time and moral.   I began feeling woozy and felt the wall encroaching.  Positions were being gained back but fatigue was becoming enemy number one.  It was well over fours hours into the race which I realized marked the point where the winners would be finishing.  The kilometers ticked by slowly as we came to another mountain pass twice as long and gnarly as the first hike-a-bike path.         

 

Good:  This hike took well over 30 minutes.  Again a solid line of mountain bikers ascended to the heavens in a long thin painful line.  Portions of the hike turned into a parking lot as tired riders called time out and attempted to free their cramping muscles.  I powered on and actually recovered slightly as I ate lunch (gels, cliff shot blocks, electrolyte tablets, and heed mix) while hiking.  The peak offered the most beautiful view of the surrounding valleys and mountains but this appreciation was beyond lost on me.  The other side of the accent naturally offered a descent.  The downhill was a combination of dangerous sandy drops and switchback turns.  A mistake here and you were going for a free ride off a cliff.  My descending tactic was to go as fast as possible crashing my way through the riders who were walking down the sketchy trail. 

 

Good:  Off the mountain the race progressed through more riverbeds before a long fast section of single track led to another aid station.  A huge crowd was congregating and offering water to tired riders.  I sprinted through the checkpoint scattering the volunteers as they scrambled to get out of my path all the while cheering with massive doses of enthusiasm.  Miles of fast single track dumped us back on the same dirt roads that took us out of town.  The roads were on a slight decline.  I ramped up the pace pushing 25mph+ and still gaining positions.  The course ran back through the Jesus Christ statue and eventually led to the shanty town drainage area.  Scrappy looking kids still lined the course and I collected hi-fives from these hardcore race fans. 

 

Good:  The last major terrain feature of the race was this super steep and short concrete embankment.  I hopped off my bike and prepared to hike up it when something like half a dozen kids jumped into action taking my bike and pulling me up.  Its was a crazy feeling to be wicked up this steep wall of concrete by a pack of local kids. 

 

Good:  I couldn't let myself finish with energy left in the tank so I time trialed the last five miles to the finish passing maybe twenty more riders.  I was done a few minutes shy of six hours in the mid 200's and in the top 10% of the field.  My teammate Rufus put in a strong ride and came in 25^th at just under five hours.  Anyone with a mountain bike (doesn't matter your skill level because you'll beat the guys at the back with sandals and sombreros) should come with me next year to do this race.  It was in some ways like a big alley cat with five checkpoints (instead of stamps they put a different colored rubber band on your arm).  The top two riders were these Italians named Marzio Deho and Johnny Catteneo who finished in 3:49!  Deho is arguably the world's top marathon distance mountain biker previous winner of dozens of world cup events.  The famous Tinker Juarez also raced and finished 7^th 30 minutes back.       

This war, this long stinky brutal war, has been rumbling just over the horizon for months.  Everyone knew the date of the first fight and the groundwork had been laid.  Recon missions utilizing satellite technology combined with stealth surveillance 'dry' runs gathered prewar intelligence of the first battlefield, the Bronx.  Hundreds if not thousands of self loathing physical conditioning miles were compiled.  Alliances formed and enemies made.  Every war starts with a single battle and this one started with 'Rumble Thru the Bronx 4'.  

I enlisted my services as soon as the call to duty was made.  From my deadly arsenal I chose the most potent weapon, the Look 595. If I was to survive I would need any and all firepower I could muster up.  This is perhaps the first 595 in existence to be called into active duty on the urban battlefield.  My allies included Lee and Heidi as they helped gather pre race data and route logistics.  Thru the karmatic gesture of sharing pre-race intelligence with Mark I was able to obtain a can of Sparks which was needed to immortalize our fallen comrade Bronx Jon.  

Over one hundred strong urban warriors arrived at 155th and St Nick for their chance at glory.  The field's ranks were deep, experienced, and blood thirsty.  My choice of weaponry was drawing nervous glances from my foes but I knew nothing about this day was going to be easy.  Commander Mike D led the field on a chant filled one hundred bike salute and the race was unleashed.  I struck first leading the charge to Yankee stadium with a well timed attack.  The pace was instantly ballistic as my speedometer hit 45mph as I careened opposite direction down the highway exit ramp.  On Sedgewick I decided to pick my battles wisely and sucked into the draft of Drew (generic) who was spending a lot of gold coins pulling the field.  He pleaded for help but I held tightly onto his wake.  The top five bunched up for checkpoint numero uno as we arrived together.  At the park we entered the trenches for some hand on hand combat as we were shuffled like POW's through a caged carousel.  It wasn't long before panic ensued and the prisoners revolted  by bolting over barriers and using violence as a form of escape.  Victor the cunning veteran from many past wars snaked his way to the front of the field and as I cut him off we smashed heads viscously.  I was briefly shell shocked but regained control and escaped the park in 3rd position.

I quickly dispatched Victor and made my way up Fordham with Crihs in tow.  In order to avoid needless civilian collateral damage I flanked Grand Concourse by sneaking down University to Kingsbridge Rd.  This turned out to be a tactical error as I emerged on Grand Concourse surrounded by enemies.  Leaving the wide avenue I witnessed these soldiers willingness to die in battle.  Raf Negron crossed the Parkway within inches of losing his life by dashing across the front of a speeding school bus.  I chose life and backed off slightly arriving to Williamsbridge somewhere near the bottom of the top ten.  At Williamsbridge we were forced to fight tooth and nail up a steep muddy embankment only to turn around and slide down a smooth rock embankment to the manifest stamper.  I made it up to the top, slide down, and was body slammed by a horde of racers hell bent on getting their stamp.  My body was clawed from head to toe and my manifest ripped to shreds.  

Shaking it off, I retreated back to the Parkway and headed south straight for the next fight.  The race again molded into one lead group.  The roads bended around the Bronx Zoo grounds and the field spread slightly apart.  Victor refused to be shaken and skitched his way back to the front.  Entering the Zoo checkpoint the conspiracies started as six riders behind me got stamps first as I panicked watching seconds disappear.  Finally the checkpoint attendant gave way and I was off towards Crotana Park.  This part of the race was dense and I made little time on the leaders who at this point were Jersey Dan and Crihs.  I was stalked by Victor and another soldier with a blue vintage jersey.  Traffic was kind and I made it to the checkpoint in third or fourth position.  Next was a long slog in a big gear down Crotana encountering a few war reporters taking footage for their nightly CNN war report.  Victor again emerged like a shadow emerging from a smoke screen on the wings of a four wheeled beast.  Off in the near distance Jersey Dan and Crihs inched away.  Longwood and the rain soon came and I once and for all dispatched Victor at the Beck checkpoint.  Torturously we were forced to down a cup of burning hot coffee which felt like napalm running down my chest.  My scream of pain was amplified by the emergence of Austin's bright orange war machine entering the picture.  I was in no time in getting the fuck out of there as I knew a storm was brewing behind.

Leaving Beck in the distance I witnessed carnage brought on by the damp roads.  Fernando hit the deck on Longwood and appeared dazed.  I paid little attention and offered no sympathy as I snuck up the Fox hole to 163rd and over to Buckner.  An eerie silence fell upon the race as I was all alone.  Where did everyone go?  I hit Soundview Park checkpoint in what I was told to be the lead.  I was signature number one on the list quickly followed by Austin who had destroyed the gap that separated us.  We left the scene together and took turns pulling a hard pace down to the Whitestone Theatre.  We both easily made the treacherous intersection and left Whitestone snaking through the grass and onto the bike path.  At this point I moved back in front as Austin had lost his bearings deep inside enemy territory.  Unfortunately I was the rabbit he needed to chase and I had little negotiating power to escape his evil clutches.  I led (with a weak attempt to fake him out) mountain bike style onto the Highway and a free ride straight onto Westchester.  I took the mirror of a car as I dug deep to keep in contact.  The march down Westchester was gritty and I slowly lost my grip on Austin's wheel.  I fought back and arrived at Bronx John just a few seconds behind but in serious crisis.  Sparks went flying as I was informed that we were third and fourth.  Apparently Jersey Dan and Crihs escaped Soundview without detection or documentation, the cause? We'll never know.  

Austin again threw down the gauntlet and opened up a sizable gap.  My legs hadn't felt good all day and were not about to start now.  Heading right on City Island Parkway the gap to Austin was around ten seconds.  I caught a skitch and was catapulted 50mph right back onto his rear wheel.  I fought against certain defeat to stay up with him down City Island but again I was dropped.  The good news was that this dual had closed down the gap to Jersey Dan and Crihs.  With the leaders right in front of me I solicited a skitch from a large SUV piloted by an even larger female driver.  First she freaked out and hit the brakes.  Then upon request to speed up she nailed the throttle almost ripping my arm off in the process.  I arrived at the point of City Island only a few hundred yards behind my targets.  They were in my sights and I was ready for the kill.  All I needed was some fucking gunpower!

My heart was in it but my legs weren't up for the task.  I fought hard up City Island, grabbed a skitch off a VW and closed in, however far too slowly to make strike.  Heading to the finish, first and second were lost.  A wheel to wheel drag race with Crihs was also just out of my grip.  The battle was over; I was defeated by the skin of my teeth.  Ground was taken way in the campaign but the war is far from over.  I'll be back for Broadway Bombing with guns blazing for yellow.

April Fools Alley Cat Race. 1st win of the season!!!

A win is a win. Even if you tie and the first two finishers are DQ'd.  So that being said I won my first alley cat race in my second attempt.  The long brutal day began with a large helping of pain that started well before the sun clocked in for the early bird shift.  My warm-up was a cat ¾ road race in Prospect Part at 6:30 in the morning which being my first one but a heavy tax on the legs and lungs.

 

The day was tough, but the day was kind.  My main challenger Pablo's missing luck was suspiciously found residing in my Shimano clipless pedals as I powered through the maze of NYC to victory.  As the results say I tied for first which is true as my random brunch companion turned teammate/navigator Lee helped me more than I wish to admit. 

 

The race was switched on with a mad dash Le Mans Style at Madison Square Park.  Something like forty racers showed but that mattered little as I got my typical ballistic start and led (w/Pablo) to the first checkpoint at Union Square.  I was too busy planning my route during the pre-race meeting to realize a few of the checkpoints were fill-in the blank unmanned stations.  After a slight panic Lee hit the check point and got me squared away.  We hammered up 1^st Avenue Monstertrack style towards 58^th at Sutton place on the East River.  I was in the front ahead of Lee and a pack of four.  Not knowing which way to turn off of 1^st onto 58^th I eased up and heard Lee yell "left".  So left I went cutting off the pack viscously causing them to overshoot the turn (check out Lee's data).  This was the first near accidents as the city rang loud with the screech of locked taxi tires and blaring horns.  Of course my teammate/navigator Lee wasn't always right and the left really should have been a right.  A few blocks the wrong way we corrected our mistake and nailed the checkpoint (Which was manned by a very nice lady who had all sorts of treats).

 

We decided 57th was the most direct route to the 58^th Greenway checkpoint.  Off of Sutton I made a suicidal right turn across the path of a Police van.  Lee slotted in behind with the remnants of the pack.  The drive down 57^th was a horrible congested clusterfuck.  We hit every red light and weaved our way through the gridlock.  I seemed to be the designated pick as I would slowly roll through the red lights causing the crossing traffic to nail the brakes while the pack sailed through.  The second checkpoint on the greenway was really located near 56^th St which caused slight confusion.  There another nice checkpoint lady offered a shot of tequila which Lee and I declined.  Since she deemed us pansies for not drinking hard liquor during a bicycle race we were forced to display our bike handling skills by performing a trick.  Lee's pathetic wheelie was almost as bad as my nose wheelie and we were off up the bike path towards Riverside and 105^th St. 

 

Leaving checkpoint number two we encountered another pack of racers who hadn't yet completed the 58^th Sutton Place checkpoint.  Lee and I quickly dispatched this group as we almost leveled some poor kids who were out on a Sunday stroll with Pops on the Westside bike path.  I hammered as hard as my tired legs could go and made my way up Riverside.  Lee who decided to Cyclocross up some stairs fell behind for the time being.  It has been a long time since I've felt that much pain on a bike as I pushed up the rolling hills of Riverside.  My hamstrings were hammered from the road race earlier in the day and my tongue hung out of my mouth like a maxed out puppy chasing sticks at the beach.  I ate little gel nuggets and dug deep into the reserves.   The next checkpoint was another fill in the blank as we had to read some historical signs about some Buddhist monk.  As I deciphered the checkpoint Lee rolled up and I slung him the data and we were off towards Downtown. 

 

Lee also looked a bit haggard already so I handed off some gel blocks and offered verbal encouragement as we rode paceline style up the rollers.  The best path was determined to be again the Westside bike path.  Again I dropped Lee as his brakeless descents allowed a gap to form.  I hooked up with a recreational roadie and drafted my way down the path.  Eventually I caught up to Andrew who was riding crazy style on the Westside highway.  We teamed up took a left on Horatio and made our way into the confusing streets of the west village.  Lee erased the gap by picking a better route off of the Westside and we all met up and made our way down Seventh Ave. towards Commerce.  For this checkpoint we named the Cherry Lane Theatre.  

 

The next checkpoint was Debrosses street which is about as random of a street as they come.  I sprinted ahead and Lee followed as I took the long (wrong) way around towards Debrosses.  The run up to this checkpoint was down a hobbly cobblestone road.  Not particularly wanting to recreate Paris Roubiax I hit the sidewalk and rolled to the waiting checkpoint attendants who obviously are not anarchists as they made me (and Lee who followed my sinful ways) backtrack the entire street.  After bouncing down the street again I was forced to eat a large cracker and say some nonsensical phrase to celebrate the Passover.  After this was the checkpoint I was looking forward to.  I eat lunch in China almost everyday so I know the back roads.  The best path was wrong way down White, through the detention complex, up Bayard, right on Mott, and finally a quick right on Mosco.  Wading through the sea of Chinatown pedestrians was insane as it slowed our path little.  I navigated our way out of Chinatown, up Canal (another hellhole of traffic) towards Bowery.  We made another move going the wrong way down Rivington towards Bike Works. 

 

Of course it was April Fools ha-ha!! There was no checkpoint at Bike Works.  Only FOUR! cardboard signs with the address to the hidden checkpoint at the East River bandshell.  Unfortunately this is the checkpoint that caught out Pablo who figured the bike works guys had simply forgotten to man the check point and missed reading the sign.  Lee however read that shit like a pro and knew exactly how to hit the spot.  We navigated our way to this checkpoint beautifully and ran down the steps to meet our awaited stamp.  The Times Up affiliated check point attendant forced us to exchange a song for a stamp.  My brain literally froze solid and it took a good minute before I could recall the words to any tune.  What first parted my lips was Meat Loaf's "I would do anything for love".  Lee got off with an equally bad 80's tune and we were off towards Brooklyn.  Before leaving we collected some position information.  We were 4^th and 5^th (not including Pablo and Luke who never showed at this checkpoint) about five or six minutes back.  The gap was huge but we had found our groove.   Lee handed me half a banana and guided us towards the Williamsburg Bridge.>>

 

We debated momentarily about going over the car path.  It went like this; me "You want to take the car path", Lee "Oh man I'm not so sure" Me: "Lets do it" as we served onto the car path straight into traffic.  Again the sound of horns and locking tires pierced the air.  I towed Lee (and his wicked 48X15) up and over the hill while angry cabs and SUV's blew by with mere inches to spare.  Some auto vehicle car passenger was kind enough to remind us how fucking stupid we were and to tell us about some sort of bike path that he seemed to think existed.  Nonetheless this move probably won the race as by the time we hit the McCarren Park we had almost caught the two riders in front of us (and apparently passed another rider over the bridge).  Smelling a podium finish we closed the gap down Metropolitan and arrived at the Java checkpoint neck in neck.  At this checkpoint we were first A. forced to do 20 pushups and B. given a riddle to solve the location of the final checkpoint.  Down by the river there was a piece of foam with a marker drawing of a large star.  Atop the foam sat two items, a candy bar and a rock.  Lee instantly made the connection "Rockstar bar" which happened to be basically a straight two mile dash to the finish.

 

Our closest competitors Ben and Jonathon solved the riddle by listening to an excited Lee announce it loudly.  They also happened to have no idea where the place was so they were going to happily follow us home.  Sensing a tactical error my mind fired and I was determined to win the sprint.  After a half-mile of pulling these guys along in our draft we moved over to let them break the wind for a change.  Knowing they didn't have a clue of the finish line Lee and I sat in and quietly discussed the run up to the sprint.  I whispered for him to start calling out the meters and to time it perfectly as I figured whoever got the jump was winning the dash.  Soon it was our turn to pull the pace and as I moved into the lead I accidentally swerved a bit and clipped Ben's wheel almost causing a three rider crash in a four rider field.  Ben skidded to a stop which was Lee's merciless signal to sprint like a fucking madman.  I muttered a fleeting apology as I stomped on the pedals towards an oxygen debt finish.  In the confusion of it all we made a huge gap and rolled to the Rockstar bar simultaneously.  They checked our manifest for the hidden checkpoint and we were called out to be the winners by tie which was a complete surprise.

 

Pablo (who also was up for the road race although he suffered the bad luck of a mechanical failure on lap four I think) looked like someone ran over his cat as we were declared victorious.  Tough luck and I felt bad but these alley cat races don't always go to the fastest riders.  Still good times were had by all and after a good hour and half of beer/pizza consumption as we put matters to rest with a drunken Gold Sprints dual which I won 33.85 to 33.95.  I'll stop far short of bragging though as I'm sure Pablo's revenge strategy will involve thoroughly trashing me.

 

Dave August  

       

I get annoyed and anxious constantly hearing about it, but after Sunday I have to report the stereotype is true. Of course deep down I already gave merit to its 'truthiness' and that is why I spent the extra gold coins to stay near the front at any cost.

This approach to Sunday's Cat 5 race in Central Park more than likely saved me a lot of heartache. The few times I allowed myself to slide down into the pack I could see right away that the swerving, erratic bunch was going to need a miracle to stay upright.

Besides the immediate peril I was subjecting my brand new bike to, I actually remained calm and collected the entire race. The goal offered on the exterior was simple; I wished to finish in the group and wasn't to concerned with placing. But of course whenever I tell people that it's a lie. What I really wanted to do was to not only finish at the front but cause pain to my fellow novice racers.

After an injury-plagued winter I wasn't so sure that this goal was possible. The race began easy enough and I quickly positioned myself near the front. The pace was ridiculously mellow for the first 3/4 miles so I took JP's advice and launched an attack to ramp the pace up. I had no intention of breaking away; I simply wanted to stretch the legs a bit. I was also secretly hoping to attract the attention of a strong rider in the bunch to work with (rotating pace line style). Alas nobody stepped up and I led to group to the base of the big hill where I dropped back a few positions to conserve energy. The first lap continued with a few competitors taking their turns launching miniature attacks every half-mile. I was (falsely) concerned that with the slow pace a break could organize so I matched every attack and stayed glued to the front of the race. I took my turns pulling and was generally content with the way the race was shaping up.

On the second lap as I worked near the front the field surged wide and major contact was made between a few riders. I watched amusingly as the near incident played out in my peripheral vision. First one rider hit the next guy, next guy swerves one foot unclipped across the path of the pack taking a few out while gathering it up himself (including Eric apparently).

Around this time the most erratic rider of the race (some guy on a Cannondale with deep Carbon rims) began making aggressive moves at the front. Sounding like a DVD vendor on Canal Street he kept asking everyone; Attack? Attack? Attack? He would then sprint for a few seconds sit up drop back and repeat.

Leading up to the climb for the second time I made another pull on the front then eased up a bit. Over the top I found myself mid-pack. It was nice taking a bit of a rest but soon I become very, very, uncomfortable with the constant zigzag the peleton was making. I took my time, kept my machine in a nice predictable path and worked my way back to the front.

I hit the front at the exact same time the pack hit the deck. The noise behind me was an amazing compilation of metal, plastic, and flesh scrapping against asphalt. The few riders ahead took this carnage as their cue to attack and the pace was ramped up to a speed not yet obtained in the race. We hit the south side of the park in a fury and the pack began setting up for the finish. At this point there was maybe ten guys left who hadn't been dropped. I was still relaxed and calm and was planning my move.

We approached the finish and I assumed that the pack would stay together until at least a few crank rotations up the rise. I was about number six and in a perfect position had the group stayed together. But what happened was the eventual winner bolted and the two directly in front of me decided that was a good moment to ease off the gas. The next two up the road also bolted and I all of sudden I had inerasable gap. I sprinted up the hill into the wind, reeled in the top two (however way to slowly to overtake) and finished fourth. It was a disappointing finish in a way as I felt like I was one of the stronger riders in the race. Besides that, I was happy to have escaped with my life and it felt good for the first time to be one of the stronger riders in a road race.

Next time the theme should be teamwork. I had five teammates in the race and I barely caught glimpse one of any of them. Maybe we can get JP to set up a game plan for us. My thoughts are that if we can get a rotating pace line at the front we can keep the pace high (and way more constant), break the field apart, and then have someone(s) help lead out the sprint. Maybe a bit of a dream at this point but now's the time to practice these tactics.

This was to be my alley cat racing baptism by fire and my feet were frozen. I had been standing in the snow for hours with butterflies in my stomach and adrenalin slowly building pressure behind floodgates. Here I was waiting impatiently for the start of Monstertrack 8 the infamous bike messenger race held annually on the streets of NYC. This is the biggest, baddest, and scariest race of its kind in the world. I knew not what to expect, where to go, or how I was going to race my bike through a bustling city in the snow with no brakes.

The race course is the city. The obstacles are the life motions of the city. The route is the fastest one you know. The competition is fierce and motivated by the reward of instant glory. I knew I was fast on a bike but was I crazy enough. So here I was standing not alone but one hundred and fifty strong waiting for the race start without a clue exactly when it would come and what was about to happen.

Then without warning the start was called and the race exploded in a mad dash towards the piles of waiting fixed gear bikes. I reacted instantly rushing towards my machine. I remember the start as a blur, one second I'm sprinting, next instant I'm mounting my bike cyclocross style at full gait, next moment I'm barreling down the street towards a busy intersection flanked by bikes on all sides. I dove straight into traffic on Delancy followed by a quick suicidal left on 1st ave. Now I'm on a relatively clear street hammering hard up 1st. Surprisingly I'm near the front and quickly reel in the lead group. The pace is absurd, my heart wants to explode out of my chest but I'm at the front and the legs are strong. I move up further and take a turn leading the race around 20th. This lasts for a few blocks before give it up when I realize I'm towing the pack along at 30mph.

This group is comprised of the elite race contenders. I don't know too many names but I recognize Austin and Alfred right away. I'm determined to stay on their wheel but the reality of my inexperience is realized with the first red light near 50th. I slow slightly remembering the absence of brakes and my lack luster stopping skills. With this first hesitation the leaders pull away slightly flying through rows of cars ignoring any and all red lights. Still I reach the first checkpoint only seconds behind.
The race cross-town to checkpoint number two (100 Amsterdam at 64th) is slower in pace but more traffic intensive. I catch my breath slightly and settle in behind Stephan Pierce who would go on to finish eighth. We nicked Central Park, swooped through Columbus circle and quickly eliminated the next checkpoint. Next on the list (5th ave. at 31st) I follow Pierce closely to Broadway where the traffic congestion is insane. We dive in and out of cars, tourists, horses, and icy snow banks. The pace is so slow and I'm starting to lose my cool.

As we hit Times Square I commit the first of a long, long list of navigational errors. Now any respectable New Yorker knows Broadway veers east towards 5th Ave. So what do I do, I turn left on 45th with the idea that I'm heading straight to 5th. Of course my midtown jaunt is unnecessary and chunks of time are pissed away. I make the checkpoint and my next mission is Morton St. Again I lose my cool in traffic making a stupid right onto oncoming traffic on 12th St. That street is also gridlocked so I take to the icy sidewalk sending pedestrians scattering. Another left into heavy traffic and I'm on Seventh flying towards the West Village. Morton is eliminated which leads me to slippery Houston which leads me back to base for manifest number two.
Still in the top ten I'm told. I've lost time but I'm just starting to get warmed up. I swing back onto Delancy and make the only positive mistake of the race as somehow I pass 1st Ave and turn left a couple of streets late. This leads me straight to Mamma's on 3rd. With that checkpoint out of the way I have only three left before the final Brooklyn bound manifest. I hit it hard up 1st ave. blowing by rider after rider who have chosen to do the Mamma's checkpoint last. I catch Heidi near 61st and I'm relieved to be a full checkpoint ahead of her as she's riding super strong. 61st is again eliminated and its back across town.

Now I make the second crippling mistake of the race. In my mind I'm going to 38th and 9th next. I completely forget about the checkpoint at 48th and 6th. So I battle it over to eighth, make a quick left and barrel down 9th taking a second to glance at my manifest. Fuck, I'm on the wrong side of town I realize and my stomach drops. Do I hit 38th first then retreat ten blocks to 48th or should I cut my losses and zig zag across town to 48th I make the decision to head back as I become increasingly desperate with the horrible traffic conditions. No longer am I slowing down for red lights or pedestrians as my bike handling skills are quickly improving. Then I'm pushed into a snow bank by a town car causing a semi-crash, next I bounce off a lady pushing a stroller (sorry!). I'm furious by the time I reach the 48th street checkpoint but I keep it together as shoot a couple blocks the wrong way down 6th Ave before crossing town back over to eighth. Crosstown traffic is so dense by time I reach 8th and I know that the checkpoint is between that ave. and 9th so its time to take some risks. I make a left into the slow moving traffic on 8th. I'm flying towards traffic, middle lane and out of my mind. Luckily traffic is for the most part gridlocked so I'm making the decisions as I squeeze my way through a maze of mirrors. I make it 38th where I hook back up with Heidi briefly as we head back downtown.

Another navigational shortcoming is performed as I travel east as far as Lexington before turning towards base. In hind-site I should have braved Broadway as it veers east towards Union Square, which happens to be where Lexington empties anyways. At Union I ride through crowds of pissed off pedestrians and hit Broadway (see a pattern here). Next I'm going left on Bleecker and a quick right on Bowery. Back at base I receive the final manifest. There is one easy Manhattan checkpoint left and I manage to fuck that one up as I go the wrong way on Eldrige. Recovering quickly I swarm into Monstertrack, slide on the muddy floor amidst the screaming crowd. A quick stamp followed by a magic markering of 666 on my ass and I'm back on the road towards the Williamsburg Bridge. I'm informed that my position is still well within the top twenty.

Following Izumi's advice I take the car lane over the Williamsburg Bridge and crank up the pace. I quickly drop the rider who's followed me out of Trackstar. Two more shadowy figures on bikes grow larger as I push a mean pace over the bridge. The sun is lowering behind me and my left eye is clogged with vision blurring mud. I catch the two riders near the end of the bridge but they sneak past a red light that slows my pace.

This moment will go down as the one that completely ruins the race for me. Enough mistakes had already been made in Manhattan but I was still looking at a possible top fifteen finish with a few more spots within reach. But what happens is that I can't see very well and the riders ahead disappear for an instant and I have no idea where King Kog is. I've never been there before but I know its on Marcy and that is where my knowledge is topped out. So what do I do? I turn left on Marcy off the bridge. Of course that was the right way to go but I doubted my decision and turned around running seven blocks the wrong way. I change my mind for the third time, turn back around and cross the same seven blocks again before I catch site of a rider leaving King Kog. Now I'm completely frustrated but things only get worse as I ask for directions to the finish at East River Bar.

I follow the directions to within a few blocks of the finish but somehow miss the critical information that would allow me to find it. Again I go five or six blocks the wrong way. I'm desperately riding my bike in circles up and down the streets looking for the bar. I'm right in the middle of the Hasidic area of Brooklyn asking the Jewish pedestrians the location of a hipster hangout. I'm basically begging people to help me out when I take a look at my manifest and realize that the address for the bars is printed right there in fucking capitol letters. I make it to the bar but the finish is of little relief. Years and years of experience losing races is the only thing containing my anger. I want to throw my helmet into the east river but instead I quietly check in (36th) and sit down to have a beer with Izumi.

At any rate I'm hooked. Give me a year of living in NYC and I'll give you a completely different story at Monstertrack 9.

Ever since my implosion in the final miles of the Piney Hills Classic, I had been dreaming about the final round of the season with a pinch of dread. You are only as good as your last race and with that in mind my confidence was questionable. So in many ways Huntsville was to be an important race. I had a comfortable lead in the championship but another bad race could throw it all away. My training program between the two races was also shoddy at best as I had to deal with a stressful relocation to NYC. I managed to squeeze in a few late night laps around Central Park on a fixed gear bike but it was a far cry from the miles I was used to putting in.

Despite having my excuses neatly lined up I won the race anyways.

I arrived in Houston early Saturday morning and headed straight to Huntsville for the pre ride. The course was excellent, and my Trimble machine was in top shape. I only needed to finish within five positions of Jorge Munoz to win the championship. That basically meant he needed a big win for any chance at the crown. I focused on correcting my mistakes at Ruston and mapped out a conservative strategy. Munoz has always proven to start out with a ballistic pace. In Ruston this helped lead to my demise as we battled hard in the early miles. I wasn..t going to fall into this trap again and I had no intention of contesting the top spot as the race got underway.

The majority of the usual contenders were present plus and minus a few. Jason Winkelmann had an outside chance at the title so he also had my attention. Up the short road climb I slotted into second place more the result of a perfectly timed launch than a hard sprint. The Team Aguila rider as predicated wasted no time hitting full throttle. I kept my cool as he rapidly disappeared off the front. Breath, stay steady, patience, these abstract concepts rang in my head as I fought the urge to chase. The entire field strung out in a tight line as I gradually built up the pace, concentrating more on my rhythm than the anxious riders behind me. But taking it ..easy.. in a cross country isn..t really all that easy and the pace was still relatively high. It..s more about staying within the window of sustainable suffering and riding on that thin line for twenty miles while managing to tuck away a little in reserve.

We made it past the first sand pit with the field intact and as we snaked up the first rooty rise Matthew Morgan wiped out behind me (its amazing how much you can see with a trained peripheral vision). With this the field spread out a bit except for Jason Winkelmann who shot past me like I was standing still. His attack was impressive as in one giant leap he rode all the way up to a distant Munoz and took the lead. For a short time they contested the top spot but I soon reeled Winkelmann back and moved into second.

The first lap progressed past the halfway point and Munoz showed no signs of slowing his rapid pace. I was sure he wouldn..t be able to hold up for the duration and began feeling confident at my chances for a win. I was running the smart race and expected to round the next corner to find him up against the wall. There was no way his current pace could hold up was my calculation. But as the race..s mid point neared I realized that the gap was large enough that my pace needed to increase dramatically if the leader was to be caught. Even if his speed faded on the second lap he might just have enough of a cushion to make it stick. I could no longer rely on the hope of his pace slowing. I got the legs, lungs, and heart moving to a higher pitch and began shrinking the time difference.

It wasn..t until I passed a couple of the single speed racers that I realized something was wrong. I felt awkward on the Trimble machine and noticed my horrible pedaling stroke. I looked down and my (maxed out) heart skipped a beat. The seat post had slid way down and suddenly it felt like I was riding a BMX bike. I debated furiously over whether I could afford to stop and fix the problem. Thinking quickly while barreling down the trail I unzipped the saddlebag and grabbed my multi tool. I extended the needed 5 mm and stuck the thing in my jersey pocket just in case.

My race continued on the lowered seat and with the increased pace I actually closed the gap to within a few seconds of Munoz as we approached the feed zone. The faster pace amplified the uncomfortable riding position and my knees started to hurt. Another nine miles in this position was out of the question. The decision was quickly made to risk the repair for the good of the race and with the next flat bit of single track I jumped off the bike, made the fastest seat adjustment possible and took off again. The whole operation was quick but it still allowed Munoz to disappear again, the single speeders to go past, and for the ever-present Winkelmann to be back on my rear wheel.

I rolled through the start finish line and subsequently abandoned my conservative ..take second/win championship.. approach. It was now catch Munoz or blow up trying. I quickly overtook the single speeders again and was motivated further by their words of encouragement. Flying through the corners I also got props from a spectator for these race reports so I was determined to have something good to write about. I began ticking off a time trial like pace and began catching fleeting glimpses of Munoz. He seemingly refused to max out and I was forced to reel him in the painful way. My brakes became strangers as I cornered with high velocity and accelerated hard on the flats. At maximum effort his lead came down and as we hit the long jeep road I utilized the trusty big ring, bridged the final gap and sucked up into the draft. My first attempt at the lead was shot down by some additional mph from Munoz in a brutal dual. The failed move pushed me to the absolute limit but I just barely managed to stay on the right side of the fence. I backed off a bit, got my breathing under control enough to muster up another attack and pushed my way into the lead.

At this point the suffering was hard but I suspected damage had been do to my competitor. Still the anticipated fall off from Munoz failed to materialize. He stayed on my wheel and was particularly strong up the root-laden rises. The lead was defended and attacks were launched but I couldn..t pull away. Through the corners and flats I opened up seconds which were quickly erased every time the trail tilted upwards. With about a half a mile to go we made the sharp right turn and headed towards the steepest climb of the course. Both riders launched full out sprints up the hill. We rode up the hill side-by-side with my wheel slightly in front. The crest of the hill gave way to a short decline in the trail and setup the final push to the line.

Not only is it physically exhausting it is also mentally grueling when a race is decided in the final meters of a race. The trail made one more painful increase in elevation and another round of attacks were launched. I waited for Munoz to sprint and I then sprinted harder. It was an all out blurry vision, foaming at the mouth, lactic acid overloading scramble. I no longer kept my eye on Munoz, the trail or anything else as I willed everything into my legs. Finally, Munoz hit the wall. He had nothing left and I came to the line with a ten second gap.

To celebrate the win and the championship I stopped short of the finish line. I hoisted my light carbon Trimble machine over my head and finished the race. From what I remember the crowd was cheeringly loudly as I stepped across the line. Everything was blurry and after a few more steps I felt my legs give out from exhaustion as I collapsed into the closest thorn bush.

The win was the exclamation point on the championship and gives me the confidence to make the move to expert next season. My race craft and strategy is starting to make sense and if I can continue to make gains in fitness I expect to contest for another championship. Now my biggest obstacle is finding a sponsor to help pay for all the flights back to Texas for the spring.

Race Report
Lake Bryan.

To win is bliss. Coming into the fall series I had never achieved a victory of any type on a bicycle. I know how to win, I spent seven long years winning professional shifter kart races where anything less was a major disappointment. The feeling is well known, and after a long learning curve of losing every single bike race entered I finally got the pesky monkey off my back. The first came two weeks ago at Rocky Hill where I dueled it out with Jason Winkelmann and came ahead with a two and half minute victory. And now with another win coming a short two weeks later at Lake Bryan, I feel like I..ve been reacquainted with an old friend.
The Lake Bryan course consisted of an interesting assortment of tight twisty corners, long flats, and a few short sandy climbs. All in all the course was fast and placed an emphasis on sustaining maximum momentum through the sandy tight corners. Usually bike races are not won or lost in the first corner but the short sketchy lead-up to the unpassably tight first single track section meant that track position was crucial.
Bike races are tough, you never now who is going to show or even how many are in your class. There..s no start list and half the time the first time you realize somebody..s out there racing is when they blow past you. The field this weekend end was full with twenty-two riders entered including Winkelmann, my brother Nathan Trimble (who I had never beaten before), and the man who would end up pushing me the entire race, Paul Moralez.
The actual start of the race turned out to be sketchy but worked out in my favor. I hit it hard from the whistle and barreled down to the first fast and dangerously loose left-hander with a slight lead on the field. The course here was confusing as Wink went around me for the lead by taking a line that I didn..t even realize existed. I entered the woods in second right on Wink..s wheel. The initial pace was brutal but quickly we put a gap on the field and I found myself being slightly held up. Through the trees I picked out a rare short stretch of strait trail and set up Wink. Carrying more speed through the corner I sprinted, went off line into the grass powering past. Wink fought hard for the position and we banged elbows. I made the pass but Wink wasn..t going to be left behind. The first and by far the trickiest climb held another battle for the lead. I took the steeper line to the right up the sandy embankment as Wink went left through the grass. We topped the hill side-by-side. I fought back and inched ahead again leading the race back into the woods.
I was pushing as hard as I could but my new form has seemingly allowed me to sustain maximum effort for the entire length of a mountain bike race. My rivals seemed to be in the same boat. About half way through the first lap I began noticing a blue streak of Paul Moralez..s Pedalmasher jersey inching closer. It was shaping up to be a three way fight for the win and after the train track section Wink made his move in the bumpy grassy field and shot past me into the lead. Luckily immediately after came another long road section. I sucked up to Wink..s rear wheel and as he pushed hard on his big ring I sat in and enjoyed the draft. Near the end of the road section Wink faded and I catapulted back into the lead. Back in the sand I opened a slight gap as Wink recovered from a small crash. Soon after Wink fell victim to a broken front derailler which required mid race bike surgery effectively ending his bid for the win. Pushing furiously the pace remained high and I finished the first lap with a few second lead over Moralez who showed signs of improvement as the race progressed.
I estimate the gap hovered around five seconds for the majority of the second lap. Moralez would inch closer through the tight sections and I would put the gap back up on the flats. After the second road section my advantage was twig sized. I had a challenger stuck on my rear wheel and after several failed hard attempts to shake him loose I quickly readjusted my strategy. I have always taken pride in my cornering ability but Moralez seemed to easily match my pace as we weaved through the trees. I backed off slightly to conserve energy on the unpassable portions and surged hard on the flats to discourage any passing attempt while preventing any advantage of the draft.
The gravel straight leading up to the last twisty section again gave me a slight five second lead but as soon as we entered the single track my advantage was nil. The run up to the finish involved a section of smooth double track leading to a sharp loose left hander. The trail then veered left again leading to a short kinked finishing straight. We came out of the single track and I hesitated slightly waiting for Moralez to make the first move. The race deciding move came as he sprinted past me. I owned the crucial left side of the double track which forced him to the right. As he moved past I sprinted hard and matched his pace setting up a situation where we were side by side going into the left hander. Elbow to elbow I narrowed up the double track and took a late apex stealing Moralez..s momentum through the left hander. I edged in front once again and with one last great push sprinted to the line. Moralez never conceded and matched my sprint. We crossed the line photo finish style separated by less than a bike length.
On the official finishing sheet I was given a time the was one second up from Moralez. 1:35:36 turned out to be the fastest sport time of the weekend putting the icing on the cake. Ruston..s this weekend and my old pal, victory, is coming with me.

So true to our word Jed and I completed the entire 100 mile distance on our trusty fixed gear bikes. I for one didn't know what to expect from such a long distance on a bike that offered no rest. I had maxed out around 75 miles before on my road bike so I felt like the distance wouldn't be a problem . The problem was most defiantly going to be that fact that riding a fixed gear bike is much more difficult than a multi-geared road bike.
Several hundred riders took part in the 100 mile route and the pace started out easy enough for the first five miles or so. Soon afterwards the selections started to be made and I found myself in a group of ten fast guys on expensive bikes. The pace continued to rise and riders dropped back. Around mile 15 it was myself and three others in the front determined to not only make the distance but to make it a painful as possible. I felt amazingly good for the first half of the ride as our pace exceeded 23 miles per hour. I took plenty of turns at the front working and would pull away from the group on the hills (no way to go slow on a fixed gear). Around mile seventy is when I really started suffering. My heart rate was 160 for hours on end and my legs were feeling funny. One of the riders pulled away reducing my group to three. Mile 85 I was feeling about as shitty as possible on a bike. Everything was getting dark, my legs were cramping and all I could think of was how nice it would be to lay down in the ditch and pass out. The heat was building along with the headwinds and my endurance was being tested to the limit. A few miles later my left hamstring locked up in a painful fit. I stopped riding got off the bike and attempted to unlock my leg. Then to my rescue an old guy on a recumbent stopped, gave me a potassium tablet, I was cured for the time being. The salt mixture flowing back into my muscles completely revived me and I began pushing the pace again. With five miles left I was flying trying my best to make the five hour mark. With 200 meters to go the cramps came back with a fury this time attacking both legs. I began peddling one footed alternating between the two legs as intense pain came over me. I shuttled like this across the line in exactly five hours. I felt like shit but I had made it with a 20 mph average and the second rider across the line.
Jed who was even crazier than me for attempting stunt after only two months of riding came in at six hours twenty-five minutes. I have a feeling this guy is going to be giving me trouble in no time.
Thanks to the following people for helping me raise the needed contribution to fight breast cancer.
James Trimble
Hannah Trimble
Nate Trimble
Matt Trimble
Ben
James
Virginia Nguyen
Abbie Stewart (also thanks for the use of your pink pedals)
Louise Chan
Eric Todd
Dano
Edna Bian
Vivian
Leila
and
Tong Jiang (who donated 50 bucks because as he said Im Tong Jiang mother fuckaa!!

I am going to send in the donation by mid-October so if there is anyone else interested in supporting this cause send me an email.

Riding bikes often means getting up a insanely early hours.


The machine outfitted for 100 miles. Three bottles, pink pedals, and one gear.


Pre-ride photos






mile 75



post ride photos

All the Trimble kids with Dad, Brent, and G-Ma










Full Fleet of Trimble RAX Units primed for battle



Pre Race Shots









Race Start through the amazing streets of Eureka Springs













Bo, we had a ping pong tournament and I defeated this poor chap in the final match

















Family Farm in Pig Town

























G-Ma















Brent Trimble and his creation. He built this bike the day before the race.