Ole Bull Midnight Madness 2009, or How I Finally Got a Tattoo

A trend has come to bike racing lately: winners get tattoos. The Single Speed World Championships is a prime example (and the only race I can think of) where the winner gets a tat. There’s something about people sporting “I’m a winner” tats. Call it panache or maybe persnicketyness. Of course, it probably helps that the riders who win tats are really, really fast. If I was really, really fast, I would proudly wear a tat from the SSWC. For one thing, it would mean I was a winner. And that I probably wore weird clothes to bike races. But I’m neither a winner nor do I wear weird clothes (at least, not the kinds of weird clothes you see at the SSWC), which brings me to Ole Bull and my own tat.

The last two years I’ve raced Ole Bull, I’ve done it as a part of the OCW Geezer Squad. We’ve done pretty well both years, mainly because the other riders were fast enough to make up for my lack of fastness. This year, I decided to ride it solo as a way to train for Iron Cross VII. At the (sorta) last minute, Francis decided to head over with me, which was good, because it meant I had a ride to the race.

After a stimulating pre-race chat about rhetoric and health care reform on the drive over, we arrived at Ole Bull State Park. We picked up our numbers, grilled Mikey about the new course, and wandered back to the car to get our crap together for the noon start. Our goal for the day was to get in around four laps (60 miles) before it got dark while putting in some good training for IC. We got off to a good start: after the Le Mans-style start involving that goofy cyclist-in-cleats-and-dumb-clothes-with-crap-bouncing-around-in-jersey-pockets jog-stumble, we rolled out dead last.

We chatted our way up the first long climb, passing people and saying things like “this climb isn’t so bad if you’re not gutting yourself” and “man, it’s gonna be a scorcher.”At the top, I grabbed some cold water from an aid station and dumped it down my neck. The water turned to steam in about three seconds—a sign of things to come.

Francis and I turned left and rode over to the gas line. This was virgin territory for me. Turns out the course followed the gas line for a mile or so and included the 2009 version of the infamous Frowny Face hill. (Think steeper, shorter, and way hotter than the 2008 version.) Most people I saw walked it, though I have this genetic aversion to walking my mountain bike if I think I can ride something. It’s stupid of me, and I’ve tried to get help for it. So I rode FF. And I paid for it later.

After FF, we descended a bit and took a right into the forest and onto some proper singletrack. Sweet stuff, indeed! A section of whoops led to some rooty sections, and then it was just prime singletrack snaking along a ridge. The section lasted at least three miles and was pure fun. I found myself getting into the flow and ignoring that little voice saying things like “you need to drink something” and “you’ve got a long day ahead—slow down!” (Yes, I include dashes when I talk to myself.) It’s another genetic thing, I guess. Or maybe I was happy to be in front of Francis for once.

My ride was going swimmingly as I passed the second aid station, passed a crew at their hunting cabin drinking beer, and rode onto the center of some doubletrack. I’m a fastidious rider—I try to keep my bike clean whenever I can—and I tried to maintain that fastidiosity as I came to a mud-filled dip between water-filled tire ruts. I popped a wheelie, and cleared the dip no problem. But my front tire landed on the edge of an unseen rut and launched me straight into the brown water of the right rut. So much for keeping my bike clean. I giggled, checked my bike, and tried to catch back up with the guys that passed me.

Francis caught me on the road, and we blasted down new singletrack to the transition tent. I left my baton at the tent and walked to the car for new bottles. Then I told Francis I’d see him on the hill and cruised out for lap two.

That short break proved to be my downfall. I didn’t eat enough nor catch up on the calories I had already burned. It was getting hotter, and I should have spent more time resting and feeding my body. But I’m a dope like that (not a doper, a dope), and I wanted to bust out another lap. Francis caught me on the gas line and rode right past me on his way to the top. I caught him before the singletrack, and he let me go first. I was beginning to get a little sloppy, so I should have known something was up.

Miles later, past the doubletrack, I witnessed some nice nose wheelies over a couple of logs as Francis uncorked his mad descending skillz and led most of the way back to the transition tent. After checking in with the officials, I rode over to the car and choked down some food and water and got ready for a third lap. It was around 3:30 p.m., and I had been on the bike for over three hours.

Francis and I rolled out for lap three at the same time. He promptly dropped me on the opening climb. I had nothing. Couldn’t even outrun the gnats. On the gas line section, I came apart—woozy and nauseous from the heat and weak from the lack of fuel. I hiked my bike up the hills and paused for a long time at the top of FF. I knew the singletrack was in the shade, so once the worst waves of wooziness passed, I coasted down the hill and into the woods. Then the cramps began. I rode through them, repeating “relax, relax” over and over. Oddly enough, I still entertained visions of a fourth lap, proof, I think, that I was delusional. But then I started thinking about the next aid station. And beer. And it just so happened that Brian had beer when I arrived. I knew that if I had a beer, I would not ride a fourth lap. I was self-preservation mode, so that’s what I did.

After a 20-minute bs session with Brian, I swallowed the last of my brew and pedaled about 200 yards to that hunting cabin. Being the friendly Southerner that I am, I hollered: “Y’all out of beer yet?” “No,” they hollered back. “You want a Yuengling or a Miller Lite?” I stopped and sipped the second-best beer I had had all day with David and crew, and we talked about the cabin (it’s been in his family since 1966), local food, hunting (which I don’t know jack about), and life in Tioga County versus Bucks County. After a pleasant chat, I thanked them and bid them adieu and puttered my way back to the start/finish. I turned in my baton and told Mikey I wouldn’t need it again until next year.

And I will be back next year. The course is big fun, and I got a free tattoo, even if I didn’t win. It was inked by an Eggbeater and looks like this:



Watch out, SSWC.

Dirt Road Ride

Carlisle 40K Time Trial; Or, Three MU Profs Trying to Go Fast

Once Howard, Francis, and I set the bikes on the trainers to warm up for the 40K TT in Carlisle, the skies opened up. The green cloud on the Weather Channel’s radar during our 5:45 a.m. check had arrived. Thunder rumbled as rain poured. Water stood in puddles the school’s parking lot in minutes. It was grim. Francis and I tried to stay dry by sliding our trainers under the back door of the van, but water dripping off the door hit the center of my back and funneled straight to my chamois. Nothing I love more than wet chamois in the morning. Feels like . . . well, not victory.

Howard talked me into this TT silliness, and Francis decided to come along at the last minute to celebrate his 42 birthday. When I talked to Howard about the TT, he said something about the course being “flat, at least for around here.” He had been clocking pretty fast times, so I was game. I trained for the event by thinking about it. I also strapped on the aero bars and tweaked my bike a bit, basically moving the saddle forward 12mm and up 5mm. I hate moving my saddle, so I must have been taking this event seriously. I borrowed Francis’s Spinergy wheel and wore my close-out red and black Voler skinsuit. I thought the skinsuit made me look sexy and fast. My wife said it made me look “red.” The day of the race, that skinsuit made me look wet.

Francis was scheduled to go off a minute before me, Howard thirty seconds after. After a 20 minute trainer soak, I followed Howard to the start line. The start involved a short climb, which I rode conservatively, not wanting to dig myself into a hole with an hour left to race. I’d be in the hole soon enough. My goal for the day was to settle into my race pace and ride consecutively faster 20 minute sections. Dodging puddles, I settled onto the aero bars, told myself to relax, and focused on my breathing. I was hurting within minutes, but relatively comfortable on the aero bars.

I passed the 10K mark in about 16 minutes. Damn, I thought, I’m moving pretty well. But the “flat” course kept climbing slightly all the way to the turnaround. I focused on my form and pushed as hard as I could without blowing up. The course rolled through farmland and old houses, and occasionally I saw Amish buggies passing in the opposite direction. What a contrast between aero-helmeted, shaved-legged freaks riding tricked out Cervelos with disc wheels and the clop, clop, clop of horses pulling buggies. Of course, I was too gassed to think that thought during the actual ride.

I rolled through the turnaround at around 33 minutes. As I accelerated back up to speed, I heard puffing and gasping coming from across the road. It was Howard. I thought, “He’s fucked.” I figured he had gone too hard and was going to fall apart any second. Boy, was I wrong.

A few minutes later, Howard passed me, gasping and huffing. I mumbled something like, “Right on, Howard,” or “Go Howard,” or “You asshole, why did I let you talk me into this silliness?” I felt better later when he told me that the spray from my tires was providing a refreshing mid-ride treat for him. I told him it was my new energy drink: Horseshot™. I’m in negotiations with The Shack…

Howard slowly pulled away, thanks no doubt to my energy drink hitting his bloodstream, and I was left alone with my thoughts. They were pathetic. “OK, ten more minutes, pick it up, pick it up, PICK IT UP!” . . . “Ok, seven minutes, give it all you’ve got!” . . . “Come on, legs, come on!” . . . “Beer!” Needless to say, the final 10 minutes were rough. I focused on maintaining my form—it’s always better to look good than to go fast, right?—and pushed myself deep into the red zone. I crossed the finish line at around 40 mph and slumped across the bars, wondering if I would be able to climb the hill to the van. At that moment, I had my doubts.

Back at the van, Francis offered some kind of gummi something or other. I refused, reaching instead for water and then a Pabst. I handed one to Francis with a “happy birthday.” Howard refused a Pabst. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s mature or just doesn’t like Pabst at 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday. We were the only two drinking Pabst, which just goes to show you that TT’s are serious business.

Our times: Francis turned 40K in 61:38 at an average speed of 24.1. Howard turned 40K in 62:24 at an average speed of 23.9. I turned 40K in 63:03 at an average speed of 23.6. I’m looking forward to next year. Maybe I’ll train some. Or maybe I should take Francis’s approach and just sorta show up.

Howard summed it up best: “We suck! The over-hour club consisted of a white-haired couple dressed in purple, a guy with one leg, and us.”