NSRRC: The Birth of (Wrong) Turning into CAT 3

Nebraska State Road Racing Championships. My first CAT3 race. Oh boy.

After getting to bed Friday (Saturday) after midnight, I awoke at 5. While waking up, I blinked once, and it was 22 minutes later! I ate a hearty breakfast, loaded the car and grabbed coffee to drive to Branched Oak. Nervous, excited, and tired; I drove out, very distracted by my thoughts, actually missing one turn and driving through the median to get back on track!

The low lying fog I encountered upon leaving the interstate was very pretty and while heading North, I gazed into the rising sun, catching heavenly compositions while not veering off the road. I passed by a country road and knew I could pass up the moment no longer.

Flipping another b!tch, I sped back to the gravel road, slammed on the brakes, and whipped out my camera and tripod. This gallery is what I captured.

This is that gallery I mentioned above.

Those that deal with photography know that exposing for the sky and foreground of something as high contrast as a sunrise can be difficult. These images are a mixture of proper exposure edited in post production and HDR images. High Dynamic Range images are a mixture of 3 or more images bracketed together, each specifically shot to capture the highlights, shadows and midranges of an image. If you have seen them before, you will be able to tell which ones are HDR images - Or can you? Out of the set, only 2 of the images are HDRs, the rest are exposure techniques in post production. The images actually do the sunrise justice too.

Moving on, I arrived at the race venue after missing yet another turn. I was early. Which is good for me. I was able to hang out, set all my stuff up and stretch out before the race. The majority arrived later and numbers ended up being pretty good for the event. Roll out started at 9 AM.

With the 2 mile roll out, moods were light and smiles were abundant. Talent was saturated with the pack with what seemed only a few key people missing from the group. It was gonna be a good race - or at least I thought it would be at this point.

Our pace was easy going with only a moderate attack to start out with on the KOM (King of the Mountain) checkpoint. We meandered around the 11.2 mile loop, steadily paced. I was feeling a bit antsy with the pace and there were a few attacks here and there, but they were always drawn back or settled in.

I needed to burn in my legs in so starting from mid-pack, I pushed away (you can't call it a sprint, but it had some speed - its kinda what I do) and took to myself for the next hill climb. No one followed, no one cared. Punks. I just kept my heart rate below 190 while chugging up the hill, it felt good, and I wasn't angered by my lone-wolf move. Earning my pretty much worthless KOM points, I coasted and slow pedaled until the peloton caught back up to me. That seemed to take many minutes.

Some time soon after this, a guy in a Monkey Wrench kit took off before the feed zone and no one followed. This is until Kevin Limpach (Midwest Cycling) launched after him. Had I noticed, I may have gone, but I didn't. They stayed way out through the next KOM and then I got stupid again and did a hard pull off the front for many minutes, practically the entire North side I think. I reeled the two of them in, and everyone else stayed on my wheel.

While recovering, Tim Farnham (Bissell Pro Cycling Team) launched off the front and that would be the last time we would see him with the rest of us. A few times we'd work together to bring him back, but our soon fizzled and he was gone for good. Tim's younger brother (Matt Farnham Team Chaos) was also there to throw water on our fire as well -- like a good brother would do (props).

Throwing one more lap in there, all was uneventful up to the final few miles. I was well cooked by this point, and could feel I would have to push myself to keep it up for another lap. Greg Shimonek (Midwest Cycling) jumped off the front and began putting distance on us. I was riding behind the Ciclismo boys and since they were CAT1s, and Shim was a 3, they did nothing about it. Kevin was there too, and since they were on the same team he did nothing about it. I think one of the Ciclismo riders kinda looked around and glanced back at me. I did nothing.

Then I jumped on it. Full rocking sprint then sat in the saddle red-lining up to Shim. We started up an incline and I went by him, as he locked in behind my wheel. He came around me as we crested the hill and we were off. I did what I could do best -- do what Shim told me to. It took me a few minutes for my heart rate to come back down as we settled into our pace.

Rounding the final corner, I had found my rhythm and I knew it'd be killer, but I could hold on for another lap. And I looked up the long hill that was the KOM climb.

"Right turn here!" Shim yelled through the wind.

"What? No... We still have another lap" I yelled back.... "Really? Are you sure?"

"Why would I lie to you? Do you want me to turn first?" -- I breathed a sigh of relief as I leaned into the turn and we headed back in toward the finish line two miles away. I looked back to see how we were doing. There was no one in sight. Another sigh of relief. If I would have been there alone, I would have gone straight *(A problem with both my counting abilities, and the race officiates). That would have been my last, and biggest wrong turn of the day, er, lack of turn.

A couple more hills and we turned into the home stretch. I lead into the corner, pretty much exhausted. My chest hurt from breathing and I tried to focus on some energy. Eyeballing the finish line beyond the trees I already knew how this would end. If Shim is ever on your wheel going into a sprint, there is a very very good chance he will beat you. We have ridden together long enough to know how we each worked...

I kicked my burners on full throttle (probably too early) and he wound up after my small gap. I countered his closeness with a few quick moves, but he was just waiting to pounce. As I figured he came around me and beat me to the line. I shot him in the back with my finger as I crossed the line. Damn that was fun!

Race over, nuf said. We had enough time to coast out, turn around and watch the rest of the guys sprint for 4th. 72 miles in three hours and some minutes change.

Thanks for the ride gentlemen. It was fun.

Dakota Five Zero. The myth. The legend. The lies. The lust.

The Image Gallery

Labor day weekend found me in Spearfish for the Dakota 50. A 50 mile mountain bike race which I have wanted to partake in for a few years now. Traveling by SPRINTER, 6 of us made the jaunt from Omaha, meeting the Monkey Wrench/ War Axe crew at the camp site. We came in a day early to enjoy ourselves and do a smidgen of pre-riding. Our crew consisted of Mark, Anne, Roxy, Ryan, and Larry.

The course itself features just about every type of riding style you'd wish to shade a stick at. Pristine single-track, fast double track, technical downhills, fire roads, gravel roads, and what have you. All will be very interesting on a single speed hard tail.

More on that - After proper consulting and swindling of friends, I had a whip for the race. The special edition Fisher Superfly single speed geared 34x20, and complete with glow in the dark grips. This is a very special bike and I fell in love with it before I even left Omaha. I had some hesitation beings it is a 29 inch wheeled rig. That issue quickly resolved itself since this bike is as cool as a gang of ninjas riding sharks. I am sold on the 29er format.

Fast forward to race morning.

After a proper send off by Smokey the Bear, 400 riders left town on a 'neutral' roll out. We exit town and the race officially starts as soon as our wheels hit the gravel. The geared warriors take of and I begin cranking up to speed and begin passing the hoards. I planned on getting ahead of everyone I could before entering the single track so I pushed it, finding out later that I had about 12 guys on my wheel motivated by my strong pull.

I was eyeing where I was and the peeps around me. There was one group way up the road, John Mylrie (Fuzzy) from Niner out there alone and the rest of us. Dejay Birtch was beside me. I gave him a fist bump and said "Good Luck." I settled in for some fun.

The pace was pretty chill rolling thru the first section, and I calmly sat in and patiently followed. Upon the first short, steep climb, all the geared riders clicked down to their low gears, and I jumped off to follow. Since I was still fresh, I picked up my bike and ran passed a half dozen people chugging up the hill and jumped back on at the top. I hit it hard 'til I hit the next group of riders.

One group of riders held Dejay from Niner and Colin McKernan (both on single speeds) one more guy on a geared bike. I knew this would be a good group to roll with for awhile. Then Dejay crashed going over a log pile and the 3 of us rode on as he complained about crushing valuable items located in the crotchal region. Eventually I dropped the other guys and rode on to the next bunch.

This was the general way it went. Riding with others until they could yield to me, usually on hill climbs. I was pretty much alone most of the race, which is awesome, and not at the same time. Taking a drink from Perry the director of the Five-O, I pressed on looking forward.

Riding comfortable and alone I eventually caught the jersey of Fuzzy zipping thru the trees. That was my motivation for many miles to come. He was at the top of a climb, when I was at the bottom. I took his keys for when to dismount and when to crank through the climbs. He stayed a steady distance from me until we hit our first rough descending sections. He could kill it with ease as I gingerly picked my lines with greenhorn grins. I would push hard up the climbs to regain position.

Refilling at the 2nd Aid Station, I find I am sitting 2nd single speed and 8th overall. I excitedly take off on the heels of the other riders. -- Things only get worse from here.

I somehow lose tension on my chain and have to stop multiple times to put it back on. To make it worse, I lost my multi-tool so I can't fix it. That mixed with long downhills I start losing time. Getting to the final aid station, I forget to think about getting my tension fixed and push on. Cussing minutes later when I figure out that I forgot. I see Fuzzy for the last time as I dismount for another hike-a-bike hill climb.

I am feeling all the long, high speed descending by this point. Arms are shot from holding myself up and fatigue has set in. The fact that I don't spend much time on a mountain bike becomes pretty vivid. Cramping, numbness, and dirt mix in. It's still not enough to wipe shit eating grin from my face. - WIth the amount of cow manure we ride in, it's not far off the truth.

Remembering the elevation topo and the realizing the amount of walking I am doing, I can tell I am finishing up the toughest climbs of the race. That means only one thing...

Hobo Camp: Home of the PBR and Bacon Station. I was dead tired, but I still managed to get down 3/4 a beer and clutch a piece of bacon in my hand - but I couldn't eat it. Just too thrashed. Colin McKernan passed me as I downed half an oatmeal cream pie and began to pedal on.

Scree. Evil, evil scree. So much of the ride was a blur. This section's blur included two falls within a 100 or so feet. The second one put me in the trees and bashed my ankle good enough for it to still be swollen enough to hide the right side of my ankle.

With one last fire road climb, I entered the final miles of single track, back tracking the beginning of the race. It takes all my effort to keep speed up and push through the constant cramps and heavy fatigue. About 3/4 mile from the single track exit, I lose it and toss myself off my bike.

Upon impact with dirt, rock, and flora; my entire body up seizes up in one big stinking cramp. I don't know how long I was down, but the thought of not being able to get up crossed my mind. Barely being able to bend my legs, I couldn't walk. I managed to throw my leg over my rig. - Low and behold, I can't walk, but I can still pedal. That was probably one of the most awesome feelings ever. Muscle memory at it's finest right there.

I exit the trail, and fly down the gravel back into town. On one final paved hill climb I look down at my legs while turning over the pedals. My muscles are firing and cramping and just going disco crazy. My skin is wavy and striated as the muscles beneath them tighten and loosen with wild abandon.

Spinning my brains out on the small gear ratio, I bend over the handle bars and let my hands hang as I cross the finish line in 4 hours 8 minutes and 47 seconds. That was about 12 minutes behind Sir Fuzzy. Which means he is a descending king! And that's why they pay him the big bucks -- or at least give him bikes.

Talent: It shows in the picture. I can't open my eyes and I am laying in a stream trying to survive. And he is wearing a purple shirt and smiling. I don't even have a shirt.

Mens Single Speed
1. John Mylrie 3:55’26” - This was 3rd place overall. Sick!
2. Dejay Birtch 4:05’20”
3. Colin McKernan 4:06’01”
4. Lucas Marshall 4:08’47”
5. Mark Savery 4:15’10” - This guy is the bomb

I am covered in dirt, blood, and crap. I can barely walk and my ankle is immobile... But I still got that grin. And within hours of finishing, and a few beers, I want to do it all again.

Mark's Post

Roxy's Post via Trek's Women Who Ride.

Group photo time!

Shoe Fetish...

My liking is usually it's reserved for pumps, flashy colors, strappy shoes, and high heels. A good set of ankles and some hot shoes shoes - One of my favorite things about wedding photography. It's sad that the shoes are hidden by the dress most of the day.

I usually reserve the shoe fetish for my eyes only, but when a really good deal comes along, I can't pass up the hot performance gains of high end full-soled stiff as hell carbon fiber, heat moldable pro-level cycling shoes. Sure, they aren't sexy or fashionable (in most peeps eyes). They actually make me look like I belong on a space station. But holy guacamole, they feel good and transfer power in a very businesslike fashion. Oh boy oh boy oh boy. They are my bicycle dancing shoes.

Plus, my mountain shoes smell like cat urine from racing in the rain.

Last weekend found me at the Big Creek Road Race outside of Des Moines. Perfect temperatures and just enough wind to notice made for a fun race day. I signed up for CAT4 but wish I would have opted for 3s. As it would end up, I spent too much time trying to get the stronger riders out on a breakaway, but in the end it proved to be futile.

With about 1.5 laps left (8 laps, About 6+ mile a lap) suddenly all these riders came out of the woodwork to race. Very annoying. I had spent too much energy fooling around, trying to not get bored with the race earlier. On the last lap, I sat in and kept my heart rate as low as I could (Mid-140s) while still staying within 10 places of the leader. A mile left, things picked up. I felt fine, but could tell I was fatigued. There was a box that marked the Quarter Mile mark from the finish. Nearing the end I had a small opening in front of me and I took it, flying off the front I broke away with no one on my wheels when I checked between my legs.

Big Creek RR

Time Trial Earlier this Summer

Unfortunately, I was too far out. I misjudged my position and knew I could not hold my pace. After some language that is only fit for late-night stand up comedy, I slowed down and rested for a brief second.

Catching sprinters rolling up the left side (this was supposed to be a double line enforced race) I crunched down on my pedals again and gave it everything I had left. Managed to sit-sprint it into 5th. There wasn't a way I would have been able to stand up. Kinda blew it.

On that note, that's the definite end of 4s road racing for me.