68 Miles

68 miles. 6.5 hours.

Saturday The Clayton and I rolled out a bit after 9am, headed to try to ride an elusive loop from Concord around Mount Kearsarge in Sutton, and back. With 100 oz of water and 5 power bars we hit the railroad bed on Bog Rd and rode the series of snomobile trails and a bit of road's flat terrain up through Hopkinton to the Blackwater Dam. From there we went into the Army Corp of Engineer's land grab under canopy of old pines along the Blackwater River. It's a beautiful calming place, except for the rooty overgrown trail that meanders along side it. The undergrowth is low and lime green right now. It was wet and humid and dreamlike, a bit surreal as we passed by one meander that affected us similarly- images of naked women bathing- nymphs- in the serene forest's river. A lovely place. I had the Helmet hero in my camelbak- but it stayed there the entire ride so you'll just have to imagine a Parrish painting to conjure up the ambiance.

It didn't last long as we popped out on the class 5 Little Hill road and made our way up, up, up, the not so Little Hill. "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!" shouted a bloated Chris Farley. In that humidity, it was a hard effort to make it up without dabbing- something that eluded us both- mine when after coming to a dead stop- still clipped in mind you, doing a trackstand for 1,2,3,4,5 seconds, simply unable to turn over the cranks on a supersteep while balanced, touching one foot lightly and then clipping back in and riding away. A strange moment. Damn! Almost a no dabber.

Soon we came out on Kearsarge Mountain Road - past the kiosk and rode upward, getting a wave from descenders Sean Snow and tri crew before peeling off left onto snomobile trail 8, skirting Kearsarge and dropping down through a May 2006 wash out to North Road. We came back over Kearsarge via the Winslow Park end of Kearsarge Mountain Road. It's a friggin' killer but we paced it up, taking inspiration from the long views, chatting it up with some horses, and admiring the wildflowers.

Then we dropped into the forest and the descent through more assorted class 6 roads that became streams, and more streams and more streams and more... it was wet and a thrill to go backcountry over whatever is presented- full of rounded greenish coated rocks and closed in with June overgrowth, mud spattering our faces with our arms throbbing. Finally we came out north of Andover at the covered bridge. All that was left was a long Rt4. We rewarded ourselves after the last climb, downing a 16 Molson Ice picked up during a quick watering stop at Salisbury's corner store. Success tasted pretty good while standing at the edge of a field, knowing only Colby's downhill and the flat run in to Concord remained.

It was one long day with good mileage prep for Crested Butte's July demands. I pigged out later on, doubling up on Haddock dinners and then drove to Rochester to pick up a Thule long tray for $15! All Hail craigslist. (TM)

Big Boy Rides

Hey guess what! I didn't make the NY Times like Doug Jansen did http://hilljunkie.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-made-new-york-times.html, maybe cuz I'm not Hilljunkie and didn't win Sunapee, Turtletown Pond and can't climb mega gap cols like Jure "Robot" Robic http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jure_Robi%C4%8D of RAAM fame(and I lack a certain special sumpthin' like state sponsorship support from the Slovenian Special Forces.) Maaaybe. These two guys have tremendous positive vision and they live it. Kudos to them and an inspiration for us on a good day.
Which brings me to(sound of THUNDER!!! ) Big Boy Rides!(...echoing sounds of distant Thunder...)...a.k.a last night's ride.
No matter how many miles and hours I log, intervals I drive myself through, or fat sources I deprive my body of, sometimes the trail makes me feel like a lame wuss whose skills went out the window like helpless alien abductees. It's on those rides that I usually ding a shin after coming to a dead stop in some wet lichen covered, eroded rocky water crossing and catch myself from doing a full force face plant by busting out an awkward push up while bending a few fingers into positions that some Chinese contortionista does for money. These rides remind me of what I aspire to, to be a Big Boy(Popeye theme song).
Last night my bud, The Clayton, was carving up some more logs (Chainsaw carving garden spirits while kayaking with a MTB over one shoulder anyone?) and couldn't/didn't make the ride so it was me and 2.5 hours of daylight, a hardtail and all of Concord's woods to hammer.
I stealthed into the quarries and went straight up to the top, over the granite whaleback, past C*nt's 60' water jump and down down down to the bottom - something I've NEVER done in 10 years of riding there, crossing the tweak bridges and popping out by Auburn St, making my way to the base of the techy Hospital trails(Winant Park)http://www.5rct.org/winant.html and ripping my way up stuff most riders only descend. No dabs folks, just out of the saddle power and chin up in the air eyes 40' ahead quest seeking. Rode down Fisk Hill on the resevoir side at at 1 million rpms, out District 5 trail, clamoring over Beech Hill, rippin the 1 mile DH I use for ridiculous hillclimb repeats, continuing on through Mast Yard, Jim Hill trail http://www.ci.concord.nh.us/trails/trails/concordv2.asp?siteindx=C50,50,60 , and back via Bog Rd railbed in 2.5 hours. 29 miles. My reward: chocolate milk, plateful of spaghetti, a beer, and a restful night of sleep and two teaspoons of confidence.
I'm riding the wave guys: Seems like I'm on a roll. Time to buy a scratch ticket...

Wondering

Hmmm, the MTB racing gods, er... GODS, seem to have me under their thumb this year. I raced Bear Brook last year with "A" race fitness, only to flat twice and eventually break my chain. The four mile run back was entertaining, but not my idea of racing. I had been the first one to register and had been issued plate #1. Niiice to look at, but perhaps a curse.
Flash forward to this past Sunday. I'm well rested and ready to rip. My race plan is to ride steady the first lap and then go all out on the second lap. I pick up my plate and its, you guessed it #1. I'm thinking positive and am feeling I'm about to have my redeeming race and in the process put others on notice of my fitness and racing prowess, or some such silly pride based satisfaction and affirmation that the intervals and repeats will pay out today.
Lap one: I'm riding steady and away from the other Expert Masters. I feel at ease and that the pace is almost too easy.
Descending Carr Ridge, I come up on a Vet racer and let him know I'm flying and would like to come by when it works. No response. I ask him to let me know when it's good. Still nothing. I ask again as we come into the flattish swale mid way down and if it's "OK now - on your rig.." and begin to go around on his right and he wide bodies a bit and I say "Woah I guess not!" He has been silent the entire time and I wonder, iPod?, when suddenly something in him snaps and starts screaming explitives and insults. He totally lost it. I guess the pressure of someone from behind was too much for him - which he took dramatic exception to. His reaction was so full of Fing ahole fing idiot fing stupid piece of shite that I inform him he was swearing at the wrong guy- I'm on the EFTA board and talk like that'll will get him DQ'd. I pass left and he unloads again. I turn my head to get his number and say "Number **, that's it!" I'm loathe to quash any guys' ride ambitions, but this was the first time I've ever even heard of someone so out of control on the race course, let alone be subjected to it. It has no place in racing. He yells a threat to meet me in the parking lot later as I ride off and away, feeling surprisingly calm and truly astonished at his behavior. As Letterman says: Weird wacky stuff. Deal.
Lap two: I'm riding stronger per plan as I enter Hemlock where I planned to convincingly win the race. When I reach the piney flat section I soft pedal to let a female racer find a place to pull over, which she happily does. As I stand on the pedals to accelerate, my chain snaps. Noooooooo!
Here's when I think "Ok just check it out and maybe you can piece it together." Incredibly, I'm able to bend the bent plate and push the pin back in against a big ring tooth. I start to ride, only to hear nasty grinding and the chain snapping again. I must have twisted the chain when I put it together. Too much. I start laughing at myself and asking racers for a chain tool - for a while. Finally, Ernie Lozeau gives me his and rides off. Thanks Ernie! I spend the next 20-30 minutes fumbling with a chain tool I'm not familiar with that doesn't seem to hold the links in place - meaning I have to have three hands or hold the tool with my mouth while supporting the links. It's a comedy now as I let the chain run through my fingers 3 times with plates and or spacers dropping or pinging off into the leaf piles. I shortened the chain three times as a result and finally got it together when a junior stopped and became my third hand. By then I was thinking about the birthday cookout waiting at home. Beer, food... yum.
I rocked the rest of the last lap - much of it out of the saddle and flying - still some 20 minutes behind the deserving winner, Tom Barton, who had a strong ride and was able to make body and bike work for him, which I obviously was incapable of.
So I'm wondering if it really is the year for someone else to get the palmares and for me to ride with my buddies. Not just wondering really, but just slowly accepting.
The big news is CRESTED BUTTE!!! Yeah, I'll be there for the last week of July for nothing but riding riding riding 401, 403, Monarch Crest, Hartman Rocks. The MTB riding gods are smiling on me after all.

Got my mojo workin', but it just won't work on you

Raced at the rustic Coyote Hill venue this past Sunday- a day with two faces. We arrived to rain and 55 degrees, damn chilly when standing around in a T-shirt. Hmmmm, muddy conditions splattered the faces of Cat 2 racers and the guy who lost his vision while racing - heard he had a stroke - thank Godessence for ambulances. BY 1:30 pm, the day had swung to full on humid sunny conditions. Heat, eh? As I'm staged, Alan Moats makes a prophetic comment - "Hmmm, Al. That rear tire looks like it should be going the other way for the muddiness." I know he is using some sort of Zen like Obi-Wan Kenobi whammy on me. "Phft! Whatever."
The pros go off to a holeshot clusterF, some standing still while waiting for the weird to clear. Watching, I make a decision to keep the same from happening to me and when we go off, I'm out front making the holeshot and popping out the other side into a... field? Hmmm, note to self: pre-ride dummy! Yep, I hadn't been on this course-ever. I follow the likely leaders up the road climb and into the woods. "I'll just stay on their wheel and find the lines - kind of a learn as I go strategy. Smart." This works until I bobble at the end of the lap on a water hole with a muddy uphill exit. I'm cursing my over pumped fork and slipping rear tire... an extra 3-4 inches of over rotation accompanying each pedal stroke on the all the slight uphills. OK, I'll just get back on and that's when I realized I didn't have the juice, the mojo, the goods to do the do. I proceeded to hope that the others would come back to me or I'd speed up over the next two laps. "It'll dry out and they'll falter." Riiiight. That didn't happen and I was, well, humbled. Humbling is good for the soul. It kinda kicks cocky in the mouth and leaves you wandering around in a vague cloud of murk. On this day I gladly accepted my fate, bashing my head against assorted walls and finally consulting with my staff of scientists who monitor my body daily as part of the ever expanding knowledge base of Al Raine, MTB Racer.
Scientist One: "Our power tap montoring shows 700 watts for 2 minutes and then a gradual taper to zero watts by the finish line. Highly unusual!!!"
Scientist Two: "My review of heart rate montoring data reveals a spike at 30 seconds in and then gradual rising to double spike status by the end. The last reading of 574BPM is remarkable!!!"
Scientist Three: " The study of our GPS device exhibits usual magnetic activity which appears to have caused your bicycle to run backward for half of the race, which combined with your forward progress, means you actually rode for a distance 50% longer than the other racers. Astonishing!!!"
After hours of collaberation by the various scientists involved, the results were released, which stated, and I am not kidding here: "You didn't go fast enough to win, place or show, or maintain any semblance of dignity." Now there's science at work. How succinctlly put. MIT and RPI grads rock.
See y'all at Bear Brook. I'll be the guy with bells on.

Storing it up

Squirrells come to mind. Furry creatures that spend tremendous amounts of time gathering and hoarding nuts full of energy - storing them to be opened later. It seems like that's the story of a MTB racer's life: spend months on stationary trainers and studded tires maintaining basic health and a modicum of fitness during the cold months, followed by waking up and thrashing our legs as we hit the road for build phase during the introduction of spring, then moving to the sweet, transient joy of hitting the trail - poking around to see what condition the world is in and waking up those MTB-only muscle relationships, which gives way to repeated hard efforts - engaging the discipline and mental fortitude that drives us on that all important date with the starting line. Storing it up. Storing it up. Storing it up.
I haven't released it yet. Nope, it's building, held back behind the dam. Lean body weight at 150 something, noticable definition and mass appearing - especially in the hamstrings and vastus groups, mitichondria responding confidently when summoned. Which brings me to what I wanted to share in the first place:
This week I introduced race starts - those fuzzy little warm critters that live in the woods. I ride out to Mast Yard where several miles of flat flat flat doubletrack coax the effort out of me. At it's entrance, I put down a foot after the 25 minute road warmup. Then I unleash the emergency response crew BAM! Pounding on the pedals, out of the saddle for 10 seconds after clicking in, settling in to the saddle as brute circular force drives me over 20 mph, flying over the few roots and through the sandy stretch right to the 60 second point of "I can't possibly do this any loooooonnnngggggeeerrrrr! and I back off everso slightly, HRM at 171, 172, and the sickening feeling of lactic acid and hormones breaks over me in a huge wave, shouting at me to STOP! ... Then I settle in for the next 4 minutes of robust charging over the uneven and slowly curving route, easing back and forth to find hard ground PLEASE!, over the bumps, churning ever forward in the pine needle-filtered sunlight ONWARD! 173, 174 and finally it's coming... the end at 176. 30 seconds into the return trip, my HR is at 135, 60 seconds and I'm at 122, ahhhhh... the slow ride back to the start with a hit of water and a bite of power bar en route.
There is an effect, a realization that becomes apparent during hillclimb and race start intervals... dissociation. Part way through them, I become the observer. The watcher. My legs are cranking, my heart is running, my breath is even, my arms and shoulders relax a bit and I am doing the hard work while my mind monitors - as if from a distance. Legs? check. CV? Check. Mind? Present and calm? Check. It's remarkable when I, and we, get to this state. It's meditative. It's physical. It's spiritual. Consciousness. ( I often point this out to my yogini wife, whose kundalini practices take her there through a different mechanism daily. )
They've been allowing me to keep building more energy up higher and higher behind the dam, dammit! The nuts I'm gathering are accumulating into a big pile. Pent up. Waiting. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! I can hardly (under) stand it!

Animal Sighted on Beech Hill

Last night I turned a page. Rode out to Beech Hill, a 1 mile washed out MTB climb that rips out your heart, beats it with a dead porcupine, and then invites you back home for 12 year old scotch laced with LSD. This time of year, my first foray there marks my return to race fitness. I did an 'introductory offer' three repeats, which will become 6 three weeks from now. (WARNING - NEEDLESSLY LONG DESCRIPTION ALERT!!!) The ground is uneven and starts with a hundred feet of fist-sized crushed granite, gives way to muddy, starched shirt idiot-piloted "I can climb this with my Escalade... oops... I gotta back down" tire tracks, then churns up 200 yards to a flattish section that ya gotta hammer to keep the HR up on, and then steeps out over another 500 yards of leaf and stick-strewn rumbly class 5 abandoned road past the first male born in Hopkinton memorial and flats out again just in time for a middle ring acceleration with springtime black flies journeying up your nose, or mid-summer horse flies biting chunks out of your buttcheeks through lycra. Got that? It's a good undeniably tough climb immediately followed by the return descent. This is when most who have ever joined me become terrified, grabbing both brakes as I whizz downward, ever faster out of sight until the bottom and woithout recovery, repeat repeat repeat repeat repeat - ravaging my CV, engaging mitochonrial memory, developing DH skills, toning hands and forearms en route.
Fun. At least that's how I feel every time I'm done - a chest beating grin on my face. Superhero Al sensation - one I'll take to the starting line every race. Damn, no one else does these. Supreme - and they come with a shower and big ol meal. Killer. Grrrrrrr...

Turtle Pond, NO! Turtletown Pond

Heat was a factor Saturday when the Capt'n and I raced at Turtletown Pond. It was 90 degrees in the shade at the 1:10 pm start time. The course is an 11 mile lap with two hills being the main features, Oak Hill, a 1 mile 200' vert climb at the start of the lap and a 150' 20% grade wall at about the 8 mile mark.There was a full field of over 40 guys and an official "neutral" first climb up Oak Hill. Then the racing began. The pace was high with some trying to get off the front but the breaks were consistently brought back. I rode on point only once, feeling myself slow the group when facing the wind. There were plenty who thought riding point was the goal, so the pace remained high and hot. This year the promoter added Hot Hole Pond Rd. with the wall coming 3/4 of the way through the lap. It was enough to cull the weaker riders - thankfully since a lot of them were riding willy nilly all over the gruppo's safety zones. "Hey #554, good god man - stay straight PLEASE!" There was still a group of 20 or so after two laps. Last lap: I'm calling for the two on the front to step up the pace on Oak Hill as I'm trapped behind them but they let me through and I'm pushing on the front, coming together over the top since the wind would prohibit me from getting away 10 miles from the finish. There are about 10 of us that seem quite strong in a gruppo of 20 or so and we're doing most of the work. Just before we climb the wall one last time, 1 rider goes off the front. The Capt'n rides up alongside and past me. I'm wondering if he's gonna pull/block/crack open a fresh pack o' Marlboros or? I decide now is the time, ease by and attack the hill. I get to the top and look into the faces just behind me. Tired and haggard! Good! I'm gooooone, chasing and gaining on the guy in blue over the next 2 1/2 miles, head down in TT mode, gruppo chasing. Dang! After a couple miles the group comes over me on the looong downhill 500 yards from the finish. I slot into 7th position, recover quickly and am set up on the road's yellow line in a near-perfect sprint position. We are subject to a 200M yellow line rule so everyone has to wait, wait, wait to cross the middle of the road and explode in a bunch sprint. SOB! A bunch sprint amongst a bunch of newbies, greaaaaat. But at 300 yards out, 5 guys take off left, crossing the road's midline and box me in as the rest respond to my right and the two guys in front of me touch wheels!!! Rubbing, rubbing...EeeeecccKKKKK!!!!!! Brakes! Stablilize! Everyone is still up and I roll across in 13th and relax, having dodged a bloody takedown. Others got gauzed and some carried off earlier in the day; the ambulance crew kept busy since a few crashes happened with the downhill bunch finishes full of New England's Mario Cippolinis.
I felt a bit queasy under the heat a couple of times but my body came up some strong climbing that set some of the race's tone. If it had only finished with the final Oak Hill climb as in past years... ;>)After the close call and nervous riding, I can't wait for some MTB racing! Bolted home afterward to pack and drive to Maryland and back Sunday/Monday for fam,ily's meber's passing. I had a MTBer-only moment when a car with two Greenbriar Challenge race-plated MTB's atop it pass me on 695 late Saturday. Only we understand. Later.
Hmmm, it must be later:I arrived homeafter work last night early and The Clayton pulled up in front of the house for a proper MTB ride. After the road race, driving, funeral and catch up, it was just the Rx I needed to break out of the accumulated funk. Dirt, long climbs, rumbly granite laden twisties and power. We headed into the sunny 60's, trees bursting with lime and chartreuse in the breeze. God inspiring beauty blowing right through me.
We opted for the snowmobile trail wilderness ride. I ended up on my back climbing the knobby power line off of Deer Meadow straight up tip over backward on the super steep that was meant for downhill travel over ledginess. Hardy har har and WTF? all at the same time. Climbed the rest after remounting, passing a heaving Clayton who just plain tuckered out before the top, but not for long. The rest of the ride was an assortment of dusty downhills on branch covered doubletrack and twisty navigation off of Weir Rd finishing out along the Merrimack River singletrack well into nightfall. The power was there for the entire ride. The skills showing and my hands throbbing with trail demands greater than what they'd been accustomed to. A proper ride. Skin intact. Springtime.