The Eki Chronicles

The Wheel or Fire?

2012-02-13T08:48:00.000-06:00

I wonder if cave dudes/dudettes ever sat around arguing about what was more important, the wheel or fire. My guess is they did, much the way we might argue about Carbon vs. Ti. Well, this weekend I've experienced the importance of both. Yesterday I sat around a quality fire in my back yard discussing the ways of the world with my Dad. We did what people do around a fire, we stared at it, we poked it, we occasionally even tried to warm up by it. We didn't cook over it, but we've done that many times and it works! I love fire. No, I don't love it like I've got to burn stuff to feel alive, more like I love that feeling fire gives you - security and a little fifteen foot circle you can call home while you're there.

Now, the wheel. Whoo, a lot can be said for the wheel. Like fire a real game changer. I seriously empathize with the cave guy who was responsible for moving stuff. His life was rough to say the least, until the round thing showed up. I can only imagine he found a quiet place all to himself and went nuts with joy, dancing around, doing some yelling, maybe he even fist bumped his buddy later on. His plight took a turn for the exponentially easier, because of the wheel!

I consider myself a guy who moves stuff, usually myself. Recently, I've been struggling with a wheel on my commuting bike that has been in it's death throws for a couple months now. I finally cracked last week, scoured the Internet for the cheapest wheel that wasn't made of stone and bought it. I put this wheel on my bike yesterday and rode it for the first time this morning. Sure it's heavy, but I'm a man of minimal needs. This most basic of wheels drastically changed the performance of my bike. The rear end of the machine no longer wiggles when I shift my weight. The bike no longer clunks side to side in the back end when I climb due to the hub flopping around. I mean I actually felt the power I was putting into the pedals coming out of the bike - imagine that!

So, Fire vs. Wheel? My vote goes to the wheel. Where do you stand?

Is It Supposed to Hurt?

2012-02-07T14:06:00.001-06:00

1. Inflamed tendons, left and right feet
2. Aggravated right wrist
3. Aggravated right shoulder
4. Saddle sore
5. Inflamed right knee (old injury)
6. Two sets of toes that are prone to freezing quickly due to being frozen too many times

The short list of what currently rides around on my back like King Kong.

More Than The Bike

2012-01-29T12:28:00.001-06:00

The Green Bay Packer's last game of the season. Was I the bad luck charm?

Bones, supporting the team.

Amy and her sister Gina make an "Eki Sandwich". Too bad the night before I accidentally turned the temp down. We only lasted about 10 minutes.

Pretending to be a bowler. I'll stick to the bike, Thank You very much.

Amy's birthday night was all about bowling. Such good form!

They can't all be strikes.

Hey, Who Turned On The Lights?

2012-01-25T10:15:00.001-06:00

Riding in the dark used to intimidate me. For some reason I would worry about it, constantly thinking that if something happened it would be more difficult to deal with in the dark. I dreaded the shortening of the days, like a cage was slowly being lowered around me.

Now, riding in the dark is like visiting with an old friend, in many ways I prefer it. The critters darting through my light, the deep thoughts going through my head, the knowing nods from fellow commuters.

The winter rolls on, so do I, through the dark, comfortable in my routine. So comfortable in fact that I begin to match my commutes to and from work to the minute. I find that I enjoy the familiarity of it all.

Then, it happened! Yesterday something seemed amiss. I quickened my pace as I entered into the hustle bustle of city streets. "Dude, you're really pushing this morning. What's up? I'm late for some reason, I need to stay on top of it. I don't want to have rush around when I get to work." Wait a second, there's no reason that you're late. You left at the same time as you do every morning." "But, I'm turning my light off, I must be behind schedule." That was the conversation in my head.

It donned on me, as I looked east, toward the big Gitchee Gummee for confirmation. Mother Nature had turned on the lights. The sun was up over the lake and the times, they were a changin'.

The cycle continues as we ride into another phase. It won't be long now...

Cat Lover Saves Dog with Bike

2012-01-06T13:14:00.000-06:00

A bizarre sequence of events unfolded for me as I've been enjoying some time at home for the holidays. I'll be returning to global travel/training soon.

It went something like this:

I left my place of employment at approximately 4:18 p.m. a couple days ago. I rolled out listening to my favorite podcast, while focusing on getting my head right for the war zone that is Duluth's cars vs. bike world I live in. The first leg of my commute home involves a super dangerous 5 or 6 mile stretch of road that contains 4 lanes of traffic, no shoulder, and a ton of pissed off people speeding home in steel boxes with wheels. Now, I have been trying to lose some weight so as not to take up any more of their road than I have to, but I can only get so skinny. Needless to say, I battled the edge of the road and it's broken up borders that are somehow always coated in a sheen of ice. I'm used to hanging onto my life by my finger nails, so I pushed on to fight the good fight.

Suddenly, it appeared in front of me, miraculously surviving amidst 2 ton objects hurling past it, a tiny animal. The beast was coming toward me, sharing my plight, it's eyes bulging in fear, it's head on a swivel, much like mine. "Oh, this poor rabbit doesn't have long to live", I thought. "Wait, that's not a rabbit, it's a squirrel, no too big...IT'S A LITTLE DOG!!". The little man's best friend was running to me while I road toward it. Our distance between closing fast, I called out, "Get to the side little guy!". He didn't understand. I guess I didn't really expect him to, but I had to try something. Then, I found out what I'm made of. I spun my head around 180 degrees to check my 6. Yep, just like I figured, a train of cars coming fast! This little dude was going to die and it was going to be right in front of me if I didn't act fast. Like jumping on a grenade, I went to the middle of my lane and put my bike perpendicular to the cars in an attempt to make them stop. It was him or me at this point. The tiny creature gave me a concerned, but thoughtful glance as it trotted past, terrified, but alive. I motioned to the car coming fast behind me that there was trouble in the road. Just then a barrage of barking came from the yard on my right. A quick glance told me his doggy friends were behind their enclosure and urging him to listen to the guy on the bike. Relief washed over me as the car behind came to a halt on one of the busiest roads in Duluth and the passenger thrust open his door to assist my new comrade. Still jacked on a King Kong sized dose of adrenaline the little guy bolted up the avenue in front of his house. I exhaled as a pack of wild eyed, yet responsibly concerned 13 year old boys came running around the house of dogs. I yelled, "He just went up that avenue!!", motioning the direction with my hand. In an instant their pace quickened as they continued pursuit.

I pulled off to the side to gather myself and allow traffic to commence with it's chaotic journey home. Clipping in, I glanced to the fenced area only to notice one of the little hounds give me a wink and a smile. I returned the gesture and was on my way.

The fur faces need us, just like we need them. Give yours a hug today.

I Just Kept Riding.

2012-01-02T17:30:00.001-06:00

I had to know what would be around the next corner.

Enough said...

"He" Allows Rare Respite From Training: Back from South Africa

2011-12-24T13:12:00.000-06:00

BOOM!

Farrow instructs the winter riding upstart - ME.

The bike that wildly changed my perspective on riding in the winter.

Off The Grid: South Africa

2011-12-21T09:01:00.000-06:00

Well, let's just say Rio was interesting. To say I'm utterly confused would be an understatement. I met my coach at the base of Jesus with ropes in hand. I even had some more refined climbing gear in an attempt to impress him with my commitment and readiness for the next challenge. Instead, he scoffed at my efforts and muttered something about my ongoing disappointment and how he "expects more". He cast my ropes aside and produced what appeared some type of costume. Here's the result of my time in Rio. My appearance has changed somewhat due to the makeup, etc. What this has to do with cycling, I guess I'll know at the end of my training...

That's me in full Samba regalia and training.

Next, I met "him", my coach on a red clay runway somewhere in South Africa. I'll admit that I was excited, but nervous as Rio perplexed me. Then, suddenly and without warning a convoy of Black Suburbans pulled up. The first stopped near us and unloaded what appeared to be two primitive bicycles. "YES!" I thought, finally some riding. To my amazement a 93 year old Nelson Mandela emerged from the third vehicle with handlers attending to his every need. He donned a South African national team kit, with a 100 oz. hydration system slung low across his back. "Greetings, you must be Eki", he said with a hand thrust forward. Unsure what to do, I replied, "At your service your Eminence", I gently shook the hand of the formally falsely imprisoned visionary. Mr. Mandela then took a long pull from the hose at his chest, slung a leg over the top tube of what appeared to be a 1941 single speed Hawthorne. A similar bike to Nelson's is pictured here:

He simply said, "LET'S DO THIS THING" and he slowly pedaled toward the sinking sun. I mounted my rig and followed. I now train with Nelson Mandela. What to discuss, heart rates, apartheid...?

More to come...

Off The Grid: Rio De Janeiro

2011-12-12T10:30:00.000-06:00

Yes, it's that time of year. My training has commenced and I am at the whims of my coach. Some have described my mentor as a bit of an eccentric, but truth be told, that's what I was looking for when I went through the screening process last year. I was looking for that "out of the box" thinker. Little did I know that I'd see the world in all it's glory while living like a peasant during the Dark Ages. Perplexed by his decision making I plowed forward. I spent long nights in a run down cabin somewhere in the backwoods of I don't remember where. I was even forced to journey across the antarctic seas on a raft. What did any of this have to do with cycling you ask? I still don't know, but I do know that I'm tougher for it. I can also slow my body down to that of a hibernating skunk.

Recently I was contacted by "him" (coach) via courier, actually it was a pigeon with a note tied to it's ankle. I was instructed to get to Rio De Janeiro "NOW". This seemed odd and ill timed. I mean I had just completed a pleasant ride with fellow DBD'er Kershaw and was rejoicing at my fantasy football teams' success. Nonetheless, I know the value of his tutelage, so I kissed my wife and the cats good bye, simply stating, "It's time." I grabbed my pre-packed bag, which I weaved out of reeds I gathered while living in a rice paddy somewhere in Vietnam last training season, and out the door I went. I heard a forelorned "meow" from the cat who loves me the most as I plodded down my street. One solitary tear rolled down my cheek, yet I felt nothing, just like "he" would want...nothing. He has taught me well. Now I enter the next phase. Year number two with "him".

I have no idea what Rio holds for me, but upon my arrival I noticed a peculiar scene. Whilst I enjoyed a Guarana another pigeon showed itself. "Is this the year of the pigeon for me?", I thought. Then, I noticed this one too had a small note tied to it's ankle. I summoned the bird, it obeyed, offering it's foot to me. The twine unraveled and the bird well into flight I unrolled the note. The scribe simple stated, "Bring ropes to Jesus".

Am I to be climbing Jesus (pronounced "Heysuus")? I'll report back when I can. Until then, think good things for me.

Eki

Is it because I CAN'T or because I WON'T?

2011-12-09T08:33:00.000-06:00

So, the first COLD day has hit Duluth. The rest have been chilly, but not cold. This morning it was straight up COLD. The temp. read 2, that's it, just 2. The guy on the news told me that there was a 10 to 15 mile an hour wind coming out of the west, which put the wind chill at about minus 15 - 20. Now, my coach, which is ME, has me commuting the long way today. The "long way" involves about 13 miles directly west, with about 13 more going back the way I came. I'm no mathematician, but a 15 mile an hour head wind combined with me traveling at about 14-16 mph puts the wind chill at about a million below.

My golden rule is that any temp below 5 degrees makes riding outside not worth it. I bailed and rode the short way into work and now I'm wrought with guilt. I feel weak. I'm contemplating selling all my gear, I'm not worthy of it. How do I overcome this? Help me...help me...

6 Degrees Away from a Really BAD Day

2011-11-28T09:41:00.000-06:00

In an ongoing effort to get Hondo all trained up for the Arrowhead 135 I am sometimes obligated to ride my bicycle in adverse conditions. This past Saturday would be one of those days. In an act of full disclosure I will even add that I left my partner a message on his fancy land line phone requesting that we postpone the effort for the following day's weather appeared to be much more favorable. In reality it was a test of the DBD code and Hondo passed. He ignored my message and showed up at the designated meeting place. The morning was dark, cold and a light mist was already laying heavy on our surroundings. Our initial salutations included stories of Hondo's short commute to the secret location. It seems that in a mere 4 miles he had one flat and an interview with a Police Officer. I shrugged off his stories as the lies of a simple man. He went on to mock my "rain gear", stating that he didn't need rain gear and that I looked like a highway worker. Humiliated, I suggested we commence with the training.

A volley of insults behind us we began to get to the business at hand. Our route had us entering the pristine lands of Wisconsin. Sands raft we were forced to travel across the formidable BONG bridge. A monstrosity of sorts, this engineering feat of mankind sits high above the St. Louis river and receives countless blows from the great Gitchie Gummee. We gave each other concerned glances as we rose from our saddles upon entering the pedestrian passage that would lead to Wisconsin. Soon we were forced into our drops as the hurricane winds and sleet battered us, threatening to pick us and our little pedal bikes up and over the side. Not one for heights I dared to steal a glance to the waters below, unsettling to say the least. I've looked Mother Nature in the eye before, but never high upon a man made structure exposed to winds that had hundreds of miles of unimpeded momentum behind them, a knot formed in my bowels.

Snaking our way through the industrial hamlet of Superior, Wisconsin we finally found our gravel. This corridor/snowmobile highway would serve as our "out and back". Immediately, Hondo elected to ride on the hard packed side of the path forcing me to toil in the loose sand. So goes the bonds of friendship formed in the light of the DBD.

The steady drizzle turned to a steady rain, which evolved into a hard driving weather "event". It seemed that the rain drops had some weight to them, as if they were turning that corner, wanting to become frozen b.b.'s.

Our return through Superior was concerning as things were now flat out stormy. I noted the performance of my new "mud flap" and how the water was pouring off it. I called out to Hondo, "check out my mud flap, do you wish you had fenders right now? Do you wish you had rain gear?". I only heard a faint muttering from behind me. "My God, he's got to be soaked to the bone by now, how is he doing this?" Passing by a bank a temperature reading notified us of our current state, 37 degrees. It was at this point that I turned to my training partner and flatly stated, "You're about 6 degrees away from a really bad day."

We went on to ponder the reality of our existence. 6 degrees Fahrenheit separated us from a very dangerous situation. Was this "living on the edge", was it "adventure", some would say it was "stupidity". We called it "FUN".

Hondo died a little on this day, but I'm pretty sure he's got enough life left in him for all of us.

Let's Face It, Winter's HERE!

2011-11-22T21:23:00.001-06:00

This project has been in my stand for too long, but I think it's finally where it needs to be, coming out of the stand. Winter is all over Duluth and I'm fighting off the blues that usually come with it. I plan to do plenty of snow boarding and I'm already workin' out in ways that don't have anything to do with the bike. Yes, I'M SORE!

In an effort to make my life easier I've decided to do some major "mods" to my winter commuter/long distance training bike. I threw a 39/16 on it, yet I'm not sure if it will stay, depends on how I'm handling Duluth's hills.

This year has not been the "year of the monkey" or the "year of the dog", or even the "cat", but for me it's been the "year of the wheel". I have had so many mishaps involving wheels this year that I should be covered for the rest of my life now. My boys from the Slender Fungus, Ari and Jay know what I'm talking about here. Anyway, this beater wheel pictured above is no different. Sadly, it's dying. It sounds like there are small pebbles inside the hub instead of bearings. If I get through this winter on this wheel I'm going to mount this sucker on my wall. I just hope it doesn't decide to go for the big dirt nap when I'm 80 miles from home and dealing with a zero degree day. Knock on wood for me please.

So, I'm going through a phase of being sick of stuff that's created for our winter by people who live in say, California. What I mean is why can't the fender people make a fender that is really a FENDER. I modified mine, big time. That's my car floor mat hanging behind my front wheel. The road gunk will not be on my drive train, I can assure you of that.

Check out the killer Wood Chippers. You can't really see the flare on these babies from this picture, but trust me it's there. I did a little mod to these too, trimming an inch off the ends, just to tidy them up a bit. Oh, and those are studs on that front tire, gotta have 'em!

This last shot is just a beefy SRAM single speed specific chain to get you thinking. Enjoy your winter commutes and do yourself a favor, modify your fender, because you know it really doesn't work like they say it will.

Soon, I'll be coming to you from a different location. I've been contacted by my personal trainer and he wants to get it going soon. I'm heading to my doctor to get my shots now.

Take care....

Eki's Super Mini Camp - Beer Included!

2011-11-09T17:15:00.000-06:00

Hey, next year I might throw this out as a scheduled mini camp and invite EVERYONE. The idea makes no sense, yet if you take a step back it makes all the sense in the world. Here's the concept...A one day, two session ride in the Chequamegon National Forest. Objectives include riding slow, drinking some beers (provided by ME), eating a huge lunch, then a couple more beers preferably in a gravel parking lot while examining the minutia of mountain bike rigs that are present, then ride slowly again. Oh, the most important objective, HAVE A BLAST!

Zach carves up some sweet single track.

The inaugural Eki Super Mini Camp was located in Cable, Wisconsin, the heart of some of the Midwest's premiere mountain bike trails. I was traveling and riding with my good buddy Zach and slated to meet Salsa design engineer, Tim Krueger. However, due to countless delays directly related to the "Zach Factor" we were put way off schedule and unable to meet up with Tornado Tim, despite about 25 failed attempts to contact each other via fancy cell phones.

The "Zach Factor" and we wait...

No worries! We would ride, have a few of the beers I mentioned, and ride some more. The day was perfect...cool, crisp, and bright blue. We were lovin' it! I vowed to document the day with photos, but proved to be an extreme amateur with action shots. Ultimately, I decided that I was wasting valuable riding time trying to get the perfect shot, not to mention risking life and limb riding tricky single track one handed, while taking pictures.

Lunch at the Seely "Sawmill"

The good moods flowed, so did the laughs. The Summit Brewing Company is directly responsible for poor decision making on my part as I entered a section of trail called "Wall Street" on the Rock Lake Trail (see Tim Krueger's account of this day as he rode on without us, as he just couldn't wait for our endless delays - I can't blame him). http://salsacycles.com/culture/one_fall_ride_tim/ Fueled by an Octoberfest blend I paused briefly to scan "Wall Street", quickly surmised, "No Problem" and dropped in. Lightly concerned that I was having a spot of trouble clipping in my left foot and an apparent boulder field was coming more and more into focus at the bottom of the gully. I surfed my hard sole cycling shoe around the pedal waiting for it to find it's home with the familiar SNAP, but it wouldn't come. "C'mon, c'mon, where are you?", I thought as I fished for the egg beater. "UH OH!", was the next thought when I completely lost the pedal and began the "rudder effect" with my left leg as it dragged behind me somehow attempting to help steer the bike. The seat was popping me in the throat while the rear wheel was buzzing my crotch - not good! Now, being this stretched out made it hard to reach my break levers, in fact I couldn't reach them at all. I began to accelerate into the boulders ahead. "This is going really poorly" I thought, then I saw my front wheel fall perfectly into a slot made for a 29'er and in one twisting, sickening motion I was flung from the bike and into the rocks. A nano- second of an image was burned into my brain, the sight of my front wheel folding up like a tin can.

Random ride and shoot pic.

I collected myself and the Spearfish, reversed the handle bars back to the direction they are supposed to face and pushed the machine up the other side of the gully. Apparently dazed from the fall I looked over the scene I just passed through and saw a hazy Zach running toward me yelling/asking if I was o.k., but in an echo type voice - so weird. Inexplicably, I removed the front wheel from my rig, raised it over my head, and slammed it down on the ground in a hard fast motion. The singing wallop rang through the hard woods and seemed to play on like a guitar player holding a note. I gave the wheel a spin and couldn't believe that it had boinged back into something that looked like a wheel. I put it back in the bike, looked at Zach and said, "Let's try to get out a here without this thing folding up". He simply replied, "I can't believe you did that".

Mmm, mmm, Good!

I limped out of the trail and back to the car with one super wobbly, sketched out wheel, that my favorite mechanic ended up pronouncing DEAD the next day - so sad (and spendy).

Nevertheless, it's all part of the risky game we play in the woods and if you can't laugh at it, you shouldn't be doin' it. We clinked a couple more bottles, changed clothes, dumped the gear in the car and enjoyed the setting sun.

Now, that's what I call a mini camp. See you next year???? You're invited.

Eki

WANTED: Fat Stacks for Fat Wheels

2011-11-04T19:02:00.001-05:00

WANTED

Fat Stacks

FOR
(so I can purchase)

Fat Wheels

This FRAME for sale

2010 Salsa Chili Con Crosso
(55 cm)

$500. (will negotiate)
email me: jupiterte@yahoo.com

The Dirt Bag Finishes off the Season: I Didn't Blow it Up, I Kinda Went Out with a Poof.

2011-10-30T15:01:00.000-05:00

Kershaw makes final preps while Eki's gravel grinder looks on.

My final race of the season, The Dirt Bag. Seems fitting after all I've gone through this year on a bike. A season race re-cap coming soon, complete with near drownings, crashes, vacations, and a whole lot of weeping (smiles too!).

Much like the closing miles of a race, the mind seems to let go allowing the body to succumb to the exhaustion and pain. My mind had let go and the fire that burned inside like a power plant was now an ember as I mentally shifted to winter riding, training, and a different look at the bike and what it can do for me. Somehow I'd have to "get up" for this one, but the sub freezing temps weren't helping the matter, neither was getting up at 4:30 a.m. Nevertheless, the DBD would be there. Kershaw picked me up, while Farrow traveled alone sorting out the details of his life (i.e. dog management).

A misfiring hub, a sore foot, and dead legs were on my mind. Not one for excuses, I shoved these issues to the back of my mind. I focused on my theory to gravel road racing and told myself that I owed it to myself to stay true to a strategy I hold fast in every event, the likes of which I cannot divulge here. Catch me in the bar and I'll tell you all about it, if you're interested.

Jim Bell, eh.... I mean Superman, exchanged pleasantries with me while we adjusted our gear. He question whether I'd be bringin' all I had in this race. I desperately tried to convey to him that I didn't want him to bring all he had, I knew it was not to be as this was his home town race. I let him know that I'd sit back if he would. He laughed and said that he doubted I'd be taking any bit of this thing easy. In my mind it felt like I was in an alley with rival gang asking them if they really wanted to fight and hearing them say "Yeah, don't you?" My only response, "Yeah, I guess so, but kind of not really, only if you want to...God, I'm going to be into it BIG TIME very shortly." Hey, racin' is racin'.

I'm going to hit the highlights of this race as the majority of it involved me riding down a gravel road and sometimes a tar road. At about the 5 mile mark Ted Loosen rode next to me and warned me of a huge sand pit that would be coming shortly. He also acknowledged my effort in this year's Heck of the North on the front of the race. He encouraged me to "sit in" on this day, I'd earned it. A classy guy, this Loosen fellow.

The sand pit came and carnage ensued. Guys were spilling all over the place. I went from 22 mph to 2 mph in about 2 seconds. Stuck in a 50 x 14 gear I couldn't shift as there was too much strain on my chain. I laughed to myself as I slowed to a track stand, just ridiculous. My good friend Ryan Horkey launched over his handle bars, another guy ate it right in front of me leaving me hoping he was o.k. It was nuts! Meanwhile, the St. Cloud boys ripped through it like they practice that section, maybe they do. Needless to say a monster gap formed and I had some work to do. Clear of the sand, I went to the drops and into the red zone. 15 minutes later and I was hooked on with the help of two others. Back in the lead group which was about 15-20 guys strong I felt comfortable, but knew there'd be more attacks, but when?

40 miles into an 85 mile road race...I mean gravel race and I noticed Jim Bell gathering his posse around him. Something was afoot. Suddenly, we hit a crazy wash board section of road. I could have sworn my bike was coming apart underneath me. Concerned that I'd lose a bottle over the rough road I kept checking and re-checking the bottle. Somehow the St. Cloud boys and a few others flew through the wash boards and a gap formed. This time they became highly organized. I could see them rotating fast and fluid about 40 meters ahead of me. I put my head down and went after them, but 10 men, some of them on carbon fiber road bikes, with road tires, and carbon wheels, all working together was tough to catch alone. Soon, I was caught by a fast moving Brandon Manske (winner of this year's Ragnarok). I jumped on his wheel and we began working well together. I felt the lead group coming back to us. Then, Brandon announced he had a flat. I was alone again. I chased as hard as I could for about 30 more minutes and counted the seconds between them and myself to see if I was gaining. 27 seconds, turned into 35, 35 turned into... It was too much for one guy. I decided I needed to sit up and ratchet things back or I'd be taking a break on the side of the road soon.

A lone rider appeared from behind and I began to think two is better than one. I held up for him and I was glad I did. He asked if I was lonely ridin' all by myself. We introduced ourselves and traveled side by side recovering from our respective chases. Matt (from St. Cloud) knew the boys up the road and he assured me they would not be caught, I agreed. I silently rooted for my buddy Ryan Horkey who did make the break. "Hang in there Ryan, you can do it!", I said to myself.

Time passed and it seemed that Matt and I were content to talk and almost forget that we were in a race until a group of riders appeared on a hill top behind us. I let my partner know that we had riders approaching. I heard them come to my wheel a few minutes later and noticed Hondo (Farrow) among them. He was driving hard and clearly still racing. Matt and I jumped on and the fire somehow was re-lit. My dead legs came back to life as I seemed inspired by this group's intensity. Jeremy Fry, a friend from Trans Iowa gave me a "Hi Eki" as he rotated through. "This is a good group", I thought as I committed to sticking with them and at times helping them. I knew I'd finish in this chasing group.

1 1/2 miles from the finish, a twitchy Jeremy Fry attacked and got a nice gap. Concerned that this gap could stick I decided to go with him. If anything I figured it would be worth it to try to put a little sting into the rest of the guys' legs. We were soon gathered by the rest and together again. We rolled through the residential streets unfamiliar with where the finish was or how it would look. I told myself that I would attack the group with 2 blocks to go, but I still needed to identify a right hand turn that was ahead somewhere. I didn't want to be at max effort and miss the turn. As I tried to work it all out in my head one of our crew announced that the turn was right there. "Shit!", I wasn't ready for it that quickly. Another in our group had the inside line on the turn and he jumped it quickly. I responded going around a few others giving chase. Surprise, the closing 500 feet were up a steep hill and definitely had me stuck in too hard of a gear. Unable to turn the cranks over at the rate they needed to be I could not overtake him, finishing a bike length behind, 2nd in our group.

As it turns out Ryan who I was pulling for earlier was popped off the front group not long after I initially lost contact. He was forced to ride alone for some 35 miles to the finish, but did not allow himself to be caught, finishing about a minute ahead of my group in 10th place! I came in 12th position, in 4:33, which is clippin' along pretty good for a gravel race. I'll take it!

I'm glad to start the season of rest, fun riding with no immediate goals, then training for big things next season.

I'm About to be a Dirt Bag

2011-10-28T09:15:00.000-05:00

One more race to go! Funny how it always comes back to the gravel. I start the season on the gravel, I end the season on the gravel. Wait! I'm a mountain biker, right? Is it o.k. to be a gravel grinder and a mountain biker? Can I have a split personality? I guess so. Hell, so many race a lot more disciplines than I do and they do just fine. Maybe the question is can I love both the gravel and the trail equally or do I proclaim my true love for just one? Ohhh, if the bikes could talk. For now, I'll just take it as it is and sort it out in the off season. To sum it all up, mountain biking plasters a smile on my face, while racing on the gravel wakes up a demon inside of me. That's good...right?

Check out the Dirt Bag if you get a chance, should be fun.

Thoughts of a Broken Man - A letter to a friend...

2011-10-17T10:34:00.000-05:00

Dearest Farrow,

Here are are a few of the things that went through my head that I didn't say to you while on our latest ride:

-Seriously, what is with this guy? Is the whole ride going to be like this? (referencing the pace).

-Would it be possible to just, maybe back off the pace a bit?

-I have fallen way out of shape.

-My foot is killing me. Can Buff help me with this, or will he just laugh?

-Do I ask for a morsel of food or will he perceive that as weak? I'm bonking hard core!

-There's no doubt in my mind that I am going to have to get off and push. Try to limit the embarrassment, come up with a reason. (Climbing old Piedmont toward my house).

-My God, he still has like 8 miles to go to get to his house. I don't think I could do it, so glad I'm almost home.

-How many people will he tell that he had to buy me a salted nut roll in order to get me home?

-Should I bring up how many miles I've raced this year? No, that's so lame. Don't make excuses for why you suck so bad.

Oh, the shame...

Exclusive Interview with Jeremy Kershaw - Director of "The Heck of the North"

2011-10-11T11:45:00.000-05:00

The "Heck of the North" is quickly rising to the ranks of a premiere gravel road race event in the Midwest. I recently was in touch with my good friend, training partner, and director of the event for a glimpse into what makes the "Heck" so special. I know the race wiggled it's way into my psyche and definitely broke me down to my most animalistic form as I scratched and clawed my way toward the finish.

Please take a moment for a sneak peek into what makes this race so great, from the best seat in the house.

Is it possible to be a director and fan at your own race? In other words, do you find yourself getting caught up in the action or are you completely neutral?

No, I am completely caught up in who is out front, who is making their first go at a gravel century, who has had bad luck. Part of the reason I borrowed a scooter this year was to witness the ride as it was happening...not just checking people in at the halfway and finish line. Seeing all the riders lined up in the parking lot before the start and then seeing the lead pack out on the course are two visual highlights of my year.

Has the "Heck" materialized into the vision you originally had?

Every one of the gravel events that I have ridden has unique feel. I was awe struck by the bluffs of the Ragnarok, and the wind-swept views of the Almanzo. I wanted to showcase the beautiful countryside of the Duluth area. I wanted riders to see the Big Lake, the woods and the pastures carved out of the wild. My intention of the Heck was to put a course together that created a lasting effect on the rider. I want the person who witnesses the route to think about it on their way home to where ever they live. So, yes, I think people seem to like the event, and that gives me a lot of pleasure.

What do you find to be the most satisfying part of being the race director?

I feel a tremendous amount of responsibility for the riders. I really enjoy meeting riders the night before during registration. Again, on the morning of the event, it is almost like Christmas seeing the parking lot fill up with cars and bikes and riders getting ready to roll out. I find it both odd and lucky that I was able to create an event (with the inspiration of other events) that has drawn so many wonderful people together. That is very satisfying.

If you could have one wish come true that would make the "Heck" even better, what would it be?

Actually, I would really like to see an increase in the number of female riders. I know there are some very talented female athletes in the Midwest, and I would love to draw them into this beautiful sport. Sometimes I think it would be cool to have a pro level rider do it...and then I think that might actually take something away. The great stories come from non-racing folks just trying to make it around the loop in one piece.

I know you're a strong athlete in your own right. Do you ever think about competing in your own race?

I think the first year I contemplated doing it. Then, as the start date drew near, I realized there was no way I could, or even wanted to ride it. I have plenty of other opportunities to test myself throughout the year. Riding the Heck would take away from the big picture that I so enjoy getting by spectating and managing it.

Were you surprised by the depth of talent at this year's race?

Yes. All of a sudden I had some of the regions most talented athletes wanting to ride the Heck. It made me feel proud that they wanted to take part in this thing that is very different than a lot of the other events they do. At the same time, I never want to take away from the majority of riders who are not racing any one other than themselves.

When do you actually exhale or can't you?

My anxiety level drops a hair after I get the riders out of the lot and onto the gravel. From there, they are on their own. I have now a fairly high level of trust in my cue sheets, so I am pretty confident that if a rider is paying attention, they won't get lost. By the time I finally get to Buffington's, finish my first home brew, and take in the stories of the day...that is when I feel like I can get a good night's rest again.

Let's face it, you're an excellent photographer. You captured some killer images during and at the conclusion of this year's Trans Iowa. Do you ever wish you could take off your director's hat and just shoot the event?

Thanks! It is something that I am actively trying to do...capture images from these very dramatic cycling events. This year, my intention was to shoot much more than I did. But alas, my borrowed two-wheeled transportation didn't have a very good day! We DNF''d. I am hoping to shoot the Heck more next year. As I have mentioned, it is tough to have both mindsets going at one time...part making sure the event flows OK and part trying to keep a creative eye, looking for good light. I love cycling photography and I see an untapped source of images living within these long, gravel events. My hope is to capture a few from both the perspective of participant and spectator.

Some people talk about that "extra something" that is found in special races. It seemed to me that there was a lot of talk at the post race party indicating that the "Heck" has it. If so, what do you think it is about the race that gets inside people.

I'm not entirely sure. If the Heck does get so lucky to inspire riders and leave a mark...it may come from a mix of the country they are riding through, the uncluttered, unsanctioned framework of the event itself. Maybe it is because the Heck is purely about the love of cycling and competition. Nothing more. I truly think it is a great group of people that get together for the Heck. I sense that it is competitive but somehow manages to stay friendly. I never want to lose that feeling for those that ride it.

"Heck of the North", 4 words. Can you describe the race in 4 words?

Simple. Organic. Challenging. Sustainable. I hate questions like that! I sound like a Whole Foods ad. But that's pretty close.

There you have it. We'll see you next year Jeremy. Thanks for giving us this gift.

The 'Heck of the North' Finds Herself - Wins Hearts

2011-10-02T19:33:00.001-05:00

Jeremy Kershaw sends out final instructions

It's been my experience that the great gravel road races seem to have a feel all their own. The Trans Iowa has it's haunting mystery, The Dirty Kanza, it's breath taking views, and the Ragnarok's stunning bluffs. These are just a few examples of how races become known for something that their director's never really set out to establish. The young "Heck of the North" would be no different. Just in it's infancy, the "Heck" as it is known struggled to find it's own identity. Jeremy Kershaw, the race director (DBD member) neverously tweaked the details of the race almost as if he was looking for that certain something, yet not sure what it was. I often wondered what Kershaw wanted the "Heck" to be, as he seemed to force feed his young child. I was just a competitor in his game so I vowed to roll with whatever direction he pushed his young upstart. Maybe some where deep down I knew that it wouldn't be Kershaw who found the "Heck's" identity, but rather the race itself. Year number three for the race would do just that. Like a small child who's personality begins to shine through the race began to squirm out of it's cocoon and leave it's mark on all who would toe the line as well as spectate. It is my hope to convey the emerging personality of the "Heck" in the words that follow. The race as experienced through the eyes of one of it's competitors, who was truly touched by it's big warm embrace.

A snappingly crisp morning had all the riders confused by what to wear as temps were expected to sore from 31-61 degrees F throughout the day. I wanted/needed to go light in order to stay competitive with the likes of this field. Some of the best gravel riders, mountain bikers, and road riders in the state of Minnesota would be attending this race. The field was extremely deep, with what a fellow DBD member, Charlie Farrow, claimed could be any one of twenty who were capable of winning this thing. To say that I needed every advantage was an under statement. I resigned to start the race cold and accepted that I'd finish hot. So goes fall racing in northern Minnesota. 112 riders left a little known parking lot that marks the start of the North Shore snow mobile trail at about 8:10 a.m. with Kershaw buzzing ahead on a super cool little moter scooter. I coughed up his exhaust as I stayed at the front end of the field, too nervous to even settle back into the pack during the roll out. Eventually, Kershaw pulled off and set us free. He glanced in my direction with a look that he might have if he was sending his daugher out to her first day of school, or was he telling me to be good to her, meaning the "Heck" (his baby). Maybe he was looking my way to let me know that he was pulling for me. All these thoughts ran through my mind as I inched up to the pointy end of the race. A simple email the day before the race from him let me know what he couldn't let every one know, he was rooting for me. It meant a lot and I wanted him to be proud. The "Heck" was in my hands now and I wanted to take good care of her for him. She was also in the capable hands of two other DBD'ers, Big Buff and Charlie Farrow. Big Buff had let me know that he'd shelter me under his big draft and watch out for me at the front of the field, keeping me safe from harm. Farrow too acknowledged that we were all in this thing together, but Charlie was aware that he posessed late season horse power that he wanted to test. I knew he had it as did Big Buff, I'd be content to ride in their shadow for as long as I could.

Joe Meiser and Tim Ek ready to start.

I had the pleasure of hosting fellow Salsa teammate, Joe Meiser at my house the night before. Joe needed a place to stay and our door is always open for him. Joe and I hit it off the first time we met on the dusty gravel of 2009 Trans Iowa. Ever since that day the two of us seem to come together like magnets in races. I'm not sure why, but it seems clear that we understand how each other thinks when were on those bikes. Our like mindedness has proven itself time and time again, this day would be no different. As the race unfolded Joe and I began to do our best to control it the best that we could. Knowing glances, anticipated surges, and fast rotations would become the name of our game as we would attempt to "one, two" our competitors with jab after jab. However, like a heavy weight fighter, they just wouldn't succomb. We'd fight on and on...

I used to wonder if the "Heck" struggled to find her legs, because she was so flat. The terrain didn't seem to dictate the physcial well being of the racers. Large groups of racers could stick together for huge lengths of time which often frustrated the front runners. In other words, it was a course where attacks resulted in little damage other than spent energy from the front of the field. This factor changes the approach of the riders who are trying to control the race, as experience has taught them that the beauty of the draft will allow many a rider to stay in the "hunt". Therefore, the only way to blow up the field is in the trail sections. There are three off road sections in the race. Veterans of the "Heck" know that this is where things will and must go sky high if there is any hope to seperate the group and create a fast moving break away.

Please don't think for a second that there weren't attempts to shatter the hugh peloton that rolled through the country roads north of Duluth. At one point I was riding comfortably in about 4th position when I felt the presence of a fast moving rider approaching on my left. A small little double whistle only audible to me came to my ear. I knew it was Joe and he was telling me to get out of line and grab his wheel. Immediately, I peeled out of the pace line and jumped on his wheel. My heart rate sky rocketed as he and I moved into a fast rotation followed by two other riders. A tiny gap began to form, but not for long as the peloton simply strung out into single file and reeled us back in. I knew it had to happen in the trail, it just had to.

L-R: Joe Meiser, Tim Ek, Jason Buffington (Big Buff) make final preps.

The "Brimson Connector" as it is known to the locals was the first trail. It is notorious for holding a huge swamp about a quarter of the way through, but after the swamp it's pretty smooth mountain bike riding from there to the next piece of gravel. I knew exactly where the hidden little entrance to the trail was and got into it in 1st position. Soon a very skilled Shawn Miller blew past me followed by Meiser. My extra inflated tires skipped and bounced over the rocks as I barely held onto control. I felt something large hit my leg, only to notice a much valued water bottle being ejected from the cage. I couldn't worry about being down a bottle at that moment, but it was a large concern as I only had just enough for 100 miles, now I'd be short 25 oz. The effort had me dizzy as I struggled to keep Shawn and Joe in my sights. Then, suddenly Shawn jumped head long into the swamp while carrying his bike with Joe right behind him. Shawn seemed to hiccup a bit as the mud grabbed him, but he was through it quickly and mounting back up. I jumped in without hesitation, my bike in my right hand and the front wheel slamming into Joe's back as he struggled to remove his left leg from the swamp's grasp. I too was in it's icy grip. Two men in Salsa kits struggled to not be swallowed whole by the Brimson swamp. We were up to our crotches in the stinky black bog. I recall curlying my toes in an effort to not lose my shoe as I reclaimed my leg. After what seemed like minutes, but was most likely 10 seconds we were clipping in and on our way. "GO EKI!!" from behind me. It was Farrow he was still behind me and right on my wheel. I felt inspired knowing my training partner was still with me. Unfortunately, Big Buff went down with a flat at about the 15 mile mark, it was just Charlie and I left of the DBD'ers. We cleaned the section in about 5th and 6th position, perfect! We were both up into our big rings and moving quickly in an attempt to become part of the break away. Suddenly, and without warning I spotted a huge pot hole that showed itself under the bike in front of me. Quickly, I lifted my machine and cleared the hole through mid air. In an instant I heard the clash of chain on stays and the hard hit of a rim bottoming out. The blast of a tube was deafening as air blew from the maimed tire. "Who was it?", I thought, "Not Charlie!". I asked the rider near me what happened, "Farrow flatted" was all he said. I felt Charlie say to me, "It's in your hands now Eki". I felt bad, because he was riding so strong and right up at the business end of the race. He would have had the result he wanted, I'm sure of it. I told the rider next to me that I was the last man standing. I'm not sure who this rider was, but he knew of the DBD. He simply said, "Yeah, there's only one of you now". The coldness of the remark inspired me. I rode straight to the Salsa jersey in front of me. Joe and I would now stay on the front as much as possible in an attempt to stay out of danger and control the pace if we could. There were other staples at the front as well. Shawn Miller, Rhett Bonner, Jim Bell (the strongest rider in the field without question), Matt Ryan, and a few others would most certainly rotate in. There were two more trail sections, which meant two more sky high efforts ahead. I began to wonder how many times I could go that hard.

The second and longest trail went off without incident. It was long steady slog at maximum effort, but I was able to keep Joe in my sights while he lead the train through the trail. It seemed I was comfortably going as hard as I possibly could, if that makes any kind of sense. Shortly after this trail the strong Jim Bell went to the front and began to lift the pace, but something was amiss. I didn't want to chase his wheel and neither did any one else. So, there we all sat watching him ride away. A few riders flatly stated, "let him go", "I'm not chasing him anymore", I even chimed in, "I can't chase him, it takes too much energy". We were all racing for 2nd now as he disappeared from our sight. However, it was still early, we had just crossed the halfway check point. If he could hold that solo break away to the end, then he most certainly deserved the win, but there'd be a head wind and he had no help. He was "all in".

Tim Ek tops out the Pleasant View climb.

The dolldrums of the race snuck up on me and I began to feel extremely tired. A glance at my gps had me at 65 miles in. I reviewed how much time I had spent at the front and I was mad at myself for doing it. I wondered if I'd be able to survive the attacks that I knew were coming. I went to the back of the group to eat and collect my thoughts. The always strong Ross Fraboni joined me. He was nursing an earlier injury and wasn't expecting much from his day and had resolved to hold on for as long as he could. He commented about my efforts at the front and offered me his extra bottle knowing I was short. I thanked him, but shook off his offer as Joe had already forfeited one to me. I continued to wallow at the back of the twenty man pack as we rolled over my favorite training road, the Fox Farm. I thought back to days of laughing and riding along through this stretch with Big Buff and Hondo (Charlie), but it sure didn't feel that way this time. I needed to recover, and fast!

If a guy holds any chance to win the race he MUST get through the Moose Mile in a top position and unscathed. The Moose Mile is the final off road section and the roughest. There are a lot of long sections where the rider is forced to carry the bike and run. The riding is picky and tricky. Hidden rocks and roots had talented racers rolling in the bushes every 10 feet. Meiser and I moved through in 1st and 2nd position, with one of the best mt. bikers I know, Todd McFadden on my wheel in 3rd. A couple twisted ankles, slips and falls later and we were clear of the trail and starting our descent toward Lake Superior. I was still in the front and the group was being chiseled down. The "Mile" had torn a handful of riders out of the group, there were now 13 of us begining the Lester Park Rd descent, a four mile drop to the big lake. Earlier strategizing had told me that if I was still in the lead group at this point that I had an honest chance at winning the thing. I was there and I would implement my plan.

Completely done in!

I expected attacks on this stretch, but none came. In fact, the group had a hard time organizing and my sense was that the guys were pretty tired, I knew I was. I was beat! Under 10 miles to go in this race with the last 4 being uphill had me wondering about this full water bottle of Joe's that I was carrying. I wouldn't need it, so I began to spray it out on the road. "NO EKI!", McFadden yelled. Then came one of the coolest moments of the day. I held the bottle in the air as Todd rode to me. He took it from me, proceeded to take a long pull, then pass it on. Our little band of 13 all got a sip from that bottle before it was empty, our last act of compassion toward each other. The battle was about to begin.

Joe Meiser shortly after finishing.

I attacked hard and fast on a down hill section gaining about 200 yards on the rest of the boys. A glance over my shoulder showed me that they weren't interested. "Holy crap, are they letting me go?!". I figured if I could get to the bottom of 7 Bridges Rd. alone, then maybe there'd be a chance I could sneak up that big climb alone and in for the win. The group decided that the entertainment of watching me ride alone in front was over and they reeled me in without concern. Humbled, I continued to stay at the front for the long climb. I lead the group up and into the Amity Trail. Amity is the equivalent of a good conditioned two track. No real technical skills are needed here, but you are riding in the woods. The final sections of the race consisted of Amity, a 1/2 mile tar section, then the headwall climb of Pleasant View Rd. to the finish. My dream of glory would have to happen here. About a 1/4 of the way through the trail I attacked forcing a split in the group. Joe Meiser, Matt Ryan, Todd McFadden, and Ted Loosen came with me leaving other strong riders to make up the chase group. McFadden grabbed my wheel and instantly attacked me back. Loosen, Ryan, and Meiser went with him, I didn't. I had nothing left to give. I was riding at maximum effort and I desperately tried for more, but it wouldn't come. I was stuck between groups and running scared. Nothing seemed to change and time moved in slow motion as I approached the Pleasant View climb. The proportions of this hill are such that getting off and pushing the bike is a reality. However, I held my spot, struggling up the pitch and rolled in for 5th place overall, with my good friend Joe in front of me for 4th. Fellow Duluthian Todd McFadden finished 2nd giving every thing he had to chase down a fast climbing Ted Loosen. Also from Duluth, Shawn Miller came in after me (6th) impressing me with his effort throughout the entire day as did Matt Ryan (3rd).

Joe and Tim go 4th and 5th.

My training buddies Big Buff and Hondo, never gave up the fight, but their's was of a different nature. They battled mechanicals and wind, alone to their own thoughts and devices. Sometimes that fight is the worst of them all.

3 of the 4 Duluth DBD'ers at Big Buff's post race party.
L-R: Tim Ek, Jeremy Kershaw, Jason Buffington

The finish line parking lot was buzzing with excitement from riders and their families. I took it all in and realized that the "Heck of the North" was on the gravel racing map with a personality all it's own. What that personality is? You'll have to come up and ride the race to find out. When you're done, you'll know.

Thanks Jeremy, thanks.

Eki

Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 - Jorge and I Go It Alone

2011-09-19T13:12:00.001-05:00

Topping out the Fire Tower climb.
Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival 40 (Photo - Skinnyski)

Another Chequamegon 40 is in the books and the long and short of it is this. The race is flat out fast!! Some would say this is a road race on mountain bikes, it pretty much is. There is no single track, a lot of dirt road sections, open 4 wheeler type roads, and grassy cross country ski trails with a little ribbon of hard packed trail in the middle. To say that I long for a preferred start in this race is an under statement. To have a preferred start is like being handed a golden ticket to a fast finish. The opportunities that starting up front gives a rider in this race are of great value. Yet, to earn this coveted advantage one must have a phenomenal performance from the back of the field in order to even be considered by the committee for the following year, that is if you even get into the race via the lottery system.

So, with all that stuff being said about the preferred start I started in the back - way back. I vowed to pin the start as hard as I could in order to climb up into the leading groups, but this is much easier said than done. There are approximately 1,900 riders in this race and weaving in and out of riders in order to get as close to the front 100 as possible is very difficult and sucks up a lot of energy. In fact, I glanced down at my gps at 57 minutes into the race and I had not ridden in the "hard" part of the trail once. I was forced to ride in the soft grass of the ski trail attempting to pass slower riders. I told myself, "if it doesn't kill you, it will make you stronger". After all, I only have one way to earn the preferred start and that's to just bear down and make it happen. I wanted to jump into fast moving groups hoping for some respite in their draft, but only found a few minutes of comfort before I felt it necessary to push on from the group and go it alone. This pattern repeated itself over and over and I found the miles ticking by.

"Going it alone" became the theme of the day. I was always surrounded by riders, but felt no kinship to them as established groups were hard to come by. However, I wasn't completely alone. I had set my gps to race the little man who lives inside that I've named Jorge. Jorge has made an appearance on my blog before and now he's back. Jorge was set to race a 2:30 Chequamegon and it was my job to beat him. I became consumed with racing Jorge. He's a fast little guy and the hills just don't seem to bother him. He goes the same speed all the time. We yo-yo'd back and forth the whole day, but I never let him get too far ahead.

Finally, with 4 miles to go I noticed that my portion of the gps that represents me was black. Black meant I was behind Jorge. Not good! I squinted hard at the fine print to find that he was .2 miles ahead of me. Not to worry, I had a couple miles of downhill gravel in front of me and I was hitting 30 mph, reeling him in fast. Damn, the last two miles of the course consisted of huge rollers, which he handles really well. We came to the final climb neck and neck, but I slowed on the hill while Jorge launched up it at 16.5 mph. I nailed the descent into the finish area as hard as I could, but he beat me by 513 feet!

It was all good though, because the course distance on my gps came to be a bit short of 40 miles, so I did beat my time of 2:30, with a 2:28:04, good enough for 118th place. I really wanted top 100 and a time better than 2:30. Maybe I could have had both if I would have had the preferred start...maybe?

The Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival is a class act and a race I just keep coming back for. Next year I'll sleep at the starting line in order to line up close to the front - just kidding.

The Dakota Five-O Brings It All Into Focus

2011-09-06T18:33:00.008-05:00

All business and ready to start.

Sometimes a moment or an experience crystallizes for you in a way that seems to get into your very soul. It's these moments that tend to make you feel alive and get you coming back for more. It just feels so right that it can't be denied. That's when interest usually crosses over to passion. At least I think so. As a teenager I chased these moments and found them as I swung through a fastball, connecting in the "sweet spot" of the bat and watching the baseball rise as it went over the short stop's head. I remember not even feeling the ball hit the bat, it was something I couldn't describe, but I knew I had to have that feeling again. These moments come in many different ways, sometimes in an instant, other times in long drawn out experiences that cause you to just give up trying to understand it, simply letting it take you away.

The Dakota Five-O in Spearfish, South Dakota was slated as one of my priority races for the year. The race was strategically placed at the end of a ten day vacation in the Black Hills with my wife, Amy. I'd do this race at the end of the trip which is often a gamble, because vacations can take it outta ya, if you know what I mean. What are ya gonna do? Things can't always be perfectly designed around my racing desires. Plus, sometimes the best performances happen when you're back is already against the wall. This is what I kept telling myself as I laid in a partially collapsed tent (tent pole broke) in 32 degrees, with distant dog barking going on for the entire night before the race. We were camped in Custer State Park, which was about an hour and forty minutes south of Spearfish. My plan was to get up super early, tear down the remaining camp from vacation and motor up to Spearfish with plenty of time to "kit up", do the race, and head for home.

2:30 a.m., Amy starts unzipping the tent. "What are you doing?", I ask. She responds with a frustrated, "I'm freezing, I'm going to sleep in the car". I couldn't blame her, I was cold too. But the barking dogs, my God the dogs. Where were the owners? Is this what they do in South Dakota? Do they just leave their dogs alone to bark and annoy campers? 3:30 a.m., I snap! I can't take it anymore. I bolt upright and go on a mission to tear down the tent, get the rest of the gear into the car. We're going to Spearfish NOW!

That's me in the green kit, constantly checking and re-checking.

Continually slapping myself in the face to stay awake, I drove us to Deadwood, South Dakota, then on to Spearfish wondering how the hell I'm going to ride 50 miles of mountainous single track and make it seem like I'm actually racing. I kept thinking about my back being against a wall and how that might somehow be a good thing.

Pulling into the venue I quickly notice that it was remarkably easy to find a place to park, things are calm, things are organized. Somehow I'm not very stressed at all. I tell Amy that my plan is to try to control my efforts in the start as I'd heard it was uphill for something like the first 10 miles, then I'd settle into a rhythm, but ride hard through the whole event. My nerves settled even more as I lined up next to fellow Trans Iowa veteran, and former teammate, Matt Gersib. He'd done the Five-O last year and commented on how well he thought my set up for the race looked ... right bike, right tires. I felt a deep breath leave my lungs as I heard those words. I wanted to do well and the equipment really does matter just as much as the guy on top of it.

The race ebbed and flowed as a race should. I felt pretty good at times, other times I felt like I should just ride off the 1,000 foot canyon that I was next to. Most importantly, I told myself to be in the moment, to try to capture and appreciate that feeling I was having. It was the same feeling I had when everything went silent and the ball rose over the short stop's head. I was "in it". My bike began to disappear under me, it no longer chattered over the bumps, it seemed to shift itself, it responded to what I was thinking, an extension of me. I became conscious of things I would normally never notice, the sharper than usual rocks, the flit of a bird crossing my path, the dust still hanging in the air from the rider who just rounded the corner in front of me. The moment extended itself into hours. The beauty of it all snapped into a focus that doesn't come around very often. I was aware of it and I embraced it.

I lead Matt Gersib up the final major climb of the day as I had emerged as the climber of the two, while he left me on the descents as if he was being pulled down the hills by a force I couldn't tap into. You see, Matt and I had matched up pretty evenly on the trail and found ourselves quietly and politely trading places throughout the race until it became apparent that we were no longer racing each other, but feeding off of one another. As I topped out on that final climb I felt myself pulling both brakes and unclipping a foot as I pulled off the trail and let Matt pass. I watched him disappear down the trail in front of me, only catching glimpses of him and the haze of dust from his wheels. It was his time to fly and it only seemed right to let him go.

The Dakota Five-O gave me a chance to grab the moment and I was lucky enough to hold it for over four hours.

You can see the miles on my face. I think you can see the happy too.

Ashort email to some of my training buddies lets you in on the more techy aspects of the race if you're interested. Here goes:

DBD MEN,

The Dakota 50 is by far the best mt. bike race I've ever done!! No question. So perfectly organized and planned. I lined up behind the pros right up front with the hope to finish in the top 100 of a nationally represented field of talented riders. I had heard the first 10 miles were all up hill, so I worried about gauging my effort, but hoped to exploit what little climbing skills I might possess. To my amazement I ended up in the first chase group behind the pros. I felt nervous, but fairly smooth when we hit the single track. I found myself tucked in with Matt Gersib from Trans Iowa. He proved to be a super good mt. bike rider. I thought I was a decent descender, but Matt was putting on a clinic, literally pulling away from me on the d-hills, then I'd reel him back on the climbs and flats. Finally, while crossing a huge meadow I found my opportunity and attacked Matt and my small group. I got a substantial gap and was big ringing across the meadow while cows looked on. I hit a climb on the other side alone and tried to drop to my granny gear only to get a nasty case of chain suck. I had to dismount to deal with it and my earlier efforts were erased. I resigned to fore go the use of the granny for the rest of the race (a huge decision and one that would later hurt me as the climbing was super steep and I burned a lot of matches middle ringing them).

I stayed on top of the machine as hard as I could focusing on my weakest section, the middle of the race. I tried to ride especially hard around the twenty mile mark as I knew I'd want to slack off here. Then, I heard a volunteer tell the guy in front of me that he was 26th overall. "Holy Shit!", I thought, "I'm in the top 30 of the Dakota Five O". I stayed on the throttle and suffered through the relentless mountain climbs. I also found that I was a little fish in a big pond of talented riders. These guys could absolutely RIP single track and I was doing everything I could to stay among them, including taking huge risks in corners and down hill sections. But, I was doing it! I was actually staying with them. I blew through all the aid stations focusing on not losing any time. The crowds in the aid stations were amazing. They swarmed us as we went through, screaming in our faces and banging cow bells, it was truly awesome! I felt like a big time racer going through those stations.

Through all the single track and big descents I found I was losing my rear break and hitting the grip with the lever. This was hurting my descending confidence through high speed d-hills that lasted upwards of 3 minutes at times. Nevertheless, I pushed the envelope. I eventually came to what I determined to be about a 7 mile descent toward the gravel. This section was amazingly fast and flowy. I kept telling myself not to hit a tree. I passed the last photographer and saw the gravel, 3 miles to the finish and a rider ahead in my sight. I put my chin on the bars and geared the bike out hitting 36 mph going down the gravel slopes. The change in body position started to tweak my right hamstring a bit and as soon as I had the guy in front about 20 feet away, the leg locked up. It hurt so bad and I couldn't pedal at all. While I coasted and hoped it would subside as I was getting reeled up by two fast approaching riders. I forced through the cramp pedaling at about 60% effort and eventually got passed by the two behind me. I finished in 4:23, 23rd overall and 6th in age class. I got paid to ride my bike on this day, enough to buy Amy and I a nice dinner in Rapid City and tuck a little away in my wallet.

Thanks for listening.

Hugs,

Eki

It might be the "old guy's" division, but there were over 130 of them
and some of them could FLY!

South Dakota Bound!

2011-08-25T19:31:00.000-05:00

Alas, off to South Dakota and the Dakota Five-O, not to mention some sweet riding all over the freakin' place. We'll also be posing as total tourists, complete with tours of all the spectacles. Can't wait!

Spearfish, watch out I'm bringin' my Spearfish. Think positive thoughts for me on Sept. 4th. I'll be rippin' it the best that I can.

Eki

The Man Who Brought a Knife to a Gun Fight: Hondo's Story

2011-08-22T17:57:00.000-05:00

An excerpt from my new book:
After the pace subsided from Big Buff and my concerted efforts to erase him from our memory a question was raised from one of our esteemed guests. It went like this, "What about Charlie? (as the young man looked over his shoulder, seemingly searching for Farrow). I responded simply, "Charlie who?" The young lad gave me a puzzled look, while I rotated to the front for one more pull.

As some of you may remember, I ran several pieces a while back called, "Ridin' with Hondo". These installments described the exploits of the always exciting Hondo as I desperately tried to keep up with him not only on the bike, but in life as well. Well, those times, they have changed. As the sun sets on a career of bike riding and racing, Hondo now seeks every advantage available to him as he still rubs elbows with some gravel racers who know how to mix it up at the front. This past Sunday would be no different as Hondo showed up for the ride bright and early with a "secret weapon".

Talk of a long ride circulated the email addresses of the northern chapter DBD for almost a week. Arguments, disagreements, and the like were tossed around as a ride was finally settled on. The attractive component to this ride would be special guests invited by DBD member and 'Heck of the North' director, Jeremy Kershaw. Mike Dietzman, Shawn Miller, and Matt Ryan would flex their muscles on this hundred miler. These are top notch gravel grinders. When the talking subsides and the throw downs begin, these guys can really BRING IT!

Early morning joy!

This brings me to the focus of the story. When it comes to "bringin' it", Hondo has been suspected of everything from illegal root juice consumption to electric motors hidden in his bottom bracket. I noticed a peculiar ease at which Hondo rolled upon our small group. His machine seemed quieter and he seemed to be spinning his cranks in an almost effortless fashion. Then it struck me, he was running the unheard of roadie tire set. These things had to be about 10 mm wide with a slick surface that can only be found on NASCAR tires. Holding back rudeness, I politely inquired about his decision making, "Are you really going to run road tires on a 100 mile gravel day?". "These things are so fast! And, they're a lot lighter than those!! (pointing at my tire selection). As you may recall, put downs from Hondo are not uncommon and I've learned to roll with them as the general passing of the day usually proves my point, causing Hondo to either change his story or simply fabricate some unrelated truth, again making me feel inferior. Nevertheless, I muttered something about him changing flats later, he didn't hear me.

Men, moving through the rays.

Our group formed up, we shook hands and rolled out. I quietly wondered how long it would be before these men would begin to test the depth of the DBD. It seemed that as soon as the gravel began to pass under our tires the pace began to lift. Monitoring my effort I drifted back to Hondo, I barely paid attention as he pointed out how hard I was working compared to how effortlessly he was spinning. I wondered when he'd compare himself to Contador.

Getting comfortable on the gravel.

Deep into the northern reaches of Minnesota on some lonely gravel road I drifted to the back of the pack as I spied a long gradual descent. With the group easing off the pace for the time being I found it convenient to pay a call to Mother Nature while still rolling, a procedure which has taken considerable practice and "kit washing". Frustrated with the amount of time the process took I went to the drops in an effort to catch back on. Suddenly, just disappearing over the next rise, a solo rider. Noticing the "Wood Chipper" bars, I quickly discerned it was Hondo, he was having a spot of trouble. He wavered, then stopped. I did what would be expected of any DBD'er, I blew past him without a glance only to find the rest of the group pulling over for him. "This is odd, we usually don't do this", I thought, but given the fact that we had guests I figured I'd stop too. Kershaw, Buff, and I did the right thing and pulled over about a block past Hondo and watched from a distance as he floundered with his skinny little maimed tire. Flat #1 was in the books.

Just a little rest.

I asked Hondo if he expected any more delays once he was ready to roll. He assured me that things would be better now. The group pushed on for what seemed like, maybe ONE MINUTE before it happened, ANOTHER BLOW OUT!!! Hondo nervously giggled as he pulled over again. Now, embarrassed I quickly began talking to some of our guests about the gear choices and the attractiveness of their rigs. I reminded Hondo that the next abrupt sound I hear from him better be the report of his revolver. This gained a few chuckles from the group as I knew in their minds they were saying, "HERE, HERE, CAPITOL!" Hondo attempted to save face by pleading with us to push on. Upon hearing those words I quickly snapped a foot in and began to push off when I noticed I was alone. "Oh, they're waiting for him", I thought. I stopped and fumbled with my limited kit.

Finally, after a slow change and a great deal of assistance from Mike Dietzman we were under way. The group moved with a sense of urgency, almost as if there was a desperation to make up for lost time. I stayed near the front, while Hondo, eyes down, stayed on the back.

Then, without warning, Shawn Miller announced, "Charlie's off". Without a glance I moved to the front and lifted the pace. Big Buff followed suit and dropped in on my wheel. Together we knew what had to be done. It was and is the bond among DBD'ers, when words need not be spoken. Buff pulled through as I felt myself approaching 90% effort. Minutes passed until finally the young Shawn inquired, "What about Charlie?". "Charlie who?", was my response as I rotated back to the front. With an open view in front of me, blue sky and grey gravel, I strained my ears, wondering when the report of his revolver would come. I knew it would, it had to, yet nothing...

Waiting the mandatory block distance, while Hondo changes out flat #1.

The remaining group rolled into Duluth, this writer, Dietzman, and Miller (Big Buff nursed a slowly leaking tire home a little earlier than the rest, but with honor after a MONSTER pull through a trail section), all laughing, back slapping, and congratulating each other on a great effort. Hondo's name never came up...So sad...Yet, I feel nothing...

Salsa Two-Four and my Battle with Afton Alps

2011-08-14T10:38:00.000-05:00

The Salsa Two-Four venue. That hill in the back ground just keeps going up.

Last year the mountain that is Afton Alps nearly took my will to live as I fought my way through the 8 hour solo race, ultimately pulling the plug after 5 hours. I blamed it on my cut side wall, but deep down I wondered if I quit the race, because I knew I was slowly dying while doing it. I vowed I'd be back.

I did come back and I came back with a different bike, a different plan, and a different attitude. I'd climb the hills of Afton on my super light El Mariachi Ti, with the Spearfish sitting on the bike rack of the car wondering why she wasn't in the game. Don't worry ole girl your time is coming. With two bikes on hand and a mantra of "I will ride 8 hours on this course today" playing in my head, I was prepared for the long haul.

An early morning drive to the Twin Cities area bolstered by good coffee from my house and really crappy coffee from Tobie's (Hinkley, MN) and I was pulling into the daunting "Alps". Immediately, I sought out the Salsa boys, Eric Fredrickson, Bobby Dahlberg, and John Gaddo as they'd be holding court under the Salsa tents. They were kind enough to allow me to set up some of my stuff under their shelter as well as offer me any mechanical support I may need. These guys gave me the friendly support I needed, but deep down I hoped I wouldn't see them until we were crackin' open some suds together around 6:00 p.m., in other words, the end of the race.

My nerve center.

A short break down of the race goes something like this. We were forced to run up a ski hill for an uncomfortably long time carrying our front wheels. I thought this was some kind of sick joke, but Bobby informed me that, "No, she's not kidding", referring to Amanda (I hope I have her name right), the race director's instructions. So, there I stood in the back of the pack thinking about Kid Riemer's words last year, "Eki, No Pressure", waiting for the start when I noticed Stan's No Tubes solution leaking out of my valve stem. "Awesome!", I thought as I embarrassingly whipped my wheel up and down trying to get the sealant to do it's thing. I figured it would straighten itself out once I got going. I jogged up the hill after we were under way, then slowly got my front wheel on my bike, then I slowly blended in with the masses. I felt totally under control and happy to be riding without the max heart rate and the ricocheting off tree thing going on. My plan consisted of riding the first half of the race under control, letting the climbs come to me, then managing them, not attacking them. I promised myself I'd stay in the saddle for the first three laps and if I did rise from it, it would be for a short burst. The plan was working and I was conserving energy in a good way. However, the dreaded "man handler" climb was taking chunks out of me each time I went up it. This is a sun drenched climb that goes straight up a ski run from the bottom to the top. I timed the climb at 4 1/2 minutes. That may not seem like much, but we're talkin' granny gear slow going. It's steep! Oh, and the greatest part is at the top was a spectator with a bull horn who yelled things at you about how much you sucked. "Why don't you just quit?", "I've seen 12 year olds who can climb faster than you." "You're in last place, just give up". I couldn't figure it out. He was easy to ignore though, because it was taking all the concentration I had to keep turning the cranks over.

The laps went on an on and I firmed my dislike for lap style races, especially on ski hills. Nevertheless, I saw a lot of wild life and the scenery was beautiful. Over half way through the race I decided to focus on keeping my lap times within 5 minutes of my first lap and make this whole thing about managing MY race, not other people's. I was doing it, I was really "shooting a tight group" of lap times. In fact, I put a number of laps together that were landing on the same minute each time. Meanwhile, I was moving through the field of 8 hour solo riders without really knowing it. I never took a break and kept my pit stops under 30 seconds. Oh, and a special thanks to the nice woman who helped me with my bottles when I needed refills, as Amy was not available at the time. It was nice to know they (the bottles) were all topped off and waiting for me.

The policy for the end of the race was that if you finished a lap before 6 p.m. you were allowed to head out for another one. This is common in these types of races, but I prefer when you have to be done by a certain time as this gives you a concrete end to the race. So, as luck would have it, I finished a lap at 5:50 p.m.. I could have gone out for another, but at 1,500 feet of climbing per lap and 10 laps under my belt, I decided I was done. I met my goal of riding Afton Alps for 8 hours. I never stopped and I never let the "Alps" intimidate me. I finished 3rd overall, with 64 miles on the gps.

Me, after receiving my 3rd place award.

I rolled into "home base", told the boys I was done. They grabbed a chair for me, and I had a cold one in my hand. I'd say that's a good day on the bike. Next stop, South Dakota for the Dakota Five-O.

Back To The Beginning

2011-08-08T19:18:00.000-05:00

Great Hawk Chase - Photo Bob Hansen

Back in the olden days I discovered I loved riding a bike. It was in those days that I raced in the Minnesota Mountain Bike Series. I finished midpack, sometimes back of the pack in "Sport" class, but I loved it and I always wanted to get better. Eventually, I did get a little better and I decided to move to "Comp" class. It was during my bumbling and stumbling through Comp that I figured out that if a guy were to actually train at this, he could get better. I pursued a young stud named Ray Coyle all over the courses of Minnesota. Soon, I stood on the podium next to Ray, but never ahead of him. That was o.k., because it was Ray who told me one day after I chased him through my first 12 hour solo race that I should consider becoming more of an "endurance" type racer. "Hmm, I just might try it", I thought. I never looked back, until last Sunday.

Photo Courtesy of Bob Hansen

The Great Hawk Chase, part of the Minnesota Mountain Bike Series was held in beautiful Lester Park (Duluth, MN) this past weekend. With a lull in racing lately and the Salsa Two Four 8 hour solo not until next weekend I figured I'd take it back to my roots.

Done and thirsty.

Now, back in the day I did graduate up to "Expert" class, but this class now requires a license that costs in the neighborhood of $90 so I'd be racing "Comp". I also knew the race would feel short, only an hour and a half effort, but it would be full GAS from start to finish. Plus, it would be fun to mix it up with some of the old local boys as well as some of the new.

Funny, cause it didn't take long before I was fighting with everything I had, as if I were in the 12th hour and only separated from 1st place by a minute.

I ended the day with a pretty good finish and was happy to walk away with a tough all out effort. And, most importantly my Salsa Spearfish did everything I asked. Man, that bike can climb!!!

The COGGS boys know how to throw down a premium event and it was a blast! The Ski Hut really stepped up as well.

These guys are fast... I'll take it.

Photo Courtesy of Bob Hansen: L-R The author, Charlie Farrow, Mike Bushey (who doesn't realize how much he helped me fall in love with cycling).

Photo Courtesy of Bob Hansen
Relaxin with the boys - just like the old days.

This Time it's Not About the Race

2011-07-28T10:55:00.000-05:00

So, with the Salsa Two-Four looming large as well as the Dakota Five-O, I've decided that some regimented training might be in order. Therefore, I've hit the road so to speak. In other words, I'm pretending it's winter and knock'n out some pretty serious weekly hours (for me anyway). In order to get the appropriate amount of hours I'm back to my "long commute" to and from work each day. This "program" of sorts, requires an uncomfortably early morning for me, which I hate, but then soon LOVE once I'm under way. Sunrise in Duluth, MN is hard to beat. Seeing that big bright orb coming up over the lake is cool to say the least.

Then, I get to see all my "friends". Usually, they only become my "friends" when I'm on my 10th hour of a 12 hour race, but they've been visiting me so much lately, that they're now officially, well...you know.

It's been a surprise every morning. "Hmm, who am I gonna see today?" I'm alone so much on the bike that I might be going just a little crazy as I mentally run through the dialogue with them. O.k., sometimes I say my part out loud. Their part happens in my head. Me - "Hey guys, how's it goin' this morning? You don't have to run away, I'm not gonna hurt ya". Them - "Not scared, Tim, just tryin' to keep up with Mom."

The Red Fox and her Kits was one of my favorites. I think the last little guy crossing the road really wanted to stay and chat, but the "fam" just wasn't waitin'. Me - "See ya later, little guy". He tore across the road, full speed, looking over his shoulder at me while trying to catch up to his brother.

Then, there's the red squirrels. I know, no big deal, they're everywhere, but the way they rip across the road, then that extra big leap at the end to get into the weeds cracks me up every time.

Keep an eye out for your friends. You're never alone out there.

On a different note, I've had a lot of time out there lately to sort out my next adventure and it's a biggy. Just gettin' it all straight in my head right now. Announcement coming soon. Remember, if it makes ya nervous, it's gotta be worth it.

Even DBD'ers Feel Shame

2011-07-17T19:43:00.002-05:00

The perfect set up!

The Levis Trow 100 mile mountain bike race, one of the Wisconsin Endurance Mountain Bike Series' jewels was held this past weekend. But, this report isn't about racing, well ... kinda.

Let's just get into it. Amy and I headed off to Nellisville, Wi. for a weekend of camping and racing. She'd run and ride while I just ... rode. Big Buff was going to be there racing his new Lynskey Ti while I'd bring two horses to this event, the proven Salsa El Mariachi Ti and my freshly built Salsa Spearfish. My plan was simple, ride the first 50 miles on the El M. T., then switch to the plush Spearfish for the second half.

The wild card was dealt and it wasn't pretty. As you know the entire Midwest is now in and at the time was expecting HEAT! Often times with heat comes storms. The pitter patter of rain drops began landing on the Salsa canopy around 5:30 a.m. race day. I snickered in my sleeping bag, because as you can see from the picture above, I'd pulled a fast one on ole Mother Nature and snuggled our tent under the canopy. I knew I'd be packing up a dry tent and not having to deal with the whole "set it back up" thing back home on the other side of this event, or at least that's what I thought. "Never fool with Mother Nature", remember that phrase? My snickering in the tent thoroughly PISSED HER OFF and she summoned rain that no human has seen since Noah. I mean it was "cat'n and doggin'" out there.

I checked in at race head quarters and radar reports said this was a "thin slow moving band". Yeah right! Hesitation reigned supreme as race directors baulked at delaying or possibly cancelling the race. The decision to delay seemed to go back and forth until it finally settled on a start time 1 hour later than originally scheduled. Even with the delayed start I wondered if I should even start the race, it was that wet. When I say it rained, I mean it really rained. There were huge puddles every where and it was a challenge to keep the Salsa canopy from collapsing as water gathered at the low points and began to weigh it down. I stood under it and pushed up on the roof every couple of minutes to keep it in tact.

The babies hiding under the tarp (Amy's road bike pictured between it's protectors).

Fast forward to race action. The skies had lightened up and things looked promising. The director blasted off a shot gun in true back woods Wisconsin style and we were running for our bikes in the Le Mans start. I was third into the single track after moving through a 25 yard long super deep puddle at high speed (more on this puddle later). I recall thinking, "man, that was a deep puddle, I wonder what the rest of the course is going to be like". Well, let me just tell you, more of the same. Nevertheless, I moved as fast as I dared through the flowy single track. I shook my head at sections of trail that simply weren't there, just gone. I told myself to just stay in the middle of the RIVER, that has to be the trail. I began to worry when I noticed my bottom bracket being submerged over and over again through super long sections of water. Then, suddenly it began to rain again. Now, I hope I painted a picture of hard rain for you earlier in this post and I hope you're thinking, "yes, I get it Eki, you were riding in some rain, sounds rough". Please multiply your impression of rain by about 100 from what you already have. The skies let loose with such fury that I began to apologize for snickering in the tent earlier. Apart from the slippery roots, the insane mud, the sketchy/jagged limestone rocks, the storm took on a scary feel that had my little contingent of riders (3 of us total) plastered into silence. There was no talking, no attacks, no real racing, just 3 guys riding through the most incredible amount of rain fall I have ever witnessed in my life. As we climbed up to the top of the limestone mounds for which this course is named, we seemed to be challenging Mother Nature, almost calling her bluff. She responded with flashes of lightning and booms of thunder that shook you to your core. As Big Buff put it to me later, "you could actually hear the zzzzzzzt of the lightning" as it took control of your surroundings. The flashes were so bright that I would see nothing but white for about 3 seconds during which time I'd flinch at the report of thunder, reminding me of the time Hondo did the honorable thing and withdrew his WWI revolver on a winter ride only to have the round prove faulty, thus allowing him to survive. I digress. The sheets of rain pounded me and poured through my helmet in almost a comical way. I passed by a section of trail called "cliff hanger" where the water cascaded off the limestone wall next to me in a solid pane of glass. What were we doing out there?

My mind drifted back to my earlier fight with water collecting on top of the Salsa canopy. I was certain that it was a shredded mess by this point - I was bummed. Unless, just unless Amy was back there fighting the good fight. In fact, right before the race started I asked her politely, "Honey, if it starts raining again, will you try to push the water off the canopy? I don't want it to split the seams."

Amy needs a DBD patch for what she did to save this canopy.

Miraculously, I finished the first lap to find the race staff pulling riders from the course. We'd be delayed for another hour until things proved more safe for all involved. This was my chance to go check on my pit area. As I rolled down course I marveled at the carnage and destruction of pit row. Tents were blown away, EZ Ups were mangled, and people were scurrying around trying to put the pieces back together. Then, I saw her walking toward me in a soaked white, yes white Wisconsin Badgers T-shirt laughing and looking like she had been in some kind of apocolyptic scene. She jokingly told me about all the things Salsa should do for her for saving the canopy. As it turns out Amy removed most likely a ton of water from the canvas while the camping area turned into a flash flood scene. The water flowed so furiously that it ended breaching the "levee" on the front of the tent and came over the zipper, instantly flooding the entire tent. Our air mattress was afloat within the tent. A fifteen year old bar tender listened to our story later, mouth agape, she casually added, "it's like you had a water bed". "Good one", was my response.

The floor of our tent. That's about 5 inches of water! Note the little mesh pocket at the back.

A restart had the race back underway, but in a weird way. They started us all together again, but promised to factor in our time differences later. Why they didn't just start us out one by one with our time gaps factored in is beyond me. There were many things that went on this day that I simply didn't understand.

The second lap was strange as we all tried to race each other again, but it just didn't feel right, not to mention we were riding in a flood. My bike began to sound terrible and it was only getting worse. Every time I shifted gears it groaned and popped like something really bad was going to happen soon.

I finished the lap a total mess, but decided I'd head out for #3. In the beginning of my third lap something happened to me that I'm sure will never happen again. I approached the huge lake, I mean puddle that I mentioned early on in the story. I decided to try a different line through it this time hoping for a successful crossing. It was not to be, my front wheel caught a rut and I was going down. You know when you pass over the point where you think it can be saved and you accept that it won't. Yeah, I was there. I threw out my left arm to soften the impact, but there was none. My arm just disappeared into the water. In a nano second I thought, "really is this going to happen?" and like a kid jumping into the swimming pool, I took a huge breath and went in. Silence encased me as I now lived in an under water world, a kind of peace if you will. "I can't live here", went through my mind, you need air. I surfaced with a gasp as mud water poured out of my helmet and down my face. I frolic'd around trying to unclip my left foot while the water lapped at my lips. I took note of how my gps was about 6 inches beneath the surface along with my left grip, shifters, break lever, and headset. "What the F***?!".

Some serious thinking started taking place. I thought about my beautiful El Mariachi Ti underneath me and all the pride I took while building it. I thought about my bank account and all the parts that would need to be replaced if I kept slogging through this, whatever it was I was doing. I soft pedaled the lap and gave the throat slashing symbol to the director when I came threw signalling that I was done.

Both rider and bike - TRASHED!

Big Buff on the other hand was not done. He powered his single speed to a second place overall finish and a SS win amidst a diminished field, but a win is still a win. I can't help but think that Big Buff wasn't doing it for the race, but more for the patch (DBD). As he pitted before his last lap I offered him support and in some sick way envied his filthy, destroyed being. I kicked at the dirt while some new Buff super fans went on and on about how good he was and how much they admired him. I couldn't take it anymore and I exclaimed, "YEAH, I KNOW HE'S GOOD, HE'S MY TRAINING PARTNER". They looked at me as if they were thinking, "sure he is buddy...right". I couldn't blame them.

None of it dried.

Good job Big Buff, I'm proud of you. And, good job to Chris Schotz who really went to battle on this one and came out on top.

Buff "Got R Done"

No One Said it was Going to be Easy

2011-07-04T09:34:00.000-05:00

Relaxin' before start time.

The Thunderdown in the Underdown is a staple in the Wisconsin Endurance Series line up. It is notoriously difficult. Not only is it physically difficult, but technically demanding as well. Riders have to scratch and claw for every mile in this one. This year's Thunderdown wouldn't be any different.

I told myself I was going to stay calm for this thing. Instead, I broke for the lead right off the gun as I was lined up with all 10 hour soloists, which is rare. Typically, teams and duos are lined up with us so discerning the actual competition can be difficult. This time I knew all of them.

20 minutes in and I was riding hard with a clear view in front, but I was conscious to not go over my head with effort. A quick glance back saw two riders still hooked on. 30 minutes in and a couple of significant climbs and I noticed an eery silence. Stealing a glance, I found myself all alone. I kept the pressure on telling myself that this was all insurance and that I'd need to control the "pop factor" when it happened.

Soon enough I finished the two hour lap in about 1:50 still alone, but a little gassed from the effort. I made a rookie mistake of staring at an ominous boulder, then drove right into it, stopping my El Mariachi dead in it's tracks. I began to tip toward the fall line, in other words, the long way down. My left foot refused to release from the pedal, oh that's right I switched the pedal before the race and it must have had a slightly different release point than I'm used to. Like a pilot who knows he's going down I braced for impact. Impact happened to be into a small boulder field strewn with broken off sticks pointed up. The first one cut through my glove and poked into my hand. The next two went hard into my left glute shredding my bibs and my ASS!

Sorry, but it had to be shown for the purpose of the story.

Needless to say I could feel the breeze throughout the rest of the day. On a more serious note, part of my skin was sitting right on the saddle without any pad or short to protect it. This slowly nagged at me and became a bit of a problem as my skin rubbed and rubbed and rubbed.

Of course I entered the darkness of my mind during the second lap. I had a hard time shaking the crash off and began to question whether I had gone to hard on lap 1. Then, the negative thoughts began, "You suck at mountain biking, why do you even do it?", "Who are you kidding man? I should be laughing at you right now (my inner self talking to my self)." I tried to tell myself that this is all part of it, it's just the demons, block them out! Then, I got caught and passed. It was so discouraging. I tried to keep up, but he just slowly rode away. I figured I'd pit at the conclusion of this lap and try to get my head right.

Pulling in I saw Amy at the pit. She was really interested in my torn up butt and thought it was pretty funny. I, however, wasn't in the mood. I was over my shredded bibs and was more concerned about my horrible, crabby attitude. I told her I got passed and that I didn't care, and how I was hating it, etc. She then told me to "Get 'er Done", which is what one of my kids at work always says that makes me laugh. Sad thing is, he uses this phrase as his mantra for life and doesn't understand why we're all laughing. Somehow the joke rang true for me and I finished eating, jumped back on my bike and was outta there in about 5 minutes.

The third lap is when everything came back around. I pinned it as hard as I could and found myself very alone again. I began to pick off 6 hour racers one by one and was notified by volunteers that I was out front again. Angry at myself for having such a horrible 2nd lap I continued to pour on the pressure at the expense of fatigue. I figured the 4th and final lap would be one in which I just held on. It was...

Final corner to the finish.

2 years in a row! Now, please get me to the lake.

Chris Schotz puts on an A+ event and the course is a pure mountain biker's dream come true, all by his design, I might add. Thanks to Chris and his crew. Thanks to Salsa Cycles as well. The El Mariachi Ti really took a thrashing out there and responded perfectly. Also, thanks to Red Eye Brewing for the awesome growler!

My kind of brew house. Those are some vintage machines.

This, this, and this

2011-06-17T17:09:00.002-05:00

Working in conjunction, this home made headset installation tool,

this super tasty I.P.A. and,

this killer Salsa Spearfish frame are going to = ONE KICK ASS BIKE!

Coming soon...

The Natural Order of Things...In Kansas

2011-06-07T19:03:00.004-05:00

Photo Courtesy of Jason Boucher

I dared to change positions in an effort to sit down on the grocery store's parking lot with my back against LeLan's bumper. It was a shallow stab at some respite from the hunkered in feeling I'd had for the last 10 or so hours on the bike. LeLan ran support for all in a Salsa kit this day, but I felt he was "my support guy". I was only slightly aware of him buzzing around, occasionally asking if I needed anything. Guttural responses were all I seemed to muster as I sat transfixed on what appeared to be hamsters running around under the skin of my calves. "It's so weird how much they're moving", I thought. "I know I'm a little dehydrated, but that's a lot of movement". Soon, I became vaguely aware of a handful of people standing in a half circle around me as I heard in an echo type voice, LeLan calling for others to "check out his calves". "It looks like he has an alien living inside of him", I heard a woman say. I turned to LeLan, giving him a look that seemed to go right past him. He apologized as if he felt guilty for turning me into an interesting high school science experiment. "It's o.k." I said, in a somewhat defeated voice. I was completely wasted and I had one more leg of the 2011 Dirty Kanza to go.

My second trip to Kansas had me expecting heat. Last year's DK brought me to the brink of death so I tried to plan for the worst. I vowed to manage the heat the best I could. I'd ride the 200 miles in a conservative fashion and be certain to have more than enough fluids at all times. Coming off a strong finish in the Trans Iowa had me relaxed and comfortable. Also, I was traveling with a crew of guys that set me at ease, Joe Meiser and Ryan Horkey who I've ridden literally hundreds of miles with and Jason Gaikowsky who'd I'd only recently met, but definitely shared similar interests, such as pounding out miles on bikes. These guys helped the race nerves disappear, as did our hosts, Randy, Dustin, and LeLan. We were welcomed with open arms into a like minded atmosphere complete with a fully functioning bike shop in the home as well as a dog so big I could have ridden it. We were also lucky enough to have Velo News' Technical Editor, Nick Legan stay with us. Nick would be competing in the race as well as covering it. It wasn't long before Nick was one of us.

Arriving a day early gave us plenty of time to prepare and tweak the details. We asked each other simple little questions like, "how much air pressure are you running?", as if we didn't know what worked for us. I guess maybe there was a bit of nervous energy running around the place. I had my kit set and I was determined to keep it the way it was. I had nothing on my back in the way of a hydration system, yet things seemed heavy. I was a bit concerned with the weight, but I felt I needed everything I had packed. I wouldn't change a thing.

Eki and Meiser's machines

6:00 a.m. and the starting line saw 4 Salsa Cycles kits standing side by side in the front row. Pictures were being taken and final instructions were being given. I kept thinking about staying up front and staying safe. I hoped the pace would be manageable, but with approximately 300 people in the race there were bound to be some fast riders. This would later prove to be very true.

We were finally under Police escort out of town and ready to be set free to the gravel. I was happy with the speed, but consuming more dust than I wanted. Always keeping Meiser in my sight was paramount as he has a knack for staying up front and never missing a break. "Stay with Meiser, make the break" became my mantra. However, if the split begins in earnest and the pace goes to the stratosphere do I keep fighting for it or let them go? Against all previous commitments the little boy in me who refuses to lose decided to make the break at all costs!

Approximately an hour in we began to climb into the high plains. A long line formed as the leaders began to lift the pace. Guys were definitely stringing out. Experience told me that this was it, a break away would be established after this climb and if I wanted in I needed to get on it now! Shortly into the climb I was split off the back and losing ground to some exceptional climbers as the pace was going into a frenzy. I told myself to hold on the best I could and concentrate on getting one rider back at a time, then I'd make up time on the decent by taking early risks when I felt I could. It was working, but I was on my limit and well into the red zone. At last I was on top of the plateau and beginning the harried descent over exposed bed rock shelves and softball size loose rock. I began to question the high pressure I had in my tires as my bike danced under me, barely within the limits of control. Almost there I pressed for more energy and took a few more risks at high speeds through very rough terrain to eventually latch on to the last man's wheel. A transition back to gravel and I was in the break away. Out loud I said to myself, "You did it. Good job. You made the break".

I soft pedaled in the security of their draft. A rough count had me one of about 10 men with no chasers in sight. I knew they were there, 290 of them coming for me. I couldn't worry about that, I needed to focus on how I was going to stay with the likes of the company I was now with. I glanced around to see past winners and several top 5 Dirty Kanza finishers. I wondered if I belonged. These were some fit individuals and they were in full business mode. There was very little talking, just 10 men tending to the task at hand, pulling through and drafting. I would earn my keep, but first I needed to recover from what I did to get there. Resting became my priority. Suddenly, the leader of our group announced a right hander coming up, a signal to be careful as the group would be managing a turn soon. It was a minimum maintenance road we'd enter. This seemed like old hat to me as it was just 5 short weeks ago that I went through a ton of these things in Iowa. Things were different this time. The rough tractor trail was sun baked and hard as a rock. The leaders pinned the section bringing the pace back up into the danger zone. Immediately, I was shelled to the back of the group as a young stud from Colorado was putting his stamp on the race. "Do they know how far we still have to go? Do they know how hot it gets here? Do they know what they are doing?". I let them ride out of my sight, cursing myself for even trying to catch on in the first place. I used up precious energy early only to get dropped hard by guys who redefine acceleration. I felt I had made a critical mistake. I dropped into the middle ring and began to get comfortable for the long haul. I had no idea what the day had in store for me or more appropriately what Kansas had in store for me.

My registration kit

A comfortably hard pace, some good conversation with Mark from Salida, Colorado and I was pulling into the first check point. Instantly, my new friend LeLan appeared calling my name and clearly ready to help me in any way I needed. He seemed chalked full of the same nervous energy I had when I was trying to make the break. While I was calm and collected LeLan bounced around me like a humming bird doing whatever he could to satisfy my every need. This was his first entrance into the race as I would be his first rider of the day that he needed to tend to. LeLan understood bike racing and the importance of crew. A smile crept across my face as he topped off my fluids and gave me condition reports of the upcoming leg including wind direction. I "knucks'd" him and snapped a foot in while telling him that I appreciated what he did for me. I rolled out of the check point in about a minute's time to the sound of LeLan's encouraging words. "I think LeLan thinks I can win this thing", I thought. With this guy on my side, maybe I could...maybe.

I pushed steady with the promised wind at my back. I was comfortable now and I was hooked up with Kansas City rider, Joe Fox. Joe owns a bike/running shop in K.C. and is one hell of an athlete. He's finished high in the Dirty Kanza in the past and knows exactly what he is doing. More importantly he proved to be a super nice guy, his riding prowess came as a bonus. I was in good company to say the least. We covered all areas of our lives with each other as well as the miles. Things were going well when suddenly a new personality emerged, Eric Brunt. Eric, a Trans Iowa veteran and 2011 finisher came upon us and announced that he wouldn't mind sticking with us for a bit as he felt we were two "proven" guys and it was as if he was thinking, "if this is the pace Ek and Fox are riding, there must be something right about it". I laughed to myself, but took the compliment to heart. I also hoped I wouldn't steer this kid wrong. I reminded myself that I knew what I was doing, everything would be fine. I couldn't help but notice that it was getting warmer.

100 miles and it was flat out HOT, but the check point was coming soon. It was at the c.p. that I'd find a convenience store and buy a cold pop. I had become concerned about my calorie intake through the first half of the race. I had eaten very little, in fact barely anything at all. I wondered if it was just that my body has experience with hours and hours of exercise and doesn't require constant calories. Obviously, that notion is absurd! I couldn't deny it, I was way behind on calories, but every time I did try to eat it was so repulsive that I just didn't want to do it again. I promised myself that I would get more cals on board early into the next leg, things were going to be just fine. Where's LeLan? I'm almost to the c.p.

Joe and I relaxing the night before race day.

"EKI, CHECK IN AT THE SALSA TENT, THEN I'M RIGHT HERE!!!", as he aggressively pointed to his car. The trunk was open, coolers were ready to go. He knew exactly what he was doing. He hit me with a barrage of questions about my condition and what I needed. I slowly told him I needed all my water topped off, that I was completely dry. I may have mentioned that I was having trouble eating. But, the fact is that the guy just got me so pumped up that I felt I could have ridden 400 miles. Set to go I asked him where the store was, because I needed a pop. "I've got Coke on ice right here", he said. I couldn't believe it when he opened the cooler and I saw a commercial for Coca Cola in front of my eyes. As I downed the life giving force LeLan came to the conclusion that I needed an "ice sock" on the back of my neck. O.K., at this point I would have let him start an I.V. on me, that's how much I trusted him. As I mounted up, I felt a little bundle of ice slip under the neck of my jersey. I rode away as the rivulets ran down my back. I wanted to pay for the rest of LeLan's master's degree at that point.

His description of the next leg ran through my head like a stuck record. "This is your longest leg, 62 miles. The wind is going to be at your back, which means it's going to be your hottest leg. You will never be over hydrated, drink as much as you can and I'll see you at the next check point." He seemed so sure of himself about the heat. I guess maybe I had hoped in some way that none of it would come true. It wouldn't really get that hot, would it? 20 miles into this stretch I began to sink into worry. I had been riding alone for some time, my alliance with Joe Fox was broken up with my early departure from the last c.p. I felt as if I was lost at sea. I started questioning whether I was on course. I desperately looked for tire tracks, but the sun baked dirt gave up no clues. Finally, a rider approaching from behind. I was on course! Maybe he'd slow up for a bit and ride with me. I knew he was going faster than me as he was gaining fast. As he collected me I gave him a wanting look, but his only reply was "Hi" and he motored past. It was the 2009 champ Mike Marchand and he certainly wasn't slowing up for me. I was on my own and I needed to get used to it quick. "Buck up and knock it off" I told myself. Amy, my wife, always tells me to remember that the pain is temporary and that you do this because you love it. "Try to enjoy this" became my motivation. Realizing that I had been staring at gravel for over 9 hours without really looking at Kansas I thought I better start taking a look around. It was then that I literally lifted my head up, looked left, then right to notice the most amazing thing, grass for as far as I could see in any direction. I saw no farms, no poles, no wires, just sky and land. "Whoa, this is something special", I thought. I broke my cadence as I strained my eyes at the expanse to my sides, it's only disruption the small ribbon of gravel that I was traveling on. I felt small and insignificant as if I was borrowing some time in this space, as if Kansas was letting me be there if only just for awhile. The perspective of this race, this sport, the things we do in our daily lives, all snapped into focus and seemed almost other worldly compared to what I was experiencing right then and there. Physically I was hurting, but mentally I was present and I was doing what I loved. Keenly aware of my situation and piqued with emotion at the awesome spectacle that I was fortunate enough to be a part of I rounded a bend and crested a small rise to see what would prove to be the single most beautiful thing I have witnessed in nature throughout all of my days on this planet. There in the crispness and heat of that Kansas afternoon were four wild mustangs grazing. They instantly became aware of my approach and bolted together in full gallop, eyes bulging in such a way that I felt they most likely had never had human contact. Dust poured from their hooves as they held close to one another running from the unknown, me. Time stood still as I watched them go. How will I ever convey this experience? I resolved to keep it for me. I will be the only one to ever know what it was really like.

L-R: Joe Meiser, Tim Ek,
Jason Boucher (back), Ryan Horkey

"What the???", I said as I heard a voice, a singing voice. "I'm totally losing it", I thought as I turned around to see my friend Joe Fox approaching with his ipod in. Turning down his volume he said to me, "There's nothing like a good song to pick you up". I was happy to see him again. He couldn't have come at a better time. I had asked Dustin one of the hosts we were staying with when the hottest time of the day was. He told me with complete certainty, 4:00 p.m., it was now 2:00 p.m. I relayed this information to Joe and he, being from K.C., confirmed it and let me know that we most likely had a rough couple of hours ahead of us. We agreed to "make it to 5:00" then look for the temperatures to start dropping, but would they climb first?

Joe and I topped out on a plateau and it felt as if Mother Nature wrapped an electric blanket that was on high around my body on the hottest day ever. I saw him fumbling with his gps, when he announced the highest temp we'd see, 99.8 degrees. "Holy Shit, I wish you wouldn't have told me that".

I wasn't eating, I was no longer racing, I'd given that up long ago. I was surviving now, trying to get to the final check point. Some how I felt the c.p. would help. At least LeLan would be there, he would help me, he would bring me back to life. Inexplicably the miles were passing and we were getting there, but there was one hell of a bank of clouds forming behind us. We hoped for rain and guessed at how much the temperature would drop if it poured for a bit. The rain would be our salvation...we thought.

Smiling, but exhausted! (Photo: Cornbread)

A Salsa tent appeared along the main street of a small Kansas town and there was LeLan. He looked concerned as his eyes met mine. I recall wondering what he was seeing in me that put that look on his face. I could count on one hand the items I'd eaten so far and drinking fluids was now a problem as well. Every square inch of my body was filthy and I could see that my legs had significantly shrunk in size. I was in trouble and my man knew it. He told me that updates were coming in about a significant thunderstorm that was approaching fast with golf ball sized hail and cloud to ground lightning. He went on to say that Mother Nature may end this thing for me. I didn't know how to take that. Did LeLan think I wanted to quit? Was it written on my face that I wanted out? Is that why he looked at me like that? Disappointed with the notion of quitting the idea of not riding anymore flooded my mind. No, it took over in a millisecond. I felt myself slipping on that slippery slope of quitting. A volunteer then approached and told us that the Sheriff has ordered everyone to "take cover". "What is going on?", I thought. "Is this for real?". "Two riders just called in from the course and reported seeing a tornado on the ground", another volunteer yelled. My sister's email from before the race jumped into my mind, "Tim, no one wants you to die in a bike race". I didn't want to die either. I told LeLan I'd sit by his car for awhile to see what develops. I forced a banana into my system while volunteers frantically broke down the check point. Just then, Joel Dyke, past co-director of the Dirty Kanza yelled to me, "Eki, Joe wants to go!". I stood up and I saw my riding partner of the past several hours kitting up. Joe Fox was looking at me as if to say, "We're not done buddy". I stood up and yelled, "LELAN, WATER ME UP. I'M LEAVIN'". "AWESOME! YES!", he shouted as he sprang into action. He managed my bottles while he told me that I was his most inspiring rider, the title of an award to be given out by the directors later that night. I thanked him and told him that if it weren't for him none of this would be happening. Then, I asked him if I could take one of his Cokes with me.

40 miles to go, lighting strikes off our right flank, with a wall of blackness coming on fast when Joe turns to me as we soft pedaled out of town, "I think we can get in front of this thing and around it". Were we going to try to out run a Kansas thunderstorm on our bikes? Yes, we were. I popped open the Coke as we pedaled side by side down an old rail road grade in a steady rain. I took a long pull off the can and felt the cold pop go down my dusty throat when I noticed Joe looking at me. "Want a sip?", I said. "Sure, I could use one", was his reply. We shared that Coke and laughed at the ridiculousness of what we were doing. I thought to myself, "these are the best times of your life".

Joe and I climbed out of the woods where we had taken shelter from the hail and wind. Feeling safe enough now that we weren't going to be killed by lightning or a tornado we were back on course and feeling positive...for now.

Suddenly, our tires were spitting thick, sticky mud all over us. The rain had transformed the gravel into a dirt like super glue. Soon our wheels wouldn't turn and our derailleurs were nervously twitching. I was worried that a derailleur would hang up and get torn off if we weren't careful. We decided to try to clean them in an act of prevention. Pushing on I commented on how Joe's looked good with no mud while mine seemed to be collecting it like crazy. Just then, a horrible sound and a flash of metal and parts of Joe's bike all over the ground. It had happened 30 miles from the finish, his ability to shift was now over. He'd need to turn his bike into a single speed and limp home, somehow. I wanted to help, but there wasn't much I could do. He assured me that I didn't need to wait, but I was conflicted. Ultimately, I went on without him as I worried about what he must have thought. Other riders were with him now and helping, actually returning the favor. Corey "Cornbread" Godfrey had the same thing happen to him back in Trans Iowa and it was Joe who helped him through it. Corey was bringing Karma back around now.

A few miles of walking my bike, carrying my bike, and cleaning my bike I was tentatively riding it again, hoping against hope that my drive train would be o.k. A rider approached quickly from behind. The fast moving rider was Corey and I was happy to see him, but knew it wouldn't last. I was scraping the bottom of the barrel and Corey looked fast and fresh. I explained my predicament and how I was feeling sick and shelled by the day. He casually motioned toward his back wheel and said, "hop on". I smiled and slipped into his draft. Corey doesn't weigh much, but his long lanky body casts a big shadow and I snugged right up on that rear wheel as if it were my favorite blanky. He jabbered on about better times on the bike, but we both knew it was all part of the adventure. I did my best behind him to not throw up and tried to make a few comments from time to time. We were making good time, but I was not doing any work. I just couldn't hold his pace, not at the front anyway. Finally, in more of a gesture than anything else I went to the front and tried to pull for him for what seemed like 30 seconds compared to his 30 minutes. He assured me that we'd be hitting a town soon, about 10 miles out from the finish, there we'd get a Coke. We marveled at the sunset and in true Cornbread fashion he whipped out his little digital camera and snapped a couple of shots of the view and even a few of me. I offered to take one of him, hoping I wouldn't drop his camera and run over it. He politely said "no, that's o.k.", almost as if he knew I had my hands pretty full just dealing with my current state.

I bought Corey's pop at the gas station and we sat on the curb 10 miles away from the finish line as it slowly got darker. I thanked him for being there for me and helping me in. He wouldn't have it. Corey was just glad that we finally got to ride together. Just then a car pulled up with my man LeLan in the driver's seat and Joe Meiser (Salsa rider) in the passenger seat. Excited and concerned at the same time I asked, "What are you doing here and Joe why are you in the car?". The mud took the fight from Joe and simply made it impossible to ride his bike. Joe was behind me due to flat tire issues and got caught in the thick of the storm. His day was done. They wished us luck and said they'd see us at the finish. I assured them that they would. Several riders rolled past us while we enjoyed our drink and conversation and we no longer cared about our position in the field. This had become about beating the Dirty Kanza, not other riders.

Tough guys in Kansas City

As we rolled out a small contingent of gladiators on bikes approached from our rear. One of these strong men was very sick, another was on a single speed, and the final one was Eric Brunt from earlier in the day. I was happy to see him and know that he was still in the fight. A fast pace driven by Eric and Corey had us seeing the lights of Emporia in the distance. The finish was within reach! Soon, we'd be rolling through the university campus, turning onto Commercial and into the heart of down town to the finish. We congratulated each other and let our emotions boil up, because it was a sure thing now. We had done it! We rolled past the barriers and I could hear the live music blasting up ahead. A huge crowd was gathered with an open lane down the center serving as a finishing stretch. "Eki, get up here!", Eric yelled back to me. I pulled up between Eric and Corey as one of them said, "We're comin' in together". Completely unplanned we all sat up tall in our saddles releasing our hands from the bars riding three abreast, we joined hands and held them high in the air as if we had won the race. The roar of the crowd was deafening as the adrenaline and emotion poured through me. I moved through the finishing shoot, confused, tired and happy to see LeLan running to me with a smile on his face from ear to ear. He hugged me while he told me over and over, "amazing, amazing!" He came close to my ear and told me that he cried when he saw me coming in. So did I LeLan ... so did I.

L-R: Eric Brunt, Mike Neumeyer,
Tim Ek (Photo: Cornbread)
Less than 10 miles to go.
Flyin' at over 20 mph after 190 miles.
So wasted!

At 6:00 a.m. I started a race. At 9:36 p.m. I finished a battle with the Dirty Kanza 200 and I won. There are some things that I will never be able to take from Kansas. Those things will stay there, right where they belong. At the same time, experiences and memories were given to me as life long gifts.

Thank you Jim Cummings for an amazing event. Thank you Randy and Dustin for giving us such a great, welcoming place to lay our heads. Thank you Salsa, for giving me the opportunities you have and for allowing me to punish your bikes only to see them come back for more. Thanks to the boys I traveled with. You guys are rock solid. And, LeLan...you know.

Dirty Kanza Finished!

2011-06-05T06:35:00.000-05:00

Finished a very hard day in total survival mode. This is one of the hardest races I've ever done! 18th overall, but finishing this thing is winning. So much more to come. Torn off derailleurs, sighted tornados, mud that turned to concrete, and 99.8 degree heat!

Full write up coming soon. For now, can't wait to get home and rest. 850 miles of racing in 8 weeks. So tired!

Racin' in Kansas this Sat.

2011-06-01T17:54:00.000-05:00

Please think cool thoughts for me as I head to Kansas for my 2nd run at that the Dirty Kanza 200. This thing is notorious for being a blast furnace. I'll let ya know how it turns out.

See the Salsa Cycles website Thursday for my "set up choices".

Chequamegon 100 Raises the Bar for 100 Milers

2011-05-24T13:05:00.000-05:00

The Salsa boys know how to throw down!

The second running of the Cheq. 100 took place this past weekend. I threw my hat in the ring after missing the event last year and from what I hear what I missed was an experience of navigation that would have confused Shackleton. This year would prove much different - the course was MARKED and marked well!!

I came into the race with an attitude of adventure. I'd carry all of my gear, ignoring the "drop point" at half way. Riders were allowed to have a bag waiting for them with fresh supplies, but I read that this was a "no support" race, so I went in with every thing I needed on my back and in my cages. Hell, I even rode away from the chance to top off my fluids at the half way point, in my head I called it "cheating".

Torn between competition and adventure I found myself caught in the middle of racing and enjoying the scenery. Nevertheless, I ended up giving half hearted chase to the front runners early on. I was sketchy to say the least in the single track and inefficient. I immediately felt the past racing miles in my legs and was confused as to why I couldn't pick things up. Suffice it to say I had very little "pop". I watched good rider after good rider, like Ryan Horkey just pull away from me. I remember thinking, "Damn, they're good single track riders, you're NOT".

25 miles in I found myself pretty beat. "Holy crap! This thing isn't even under way yet and you're tired. This is going to be a long day." I decided to ignore the other riders and ride "my own" race, telling myself that experience would guide my way. I plodded along while rider after rider moved past me and out of my sight. I thought about my winter of training and asked myself what I did wrong.

"It's got to be this heavy camel back that's throwing me off. Oh well, it's only going to get lighter as the race wears on." I spent time alone and had brief conversations with guys I've raced against many times as they wished me good luck and moved on by. The half way point became my focus. Just get to the half way point, then you'll be heading home.

The half way/drop bag point proved to be an oasis of sorts. I pulled in after considering just moving past it without stopping, but seeing a few familiar faces might do me some good I thought. The place was literally buzzing with activity. I saw riders sprawled out all over the place with helmets off and gear strewn about. What were they doing? It seemed like many of them had thrown in the towel. Race director and buddy, Joe Meiser caught my eye so I pulled toward him for some company while I tended to the plan in my head. "Get these arm warmers off, put cycling hat and warmers in camel back, drink my secret potion, and eat some trail mix, then get the hell out of there!" I exchanged pleasantries while my head spun with fatigue and a mantra of what I needed to do. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye a peculiar sight unfolded. "Hmm, Joe's baby is standing on my front wheel." My El Mariachi Ti was laying on it's side taking a break and apparently Eli found the 29'er interesting. A few of us had a giggle as he manipulated the wheel like he was steering a ship. It was super cute. Then, he became enthralled with the wheel and began to climb up on it as if it were a merry go round. I'm not a parent so I dismissed the activity as, "that's what babies do". And, Joe's right there so he'll know if it's not cool. Soon, I thought, "I wonder how much Eli weighs??" Finally, in an awkward, shaky voice I said..."Hey there little buddy, easy on the wheel (a giggle followed)". He was soon scooped up by Dad at which time I took the opportunity to accuse Joe of coaching his young son into trying to knock me out of the race. Hey, the way I was feeling, not sure I would have been too upset.

Time to go! I pushed on after some brief directions on how to get out of there from Joe. He went on in his "Joe way" (cool and collected) about following this trail back to Mosquito trail head, then... He seemed so confident and sure that I just numbly agreed and took off without understanding any of it. Soon, I was a mile and a half down the trail when I realized I had no idea where I was or if I was on the right path. I did what any good adventure racer would do, I STOPPED! Out loud I stated, "I'm not sure if this is right". Doubt ran all over me. I spiraled down into "what if" scenarios. I decided to turn back to firm up the directions.

Almost back to the drop point I saw fellow Duluthian, Mike Haag climbing the hill toward me on his single speed. I know Mike has a cabin in the Cable area, therefore I know he knows the trails. I asked if I could hook on with him until we moved out of this confusing area. It turned out to be a perfect fit. We gelled and rode well together, although Mike pressed me a bit in the single track, as he is quite skilled, I was happy to be with him. We talked and a connection developed that sometimes happens when two riders are in the same struggle. In other words, we began to work as a team. I watched him power through the relentless rollers on his single speed as I called out "good job!" to him as he cleaned impossible climbs with one gear. Mike's strength was an inspiration to me and I was lucky to be riding with him.

Mike and I moved through the gravel road sections alone for miles when out of no where two riders appeared, they were giving chase. It was Ryan Horkey and his riding partner. Mike and I had apparently left the half way point before them and they were now catching back up. We exchanged light hearted conversation as they moved through us. I watched them crest the rise in front of us when I thought, "you know they're not riding that much faster than we are, I could catch them and let Mike just sit in on my wheel". I chased and Mike spun his single gear in my draft. It wasn't long before we were with them and moving as four. We'd approach the final section of single track as four, with me allowing the three gifted trail riders to move into the woods ahead of me. I resolved to do my best to "hang on". It wasn't long before Ryan and his partner (I believe his name was Mike too) were dropping us. They looked smooth as they flowed through woods as if they were on a ribbon of concrete while I ricocheted to and fro off the rocks. A gap began to form between my partner and myself. I was being dropped at the 80 mile point.

It was then that I began to assess my riding style. I thought about how I'd been riding in the middle ring through all the single track while working the bottom half of the cassette. What if I changed things and went to the big ring and began to operate off the top half of the cassette with a focus on staying in the middle of it the best that I could? I changed the game and it brought me new life. I found myself out of the saddle and energized. The big ring brought me speed and controlled flow. Soon, I was back on Mike's wheel and not long after I decided to move around him on a piece of double track. He yelled to me, "Go get 'em Tim" and I was gone. I felt alive and my machine felt hooked up for the first time all day.

The rain started to fall when I wiped the screen of my gps to find I was at 82 miles in. I was chasing Ryan and his riding partner, Mike. I told myself over and over, "you can ride in the rain, you're a mudder, you can ride in the rain, stay on top of it, stay on it until 90 miles, then just 10 to go...". A flash of color in the distance, then another flash, it was them! I'd reeled them back and I was closing fast. Eventually I was able to sit in on Mike's wheel with the talented Horkey setting pace. I noted that Mike was bobbling from time to time, while Ryan seemed to be driving hard. However, I felt good. I wasn't laboring, I kept checking my situation and the answer was, "I feel fine". It was then that heard Ryan state that he was going to "sit up for bit, does that guy want to get by?" Mike replied, "It's Tim". I don't think they were expecting me. They allowed me to pass. I admired their skills, but I knew I had to stay on top of the pedals if I were to get away.

The rain was coming in a steady down pour and I could feel the spray hitting my back. The miles were ticking by more slowly now, but they were still clicking off and I was still in the big ring. I moved past a couple solos, telling them "good job" while I ran scared from the men chasing me.

Surprised I popped out onto a gravel road before I expected it. My mileage told me I still had about 5 miles to go, yet I remember Joe saying something about the finish being on the gravel road we started on. Could it be that I was almost done? I put my head down and went to gravel race mode. Around a corner and I picked my head up to see the Salsa tent with a small gathering. The finish! It was like coming home.

11th place overall against a talented group of riders left me satisfied ... almost as satisfied as the Old Milwaukee and the Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll they gave me at the finish line. What a great race and more importantly what a great crew of people putting on the race. Thank you Joe Meiser, Tim Krueger, and Ryan Horkey for all your hard work, as well as all the volunteers.

The Cheq. 100, now the standard by which others will be judged in my book.

Chequamegon 100 - A 10 out of 10!

2011-05-22T09:18:00.000-05:00

The Cheq. 100 mt. bike race is in the books and I will say this is one top notch event. The course was marked perfectly and the organization was phenomenal. I had a blast! There were a ton of super good riders there and it was inspiring watching them absolutely rip up the single track - so impressive!

Thanks to Joe Meiser and Tim Krueger for such a great event.

Full race report coming soon, complete with how a BABY almost took me out of the race.

Eki

Miss the Misery

2011-05-19T12:57:00.001-05:00

This is gonna be sick, so brace yourself. I've been thinking lately as something seems amiss. What is it? Finally, it dawned on me. I no longer get up in the middle of the night (o.k. super early in the morning) to start my "long" commute to work, with temps around zero or worse. I no longer get home after doing the same commute that got me to work to lift weights until 7:30 p.m. I no longer lay in bed and play out how the Trans Iowa will unfold for me. I no longer worry about whether my commuting bike will make it one more day before the drive train detonates. Life is different.

I'm now doing what I prepared for all those dark cold months. The T.I. is over and things went well. Mt. bike racing has begun and new bikes have been built. Things have all come together as planned. But, somehow the "lead up" or maybe it's the "journey" to the destination that is missed.

I don't know, I guess I just miss the misery.

We'll Take Two Orders of Suffering, With a Side of Wind and Rain...

2011-05-16T18:31:00.118-05:00

My cozy little pit

This past weekend saw a double dose of pain. Amy and I hit the road to our neighboring state of Wisconsin. The mission was simple, I'd rip off a quick little 100 mile mountain bike race and the next day she'd qualify for the Boston Marathon. It all seemed so nice... Ahh, but Mother Nature can be a fickle bitch.

The first entree came in the form of a 100 mile mountain bike race in Green Bay, Wisconsin's sweet Stump Farm single track. This is the first of the Wisconsin Endurance Mountain Bike Series races or WEMS. It has consistently been known to boast some quality riders so I figured a good standing in this race wouldn't come for free.

Still in a mental whirlwind of sorts from my Trans Iowa experience I resolved to ride this race hard, but was reluctant to shake hands with the devil AGAIN. However, the spirit of competition tends to raise it's ugly head once the mud gets flyin'.

I'd attend this race solo as Amy had other things on her plate (so to speak), mainly resting up for marathon day coming on Sunday. My morning was calm and I had plenty of time to set up my pit, register, and grab a little nap in the car before a pleasant conversation with a fellow Salsa owner, Andy. Andy would be racing the single speed category on an ole school El Mariachi. He had the Gran Daddy of my El M. Ti set up pretty sweet I must admit. Andy would go on to a second place finish in his category. I silently rooted for him while I kept my own demons down throughout the day.

Drizzle and at times a steady rain fell as the hours wore on. I was in the woods though, so I was happy. My 4th ride on my El M. Ti was going swimmingly and the 'Racing Ralph's' had me hooked up as if the Scwalbe guys called the Stump Farm's trail designers before they started production on the tires. It was really that good.

My plan was to ride my "own race" and try to avoid getting caught up in one on one battles. However, a wrong turn on the second lap had me frustrated as I lost contact with the leaders for what would end up being forever, as well as adding about 15 extra minutes to my lap. This error found me riding steady and often trading positions with a young Tyler Welnak. This boy could ride and ride he did. It soon became clear that we were meant to be together throughout this slop fest. After four hours of hugging each other's wheels small attacks began to emerge. I would watch Tyler surge through sections of single track, gapping me significantly, while I went deep to gain his wheel. Finally, on lap 7 of this 10 lap race I thought I had caught Tyler napping on a climb. I came into the bottom with a ton of momentum so I jumped on the pedals and swung off to his right. I'd attack here on lap 7 even if it was early. I poured what little energy I had into my Mariachi gaining considerable space on him. I wept inside when I felt him back on my wheel a few minutes later. "What is this kid's deal?", I asked myself. Later, he'd call me the "Boogey Man that just kept showing up". This thing was going to go off on the final lap and there wasn't a damn thing we could do about it.

Thinking through my strategy as lap 8 was coming to a close I decided I absolutely had to pit as my drive train was groaning and I needed to grab another bottle. We moved through the pits together, I stopped, he didn't. A 30 second stop left me with a lubed chain and two fresh bottles. Tyler had nothing and I knew he'd be going into lap 10 dry as a bone. This would be my chance. I left the pit with him out of my sight, but I had every thing banked on him cracking. I was scraping the bottom of the barrel myself as the last lap seemed to go on and on. Then, without warning a 30 mile distance racer went down hard in front of me and slammed into a tree. This was a nasty looking crash. I needed to stop to see if he was o.k., so I did. Seeing this rider "eat it" like he did put the racing second as I thought for sure this guy was heading to the hospital. Surprisingly, he was o.k. I pushed on hoping against hope that I'd see the familiar jersey I'd been looking at for the second half of the day. Alas, it was not to be. The next time I'd see that jersey would be when the owner of it was unclipping his helmet and shaking my hand. I came in two minutes behind Tyler for 5th overall. It felt good to hear him say, "I was so scared you were going to catch me". So cool...

I never have a problem losing a battle to a classy competitor. This would be the case at this year's Stump Farm.

My El Mariachi Ti performed flawlessly

On Sunday morning the second entree was served. This one came with a side of wind. Amy has trained for a year with this qualifying race on her mind. She has done it all, long distance runs, intervals, cold weather, and even 19 mile treadmill runs. We'd be heading to Boston next year for sure - I had no doubt.

Battered, but not beaten

It's tough when you put all your eggs in one basket, but that's why they call 'em goals. They ain't easy, so you gotta dream. And, dream she did. You see when Amy goes for something she goes big and she doesn't quit until she gets it. This is why the girl has never gotten a "B" in her life, has a masters degree in counseling, and basically turns every thing she touches into perfection. Running is her passion. She'll be the first to tell you she isn't the best one out there, but she's damn sure going to be the best she can be.

So, all the aforementioned eggs were in the basket, but Mother Nature was wagging her finger and saying, "Hold on there girl, I'm not sure about this one". The wind just kept coming and coming. She (Mother damn Nature) had those things sustained at 31 mph with gusts going over 40 mph. It's an understatement to say that I was concerned. I reminded Amy that (much the way us cyclists look at hills with the old addage, "what comes up, must come down"), if the wind is in your face, it's bound to be at your back at some point, right?

I received her splits on the cell phone and things were running well. She was right on pace and definitely wearing her game face as I noted at the 10 mile mark while giving her a hand up. "Dang, she's focused", I thought. I loved it! Support crew is awesome!

Mile 20, my next hand up position told a different story. I was met with a determined girl who was simply hurting. The wind had been a gorrilla on her back for several miles, buffeting her 120 pound frame like a plastic bag in the wind. The tears on her cheeks told me she was losing this round.

I walked with her for a bit, telling her to keep fighting, that things could turn around. Her pace group was just a hundred meters ahead. I yelled to her that she'd have the wind working for her in the final couple miles. She started "picking 'em up and putting 'em down" and ran out of my view. I had a lump in my throat as I knew we wouldn't be heading to Boston on Green Bay's race result.

You know it just wasn't her fault. I've never seen better preparation. And, you know what else, the good girls, the ones who do every thing right, just don't deserve to lose these battles. I told her that Chicago is where it will happen, I'm certain of it. The irony of it all is that Amy will qualify for the 2012 Boston Marathon in the Windy City. Take that Mother Nature, you B....!

One sister helping another

Race Day Tension

2011-05-07T10:02:00.000-05:00

L-R: 2009-2nd Place, 2010-2nd Place, 2011-4th Place

Hey, it's not always about biking right? Race day tension comes no matter what kind of racing you're doing, even if it means you're going head to head against a bunch of 8 year olds. As some of you know I work with kids and spring time means Pine Wood Derby time. I always love this time of the year, because it breaks up the monotony and gives us all something to dive into.

O.k., so really I'm not all that interested in beating the kids, but I will admit that I really want to beat my coworkers and some of them take it pretty seriously. I went for a Hail Mary with a new design this year hoping that it would result in a fast car. However, taking that much wood off that thing resulted in a super light weight. And, if you've ever watched your chocolate cake eating friend kill you on the down hills, you know weight equals speed. In Pine Wood Derby a car cannot exceed 5 oz. so I'd need to find a way to fill this thing with lead. I managed to have it coming in at 5 oz. on the nose. I was pumped! The only thing left was to put the wheels on, the most important stage of the build. This is when it all started to go horribly wrong. A mishap with some ill advised Gorilla Glue had the 2011 model a complete mess. I was forced to pull a set of wheels off one day before the race and add another set. The removing and adding of wheels caused two cracks in the frame - not good. Needless to say the wheels were not running true. There was no more time, I had to run what I brung.

Race Day: I put up a mediocre time in the time trials and was seeded 14th out of some 55 cars. Not bad, but not great. I wasn't worried, I've always been a strong finisher. However, there were two cars in the group, two cars that I helped a couple of youth build that were running extremely fast. In fact, one of these cars ended up getting the number one seed. They would prove tough to beat. I ended up going head to head with my coworker/friend and edged him out to move on to ultimately the quarter finals. Elated and confident I thought about how I'd manage the overall win. It wouldn't be right if I actually did win it all, sending a lot of little kids home to tell their parents about the jerk staff who put 12 hours into his car just to beat the children. No worries, it wasn't meant to be.

Soon, a match up to go to the finals formed between the two kids I helped with their cars. I call them J.M. and Airton. J.M. is a guy I work directly with and I'd been listening to him talk obsessively about his car (which he misplaced for two weeks) for about a month. Airton is a younger boy who I've taken under my wing so to speak. One of these two would move to the finals, meaning one of them would be crushed. Airton took the loss hard, fighting back tears, he sat on the side line staring straight ahead while J.M. accepted the cheers and screams from the other 50 plus faithful.

Then, the unthinkable, I would have to face off with Airton for a 3rd place race. But, there was a problem! Some staff removed Airton's weights from his car thinking he was done for the day. There was no time to attach his weights, he'd have to run without them meaning he'd surely lose. They lined our cars up in the starting gate and my white machine shot out front and destroyed Airton's car. As we lined up for the second run (best of three) I noticed a dejected Airton sobbing by the finish line, with huge crocodile tears running down his cheeks. I knew what I had to do. They released the gate for the second run and I held my finger on the back of my car while Airton's machine broke free and was heading down the track. I held it, and held it, then finally released when I knew there wasn't enough track to catch him. I fained complaints to the starter and had him check the track. Airton won the second heat and the roof came off the place as over 50 students began to chant "AIRTON, AIRTON, AIRTON". He'd forced a 3rd run for a chance at 3rd place. Again, I held my car back in the starter's gate, but made this run a bit closer. I was edged out at the line taking 4th, while my boy's tears dried and were replaced by an ear to ear grin for the rest of the day. I high fived him before he headed off to the winner's circle for awards and pictures.

One of my best race days.

Trans Iowa...When Tough Isn't Enough

2011-04-26T20:22:00.002-05:00

Cloaked in total darkness I shouldered my bike for what seemed like the 100th time. The rails of the saddle cut deep into the groove they had already established in my collar bone. As I trudged through energy sucking mud that gathered around my ankles I heard my good friend and training partner Charlie Farrow call out to me, “Eki, what are those eyes up there?”. “They're cats, out huntin'”, I said as I approached three miniature lions lying in wait among the corn stubble and weeds. Their glowing eyes reflected my head lamp back to me as they watched me march through their territory. They were not startled or even nervous as I passed within feet of their hunting grounds, but appeared almost annoyed and perplexed at the same time. “They're livin' the dream.”, Charlie remarked as we left them to their business, we had ours to tend to. We were in Iowa, the land of endless black soil and a sky so big it seems that only the hawks soaring above could ever come close to understanding it. My partner and I were in the 7th running of the Trans Iowa bike race, a 320 mile, unsupported, nonstop gravel road experience. We went there with a plan to race, to win, and to leave our mark. Some things would go as planned, others wouldn't, but one thing is for sure a mark was made, Iowa is in our blood forever.

Charlie Farrow, Tim Ek, Jeremy Kershaw DBD'ers

I pounded out the miles early in the day, feeling fit, light, and fast. Focusing intensely on Charlie's wheel I eeked out every bit of his draft as he did the same to the two leaders in front of him. We were in an established break away and testing each other's strength with hours of racing ahead of us. Our plan was polished, practiced, and solid. We were committed to each other, vowing to do what ever it took to stay with the leaders in the hope that I would be able to launch late in the night for the win. Charlie was willing to “bury himself” for me during the race in order to keep me at the front. So goes the beauty of cycling, a sport so pure that one rider will give all of himself in order to see the other succeed. The art of sportsmanship is represented here in it's purest form when one is willing to acknowledge the chances are better for the other, therefore that one will “give it all up” to have a taste of success. I was humbled by his commitment and honored to train and race with him. Our bonds would only grow stronger as our plan would begin to take on new shapes.

Wet days leading up the the T.I. (Trans Iowa) had the gravel buttery and wet. It took only minutes to be completely covered in mud spray from the wheels of fellow competitors. I spit dirt and at times small rocks out of my mouth every few minutes. The fine Iowa grit reeked havoc on the drive trains of all machines. I winced through every climb as my chain groaned and popped up the hills. I waited for the sickening feeling of a pedal giving way to a broken link as the body suddenly drops to the top tube when all resistance disappears in an instant. A mechanical of this nature would doom all chances of success and destroy hopes of staying in the front. The bike became my number one concern. I would steal a glance to Charlie from time to time only to notice him straining immensely on the climbs as he was unable to change out of his big ring, forcing him to stay in a gear built for high speeds and flat terrain. I rode to him and shouted, “we need to take care of our bikes or all will be lost”. He agreed, but the peloton was not stopping for anyone. It was early in the first morning of the race and this pack of 30 hungry men weren't going to let up. Nervous tensions had things moving rapidly. We were caught in a dilemma, do we pull off to tend to our dangerously dry chains and risk losing the leaders? Surly if the big horses of this race knew that Farrow and Ek had pulled over they'd hit the throttle in order to either completely drop us or deeply hurt us in our efforts to get back. Against better judgment we took our chances and sat in with the group in order to make the first check point, there we would tend to our needs.

The Iowa mud covere my La Cruz

A flurry of activity made the 1st c.p. a stressful time. Each man focused on resolving his own concerns, mine was getting the chain lubed and the mud out of my rear derailleur, front rings, and brakes. Once the task was completed there was a quick stop in the convenience store to top of fluids and Charlie and I were good to go. We rolled out of town, ultimately taking a turn onto a long stretch of rolling gravel that put a strong wind at our backs. A Lincoln, Nebraska rider named Troy Krause jumped in and made up the third man of our little band. We would comfortably hold a pace that had us rolling at speeds that touched 30 mph from time to time, life was good. Charlie and I joked about how we were leading, uh, winning the Trans Iowa, but we knew the two previous strong boys would be catching us soon. One of these strong men was a Sean Mailen, a Salsa Cycles engineer who is largely responsible for designing the very bike I was on, the Salsa La Cruz Ti. We had the pleasure of riding him in last year's T.I., but he was different then. In fact, we nicknamed him the "boy" due to his boyish good looks and striking charm. This year was different, Sean was all grown up, he wasn't a boy anymore and he was capable of putting the hurt on us in ways that I can't describe. We didn't mention the word "boy" once on this day.

Ultimately, Troy struggled to hold our wheels and sure enough we were caught by the original leaders and the four of us were back together, but we were now dealing with 25+ mph hour cross winds that were taking us off of our lines like rag dolls in a dryer. Also, it should be known that the four of us were certainly not working together. There were two clearly established allegiances here, theirs and ours. Charlie and I fought to catch a draft off them in the quartering/cross winds, but they weren't having it. We were being beat down and clearly not as strong. We'd make it to c.p. #2 (177 miles into the race) as four, but it was tenuous at best. In other words, we knew it wouldn't last, this little gathering was going to split up soon. I felt their attacks and I hung on for dear life, but the constant closing of little gaps was taking it's toll and I couldn't help but think of the long haul. Charlie was thinking the same when he finally said, "we have to let them go". I agreed, we'd start working on contingency plans. Auger in and stay the course became the name of the game. Settling into a rhythm became paramount as experience told us that the real race begins when the sun goes down, boy were we right.

Watching them ride out of sight came as a bit of a relief in that I knew the stress of keeping up was over. I could talk with my friend again and just do what we do... ride. And, ride we did. We laughed, told stories, talked of how happy we were that we were still hooked up in the race just like we planned. We built each other's confidence as we played out countless scenarios of how this, that, and this were all going to happen and one of us was going to win the race. I mean hell, they were ahead of us, but Charlie and I still had a huge lead over the rest of the field. We were comfortable, for now.

The sun sank low and we faced different challenges such as coming upon a bridge that was out. The directors must have missed this one as we never saw a re-route signal. No worries, all part of the T.I. we figured, we welcomed these little surprises. However, I don't do that well with heights and this bridge was in a state of disrepair as large portions of the decking were missing. I kind of froze when we rolled up on it and I took note of Charlie immediately confronting the situation by hopping over the barrier and commanding me to "hand me the bikes!". I did, then I watched him shoulder his and wide step across an open section of decking with one foot on a 4 inch wide steel I-beam and the other foot doing the same about 3 feet away. My mind started calculating bad things that could happen, "our shoes are made of hard plastic bottoms and they're packed with mud, I could slip off and fall 20 feet down into that river, with my bike on my shoulder!" Charlie being an experienced mountaineer breezed through this situation as if he were changing t-shirts, while I gingerly tip toed across the beams with my heart in my throat. I got shivers through my whole body when I was done crossing. Soon enough I was back at home on the saddle and on the hoods.

The cockpit I lived in for nearly 30 hours.

As the darkness took control the chatter about "the real racing" blah, blah, blah stopped and switched to comments like, "I'm getting cold, how are you doing?", "Eki, don't you have a better hat?", "My feet are wet and freezing", "We should stop so I can put on every thing I have, I'm worried". My thoughts raced back to the hotel room when I made a snap decision to pull my long sleeve jersey and warm gloves out of my pack and throw them on the floor. I pictured them laying there, clean, warm, and doing me absolutely no good. We thought about buying sweat pants and a hoodie in a convenience store, but they were all closed now. "My God, what if it rains?".

We were in "no mans land" that abyss of being too far from the start and so far from the finish. The scary place where you don't really have a choice, but to keep moving no matter what the conditions. Also, neither Charlie nor I believe in carrying cell phones in this event as Guitar Ted makes it clear that this is a "no support" race, but he encourages the cell phone for an emergency. We see the cell phone as a way out, we don't want that option. As silly as it sounds, the Death Before Dishonor patch we wear on our gear has got us through these hard times. This patch means you don't quit, you just don't! Of course there are exceptions, but those are decisions each man will make for himself and none of us like putting ourselves in those situations, so we just go on and on. Finally, a stop for a cue sheet change and a chance for me to put on everything I had with me. A light weight wicking Helly Hanson hat under my cycling cap, an extra pair of fingerless gloves over my light weight full fingered gloves, some toe warmers, and a plastic $19.99 rain coat. I was a new man and ready to roll with a clear mind. Miles began to roll out behind us.

Our Code

I had taken on the role of navigator, a position I never have felt qualified for and always admired in others who handled it well. It feels like a big responsibility, because extra miles due to mistakes really hurt and they don't just hurt me, they'll hurt the other guy too. Well, lets just say things got confusing. I had a great conversation with a Police officer in a little town called Belle Plaine, Iowa. He had me all squared away and I knew exactly where we were going. So, a quick stop at a little store where I ate a snickers off the pavement (that I dropped) without even batting an eye and we were ready to get back at it. I lead us out of town and onto the gravel again. Suddenly, mileage on the cues were not matching up with my GPS and I became increasingly concerned while Charlie rambled on about his dog, Loki. I made the all too familiar Trans Iowa stop and flatly stated, "This isn't right". My partner tried to find a way to make it right as if talking about it in a nice way would change the situation. His voice lifted and he made comments about how he "feels" like it's "o.k.", but as navigator I needed more than this. "Fine, I'll ride up and check that next road, if it's right I'll blink my head lamp at you which means you should come up too", Charlie said. "O.k., Go! Cover your light with your hand off and on to let me know", I said. I watched as he disappeared into the distance to the point where I couldn't see him any more. A nervousness settled in on me as I stood alone in the Iowa night, so quiet. Then, way up in the distance I saw a light blinking back at me. "COOL, I thought, what a great system we have." I took off and sure enough it was the road we were looking for. All was good again. We rode on, talking and laughing about how far ahead we were when two strange lights were coming toward us at the same time that it donned on us that we were heading back into town. "What the hell are you guys doing here?", I said. "What the hell are you doing and where are you going and who are you?". "It's Farrow and Ek, who are you?" "Krause and Grelk, where are you going? You're going the wrong way!". "You're going the wrong way!", I replied. Dennis Grelk always the cool, calm spirit suddenly chimed in, "No, you are going the wrong way, we're going the right way." He said it in such a way that I simply believed him. A short discussion followed and we turned around to follow them.

Our hour lead on Grelk and Krause was now gone, but still we weren't worried. We discuss how we'd stay with them until sun up, then just ride away with the hopes that the men up the road might be having some spot of trouble, allowing us to sneak in for the win. To say we were optimistic is an understatement. This would rapidly change as Grelk found his legs again.

The chasing began in earnest. Grelk hit the climbs with a vengeance, while the three of us fought to grab his wheel. After all, he was now navigating, we needed him and he had proven good at it. But, he was really hurting us on the climbs. Soon it became apparent that the 180 miles of hard riding earlier in the day were beginning to weigh heavy on Charlie and I. We exchanged concerned glances as the pace ratcheted up at different points throughout the night. I was holding my own, but feeling seriously tired, not only the kind of tied you get from a long bike ride, but I'm talking about hospital kind of tired. I would look for sympathy as I told Krause and Charlie, "I'm really hurting guys, my legs are cooked!". They wouldn't answer, instead they just stared straight ahead. I began to accept that this was how it was going to be and it was 11:00 p.m. My calculations had the race ending for us some time around 8:00 a.m. How would I make it through the night like this?

Race Director, Guitar Ted and Tim Ek

My concerns shifted from myself to my good friend. No longer was he the man who would launch me to a glamorous win of the 2011 Trans Iowa, but he was Charlie Farrow, the man who I talk to about my life, my hopes, my dreams. He was in desperate trouble and he was telling me that he couldn't hang on any more. He started asking about the cue sheets, stating that he would be dropped soon, that he couldn't do it any more. I always told him where we were on the sheets, because I wasn't sure how much longer he could keep coming back to us. The "yo yo effect" in cycling breaks a man down. One can't just keep digging deep to close down gaps over and over. It's nice and romantic to talk about "digging deep", but at some point there's nothing more to dig, at some point one just hits bedrock. My friend had been operating at "bedrock" mode for hours and I was worried. This is not some 24 hour lap mountain bike race. This is the middle of the cold night, in the middle of a state we are not from, with no idea of towns or where they even are. We couldn't even see farms at times. The four of us had been staring at a cone of light from our handlebars for hours and it causes a kind of immunity to the outside world. We were operating in a tunnel of light, so to speak. During a break for food and gear adjustments I made a promise to Charlie that I wouldn't leave him out there in the Iowa night. I vowed I'd get him home and it was getting to the point that we needed to cut Grelk loose.

Suddenly, blinking lights appeared at the top of a climb. The leaders were stopped with a mechanical, we had caught them. A short conversation and a decision to offer them a pump had us moving on without them. We were in the lead or more accurately Dennis Grelk was in the lead. Approximately 50 miles out we encouraged Dennis to leave us as it was clear we were holding him back and he was the strongest rider at the time. He was hesitant, but itching to go. He'd hit the climbs even harder than before only to hold up a bit for us on the other side. I ultimately told him, "just go, I'll get us home". And, he was gone...

Grelk's disappearance was phenomenal as he was there one minute and the next he was out of sight. We all tipped our hats to him and began to root for him. I don't really even know Dennis, but I recall thinking, "Go Dennis, Go, You Can Do It, Don't Let Up!".

Krause, Farrow, and Ek were now the chase group, but we weren't really chasing, we were running, running from the earlier leaders, now behind us dealing with mechanicals. I took over nav. and I took it seriously as I viewed Krause and Farrow as my responsibility. I would get these boys home no matter what and I'd do it without any mistakes. This focus gave me purpose and drive. I rode at the front a lot and I felt them trusting me. I informed them of our distances in order to gauge nutrition and hydration, the sun would be up soon, then every thing would get better.

Being caught and passed by the earlier leaders just before sun up as they chased hard for Grelk had us demoralized, but intent on the bigger prize of finishing. I told the boys that it's about getting home now, just getting home, don't worry about them. This view point would soon change and the race would become a race again as the "what if" scenarios Charlie and I discussed earlier began to unfold.

Another flat had them side lined, we were back in the fight. I was renewed and driven. Farrow seemed to be coming around. Krause stayed positive despite extreme knee pain, he emerged as my rock and my co-pilot. Troy stayed tight on my wheel at all times giving me confidence knowing he was there. He proved to be the Salt of the Earth as I got to know more about his character. I remember thinking that I could ride to the corners of the globe with this guy.

30 miles turned into 15 and we were still in good shape. A large climb "popped" Charlie off our wheels as I grew increasingly concerned about getting caught. I began to lift the pace while Troy stayed hooked on. At 14 miles I rode next to him and asked about the finish. Troy politely stated, "I was just thinking about that and I think you should come in 2nd place and I'll take 3rd, but of course we have to ask Charlie". "Are you sure? And, yes of course we'll talk to Charlie", I said. We both turned around to see my friend about a 1/4 mile back. He was "popped", there was nothing more we could do for him. A sadness came over me as I said, "He's off the back, let's go". Without hesitation Krause and I slipped into a fast moving rotation and began to knock out the remaining miles. As the count down continued I began to get more excited and nervous. I took longer pulls, obsessively looked over my shoulder for chasers. We were doing it! 5 miles to go and I was riding harder than ever. Troy would report that we were clear, no chasers, while I would give him distance to finish information. With 1 1/2 miles to go I sat up. I turned to my new friend to hold out my hand. We shook, smiled and thanked each other, but more importantly we knew what we'd been through together and no one would ever be able to understand it or take it away from us, we were now connected.

So happy

I barely remember feeling anything physical that had to do with riding the bike while we closed in on the finish. Troy pointed them out to me when I couldn't find them. Suddenly, I saw a group of people clapping and moving to the road to get a better look at us. I said to myself, "You did it, You really did it!". I put my hands in the air, then over my face as I was overwhelmed with the enormity of it all. I finished 2nd place in the Trans Iowa for the second time in a time of 29 hours and 44 minutes, over a distance of 336 miles.

Thank you Guitar Ted and D.P. for giving me the gift of finding out what I'm really made of and showing us all that we can be. Thank you Mike Riemer at Salsa Cycles for all that you've done for me. My Salsa La Cruz Ti was exceptional. Thank you Sean Mailen for the time I got to spend with you and I enjoyed getting to know you as well as watching you effortlessly handle your La Cruz. Troy Krause, you are one of the "good guys". I felt so at ease with you and deeply appreciated your approach to this beautiful sport as well as your approach to life. Finally, to my good friend and training partner Charlie Farrow, we did win buddy, we really did win.

The blanket of Trans Iowa covers all finishers and I will forever hold a corner of that blanket tightly in my fist. Thank you Trans Iowa for showing me who I really am.

T.I. recap in progress, but until then...

2011-04-26T01:29:00.000-05:00

Here's a list of what hurts:

Both feet oddly swollen and retaining fluids, incredibly sore
Left ankle sore, but don't remember hurting it
Ugly blister on right heel
Left knee sore
Right knee appears to have a baseball implanted inside of it and the skin is ripped off it in about three places
Both quads have been injected with cement and are fatigued to a degree that is impossible to explain
Right hip is severely bruised with skin torn off
Left side of lower back is tight and sore
Upper back deeply fatigued and sore
Both triceps - destroyed
The heels of both hands are deeply bruised from being on the hoods for almost 30 hours of vibrating gravel
Right wrist sore, but don't remember hurting it
Wound on left side of forehead, most likely from a helmet rub.
Several toe nails are sore to the touch, will most likely fall off.
Stiff neck
Eyes burn
Chest hurts when I take a deep breath

That pretty much sums up my physical being at the moment. Oh, and I'm typing this at 1:24 a.m., because my internal clock is so messed up right now that it feels like it's 2:00 p.m. Work should be fun tomorrow.

I wouldn't trade any of it. I've never felt more alive! And, hey I took 2nd place in the 2011 Trans Iowa. I'm gonna ride this wave, cause despite the list above, it feels pretty damn good!

My full re-cap is in progress, coming soon. I hope you like it.

Eki

Give Me Iowa or Give Me Death

2011-04-21T12:55:00.000-05:00

18 hours from now Amy and I will be heading to the hinterlands of Iowa. I will embark on my 4th Trans Iowa Race. The first attempt saw me elated to meet a goal of finishing the event on a 26" wheeled mt. bike with a huge pack on my back. The second effort had me walking on air for months after as I rolled to a 2nd place overall finish with a whole new perspective on gravel road racing. The third reduced me to ruin as a hurricane like system centered itself squarely over the state and forced me out at about the 150 mile mark.

This weekend I will come at the race humbled, yet experienced. I'm going light and built for speed. My kit is tried and true and I feel confident with the choices I've made in gear, nutrition, and clothing. However, Trans Iowa weather always has the final say. This is the "wild card" that cannot be controlled, only dealt with.

Please, think positive thoughts as you move through your day and night this coming Saturday/Sunday. We'll be out there, "Doing it". Trans Iowa always changes you a bit. I know that no matter what happens, it'll change me for the better.

See you on the other side...

Eki

I'm all, Anti "Big Ring"

2011-04-14T09:50:00.000-05:00

O.k., I'm comin' off the first race of the 2011 season and feeling pretty good about things. I had a solid day on the bike, worked through the dark times, climbed well, and most importantly stayed "hooked on". Hell, I even had some gas in the tank for a run at the overall win.

Now, with that being said, those things I mentioned didn't come for free. I have a deep nagging soreness in my right knee and right glute from a crash mid way through the race on tar that brought stars to my eyes. I also have some fatigue in the 'ole dogs that penetrates to the bone. Oh, and I've got 'King Kong' on my back, but he goes by a new name - Trans Iowa.

So, as the days tick by 'King Kong' and I approach each other like spies meeting on a bridge in some Ukrainian country side. Until we meet in the middle I've vowed to stay out of the Big Ring. I tell myself that the "50" is no place for me now. I must resist the urge to shift with my left hand, I must stay in the small ring and spin. Just spin easy I say. It's hard, as I feel like every thing is taking too long and my legs are saying, "Dude, what's your deal?" In fact I was on my way to get the taxes done last night and I threw her up into the "Big Dog" to start cruising mode, when I realized, "Wait, you're all anti "Big Ring", remember?". Sh*t! Back down to the "little guy".

I am resigned to spin like a little kid on an under geared bike for the next 10 days or so. It feels so wrong and right all at the same time.

See you soon, Mr. Kong.

The Ragnarok 105, Cream of the Crop

2011-04-10T10:25:00.000-05:00

The "Builds" atop Big Buff's car near the "cabin"

The 2011 race season is under way with the completion of the Ragnarok 105 or is the 111? This year's RAG included some changes that left my head spinning to be sure (i.e. a climb called "Heath's Hill" - possibly one of the most difficult climbs I've ever done in my life). Also, a new start/finish that polished off the course in a way that lands the RAG into the premium gravel road race category. These changes resulted in a greater distance this year and more opportunity to climb the famous bluffs of Red Wing, Minnesota.

This year saw 4 DBD (Death Before Dishonor) members towing the line. Jason "Big Buff" Buffington, Charlie Farrow, Jeremy Kershaw, and yours truly. We were fortunate enough to be able to hole up in Buff's father in law's little trout fishing cabin near the race venue. This cabin met all of the DBD'er standards in such a way that it was agreed upon that we could all live there. Hell, if I lived there I'd become an avid fisherman without hesitation, that's how cool this little set up was.

The ride down to Red Wing from Duluth with Buff was great, as there is always good conversation and most importantly, it's not always about bike stuff. I love talkin' old college days, medical stuff (Buff's a Doc), and even giving him a glimpse into Eki's past. At the cabin we had plenty of time to sort out our gear and get the essentials dialed in for race day, while listening to the soothing sounds of Yanni (house music). Yes, Yanni. I bristled at the first suggestion of it, but hey it's not my cabin, I went with it. Immediately, my heart rate dropped, I was calm, I almost started some Yoga sessions. It worked well for my nervous nature.

Fast forward to the race. This year's RAG hosted some serious studs! Meiser, Tri, Farrow, Buff, Norrie, Sova, and a few unknowns that showed themselves at the front of the field early and wouldn't budge. Not only did all of these guys take the blows we tried to hand them, they gave 'em back and they stung!

The RAG always includes a 'King of the Mountains' competition, made up of six scored climbs where points are awarded to the top place holders of the designated climbs. The KOM starts and ends within the first 20 or so miles, so the hurting begins early. I was able to win the 'King of the Mountains' last year, so I was determined to do it again this year. However, I didn't expect it to be as difficult as it was. I controlled the first climb and won with a little "jump" at the end for the line. I felt that things would come easy for me at that point. Then, the diesel engine of Joe Meiser decided to throw his hat into the ring. Joe would now trade punches with me through the remaining 5 climbs. And, when I say "punches", I mean literally. It went something like this. Joe out front about 75% up the hill with me sitting on his left flank locked in against his rear wheel and the soft frost heaved gravel on my left. As I increased my speed to move for the pass he would squeeze me into the frost heaves, effectively doubling my work load. A smart, but some what dirty tactic. "Oh, I see how it's gonna be", I thought. The next climb was incredibly long and the two of us ended up in a similar scenario, however the roles were reversed this time. As Joe moved up on my left I pushed him toward the ditch, again and again. On about my third attempt at this strategy I felt him shove me hard off my intended line. I regained and continued to force him to the soft dirt. His shoves seem to turn to quick jabs to my hip. What it must have looked like to see two guys off the front of the break away punching at each other going up one of the biggest hills in Minnesota on bikes. We laughed about it as we've spent a lot of hours side by side racing. The competition would end with Joe winning three climbs and me winning three. However, Joe finished 3rd in the first climb, while the worst I ever finished was 2nd. I would be the 'King of the Mountains' this day. I was happy with that accomplishment, considering how difficult it was.

With the KOM over, it was time to sit in and concentrate on the rest of the race. There were about 17 of us moving to the first check point ahead of the main field. The pace was moderate and easily managed. Upon leaving the check point our numbers had dropped to 10 as several guys made a run to the store to refuel. The pace would soon ratchet up to uncomfortable levels over and over again.

Joe Meiser (left) and I with our Ragnarok Rocks

Farrow and Buff were determined to let the group know that the DBD were in town and things weren't going to be easy. They continually charged at the front, lifting the pace to a level that my legs (that had just come off the KOM) were objecting too. In my mind I begged them to stop doing this for fear of "popping off" the back of the group. Soon I wouldn't be begging them in my mind, I'd be doing it face to face. At one point I rolled up next to my training partner, Farrow and I plainly stated, "What are you doing this for? You're riding yourself into the ground". Maybe I really meant he was riding me into the ground - he was! He barked at me with a tone I only see from him in the heat of battle, "What do you want me to do, wait till the end so you can beat me on a climb!?" I retreated back to my reserved spot at the back of the field. I kept telling myself to ride up inside the group where the wind resistance was less, but I honestly couldn't handle the pace. My legs were cooked from the early efforts. I would settle for "hanging on", it was all I could do, while the heavy hitters took their turns at the front pushing speeds over 20 mph. We would start to lose members one by one as the pace become too much. It was kind of sad to see them go, they'd spend more and more time at the back, then a climb would really hurt them, a gap would form, they'd bridge back, then repeat the process about three more times, then they'd just be gone. I wondered if I'd be next.

Big Buff would belly laugh at my ability to
get out of car on the way home. This thing
really locked up.

8 of us remained. We approached a left hander off the gravel and on to a stretch of tar. The unthinkable happened. My front wheel got tangled with Big Buff's machine some how, then my right brake lever planted itself into his left quad and I was going down. I clipped out my right foot to save myself and the hard plastic of the cycling shoe hit the damp, humid pavement and it was like I had landed on ice. I was down hard on the tarmac and sliding down the road. The pain was instantly shooting through my right knee and right hip. A cold hand slapped the pavement so hard it would sting for hours. My chain was off and I was alone watching the group ride away from me. I put the chain back on, realized I was o.k. and started the 10 minute gut check for the group. I re-joined, but was psychologically hurt more than any thing. I was nervous about getting close to people and sketchy in general. I would need to overcome these feelings quickly if I were going to stay in this fight.

Attack after attack happened. It seemed like it wouldn't end. Why wouldn't they just settle down and fight it out at the end? The miles ticked away and soon enough we were about 25 miles out. We came to a minimum maintenance road, basically a trail called "Heath's Hill". This climb was made of soft dirt and mud. It was steep and just got steeper in parts. It was a grind of proportions I can't explain. Buff tells me he looked at his computer and the hill went on for 1.6 miles. A slightly built member of our group took the lead on this climb and simply "walked" away from all of us. He seemed to be gliding up the hill. I was in second position following his line, when he just started to gap me, then gap me some more. "How is he doing that?", I wondered. He crested the hill with a huge space between himself and the rest of us. I too had a bit of room and wondered if he'd sit up for me, thinking maybe together we could try to leave the group. He'd have none of it. This young, skinny kid would take this one in on his own. I saw him go into his drops and he was gone. "Can he solo in for 25 miles with 6 of us chasing?", I thought.

The solo effort, although valiant, wouldn't hold. The boy burned up some serious matches in the effort, his bid for the win was over.

15 miles to go. I started eating the rest of my cals and dumped a remaining water bottle on the ground to lighten my load. I reviewed my directional sheets over and over, memorizing the upcoming turns. My bid for the win was beginning. I'm not sure why, but I became energized. I moved to the front determined to take some pulls and win every climb. I felt I needed to show the group that I still had legs despite all I'd been through. Finally, the last hill before the descent into Red Wing. I moved to the front of the group at the base of the climb. I began repeating in my mind, "Win the climb, Win the race, Win the climb, Win the race..." I began to gap the group on the climb, determined to stay out of the saddle through all of it. I stole a glance behind to find one rider on my wheel, Brandon, one of the unknowns. He'd looked comfortable throughout the day and chatter among our group indicated he was a real threat. Brandon hugged my wheel despite my efforts to shake him. He seemed to be laboring, but was right there. I crested the climb and went to the big ring and my drops. Brandon and I had about 40-50 yards on Joe Meiser, with Joe holding a significant gap on the rest of the guys. Experience told Brandon to leave me out front and that's what he did. I fought the wind alone while Joe closed in on us. Soon it was the three of us and it was clear that one of us would win.

Our final turn behind us and about 4 blocks to the finish the chess match began, but at a frenetic pace. Joe went first with an explosive effort. Brandon was glued to his wheel, while I sat out of ideal position next them. Realizing I was in a poor spot I moved past them and found myself in first position with the end rapidly closing in. Still feeling like I was too far from the line for my final push I stole a glance over my right shoulder to find them, looking for their move. "Where'd they go?" flashed through my mind when I didn't see them. "Oh Sh*t!" was my next thought as my head snapped back forward. Brandon must have seen my look right, so he broke left and I was a half second late on his jump. I poured every thing I had into the pedals moving past Joe and chasing hard for Brandon. I closed the gap, but the finish line found Brandon first. He made a brilliant move for the line and I tip my hat to him. What an exciting sprint finish, one that I'm happy with and proud of. I'd go home the "King of the Mountains" and with a 2nd place Overall.

Tim and Brandon (2nd and 1st, respectively)
Brandon equalled total class!

The hardest Ragnarok 105 (111) I've ever done, but the best one as well. Special thanks to the RAG staff for hosting such a beautiful cycling event. And, thank you Salsa Cycles! My Salsa La Cruz Ti was amazing and she soaked up those gravel miles like a champ.

Me, my rocks, and my Salsa La Cruz Ti

FOR SALE

2011-03-26T19:04:00.000-05:00

This bike has been meticulously maintained and is in great shape! $650.00

Components:
Sunline Carbon 1" riser handle bar
ODI Lock On grips (brand new - never used!)
Salsa Delgado Wheels
Surly Hubs

Avid BB 7 Disc Brakes (brand new)

Ritchey Seat Post

Ritchey Stem

Current gear: 34 x 20

Please call: (218) 727-0736

White Bros. Magic 100 (26" wheel) $300

This fork is like new! Great shape! Super plush!

Model Name: Magic 100
Dropout: QR
Brake mount: V Brake/Disc
Travel: 100mm/3.9"
Wheel Size: 26"
Damping: IMV
Adjustments (external and/or internal): Threshhold, Rebound, Air Pressure
Spring: Linear Air Spring
Stanchions: 32mm
Crown: standard
Weight: 3.8lbs

Please call: (218) 727-0736

If interested in either of these items give me a call or shoot me an email. jupiterte@yahoo.com

Is There Tiger Blood in You?

2011-03-23T12:51:00.000-05:00

I have Tiger's Blood in me.

So, the storm that was hyped for a week straight was to hit Duluth, MN with a vengeance last night and today. I was so ready for a day off of work because of it. I didn't necessarily want the new snow, but the idea of relaxing at home sounded pretty good. I waited, I checked outside, I waited some more, just wind, a lot of wind. O.k., mega wind!! As I laid in bed worrying about whether there would be siding left on the house in the morning, not one flake fell from the sky. What a rip off! Guess this meant I'd be riding to work in the morning.

At about 5:40 a.m. I went in to say "Good Bye" to Amy as she lay all snugged up. Her only comment to me was, "Are you riding the long way?". "Yeah, duh, WINNING", was my response. She rolled her eyes. I took off with the previously mentioned "mega wind" at my back. It was bizarre as it seemed I didn't even need to pedal. Ahhh, but a guilty pleasure it was. Ultimately, I'd make the turns necessary to complete my loop and pay Mother Nature dearly. I finally became concerned when I found myself riding through "mini tornadoes" on the side of the road that tossed me around as if I were that kitten at the top of the page. Seriously, at one point I was lulled into a track stand going down hill. Really? Really? That's wind.

Hey, at least it wasn't minus 20. Minus 20 is for fools and trolls.

The Build Up

2011-03-20T18:24:00.001-05:00

2011 Salsa La Cruz Ti
(My new gravel rig)

I've been working on this build off an on for the last week. I'm no expert bike mechanic so to say it's been a bit slow goin' is an under statement. Finally, she's ready to rock! As luck would have it it's the crappiest day ever outside and I had to put in the trainer just to size it out. What a bummer!

Some details: Ultegra drive train, Shimano 105 shifter/brakes, Avid Shorty 6 brakes, Ridley Fork (carbon legs, aluminum steerer tube), Chris King Headset, Chris King Hubs, DT Swiss Rims, Salsa Carbon Short and Shallow Bar, Salsa Seat Post, WTB Saddle, Crank Bros. Egg Beater Pedals, Salsa Stem.

Weight = 21.0 lbs.

Special thanks to 'Kid' Riemer and all of the Salsa crew. These pictures can't do this bike justice. She's really a beauty!

Ridin' the Sasquatch Loop

2011-03-13T11:29:00.000-05:00

I've always been reluctant to write about my training exploits on this forum as it just really isn't that exciting. However, the experience I had yesterday makes the cut.

It's "big ride" time as the spring classics (Ragnarok, Trans Iowa, Dirty Kanza) draw closer. In light of the need to bag some serious miles I decided to do a loop that some friends and I completed last year. This loop was researched extensively by myself as I wanted an inspired ride that would basically impress my friends. The route would consist of mostly all pavement, as we just don't have that much gravel up here in northern MN., not enough to string out large miles in a loop format anyway.

So, last week I pulled up my account on "mapmyride" and found the loop which rounds out to be about 140 miles of very scenic landscape. The first 55 are next to the water's edge up the North Shore, with a sunrise so close you feel like you could reach out and grab it. The northern reaches of the arc are so remote that when I looked at a satellite image I did not see a man made structure for over a 30 mile stretch. After one completes the "arc" a little adventure through a gravel section has views of an old abandoned settlement complete with a "children's cemetery" - so cryptic!

This loop was planned for this past Saturday, a day in which none of my "friends" could join me. Although, 140 miles is a long way to go "solo", I figured it would be an exercise in mental toughness.

I awoke at 4:20 a.m. to a blanket of about an inch of fat, wet snow on the ground and falling rapidly. "Damn!" I was unhappy and questioning my recent decision to remove the studs from the front of my cross bike, replacing both tires with the fast rolling Conti's. That would later prove to be one hell of a sketchy decision. Despite the snow fall I threw on my winter cycling clothes and hustled out the door. As I descended through the Duluth streets to the canal (my starting point) I noted how wet I was already as the snow was more like a controlled down pour. Oh well, I was into it and I figured I'd just DEAL. Well, I started thinking about the route as I settled into a bit of a rhthym. Then, suddenly it ocurred to me - I DIDN'T HAVE THE DIRECTIONS I HAD WRITTEN OUT FOR THE ROUTE!!!!! The route included so many turns that I had made myself a small set of "cue sheets" in order to nail it exactly. The little "sheets" were on my coffee table in the basement about a mile away, but 1,000 feet UP! I live on the hillside of Duluth and at this point I was down by Lake Superior. I contemplated leaving the sheets, but knew I'd get confused up north. I had to have them. Unbelievably ticked off I began the 25 minute climb back to my house. Once the sheets were in my hand I had a huge sweat going and I was soaked from the rain, uh, I mean snow. Do I have to mention how happy I was that I got up at 4:20 a.m. and it was now almost 6:00 a.m. and I was still in my driveway (sarcasm - Not Happy!)?

Finally, under way and running smoothly although extremely concerned about being so soaked with a forecast calling for dropping temps and high winds. That forecast combined with wet clothes = tough day, if not dangerous. "Suck it up Buttercup", I told myself as I moved north up the shore. There was no sunrise to lose myself in, only squinting through soaked lenses. I slogged the 55 miles up the shore to the little hamlet of Beaver Bay through periods of heavy wet snow and wind. However, it seemed to lightin' up from time to time. I counted on the warm temps as a saviour of sorts (upper 20's).

I hung a left in Beaver Bay to begin what I've named the "arc" over the northern reaches of this circle. This remote section crosses the Laurentian Divide (think Continental Divide only for the upper midwest). So, what that means is about a 15 mile elevation gain of which is super steep in the beginning, but eventually plateus and begins the gradual fall down the other side. The drop down the other side sounds so nice, but I'd experience none of that as I rode in a stiff headwind, being pelted by tiny ice balls, all the while rolling on about an inch of crusty snow. I was managing about 9 mph. I tried to break this stretch into 5 mile chunks as I was mentally struggling. This is when I realized that the likely hood of seeing a Sasquatch was quite possible. I was so miserable at this point that I welcomed the idea, I resolved that I wouldn't even be scared if I saw one. I amused myself by actually keeping "an eye out". I rode carelessly out in the middle of the highway, while the occasional car would pass by on about a half hour intervals. At one point, I had the sneaking suspicion that I was being followed (I was listening to music so I couldn't hear anything else). I turned to see a HUGE SNOW PLOW about 10 feet off my wheel. I pulled out into the lane, out of his way to see the driver roll down his window, checking on my well being. You know the conditions are rough when a snow plow driver shows concern. He was a cool guy!

3 hours had passed before I completed the "arc" and entered the historic site of the Tiomi settlement. I was so happy to turn off that highway and get into some ice covered gravel. However, the gravel meant more "slow goin'". I was already way behind schedule and I desperately needed to get some speed under my wheels - it wouldn't happen for some time. I moved through the cabin country and viewed the sites of the settlement as I slowly moved past them. It all appeared so eary in the wet heavy snow fall, cemeterys for children, small school houses and old time cabins. Where was Sasquatch? I felt he was out there some where.

The loop was originally planned for a late spring or summer ride, so I was super bummed when I entered a portion I forgot about that included a snowmobile trail. I was in too deep and was forced to continue on. Needless to say, I was forced to dismount and hoof it for a mile and a half on a trail not designed for 35 mm tires.

Finally, the 50 mile home stretch had me with a tail wind and cruising comfortably. The machine was ladened with ice, much like the fishing boats on "Deadliest Catch". No longer able to shift the bike, I picked a stiff gear and kept her there. At times I was forced to walk the climbs as I couldn't turn the gear or shift.

In my closing mile I saw my car approaching with Amy at the wheel, clearly concerned. She had left the house to go looking for me. In non Arron Rohlston fashion I left her a copy of my "cue sheets". I appreciated her concern, but told her I'd finish out the ride. I owed it to Sasquatch.

Final stats: 148 miles, 11 hours and 50 minutes.

Fixin' a Bike Feels Right

2011-02-18T09:07:00.002-06:00

Amy and I try to keep our lives simple so we can chase the things in life that make us happy, running and biking respectively. Therefore, we own one car. She drives the car to work, while I get excellent gas mileage on my bike.

Now, as important as it is to keep the car in proper working order the same can be said for my bike. After all, not only is this a tool to keep my fitness up to par, but it's how I get around. The dead of winter has a way of causing a guy to put things off, not to mention with a training schedule that's leaving me wiped out. Most nights I've just been hoping the bike would fix itself. Long story short, the thing has been running like crap! All the salt, grit, grime, and tears (mine) have it groaning over the smallest of demands. Last night's ride home was the last straw. I really thought some thing was going to snap, maybe even me. Into the stand she went and I prepared to get dirty. Believe it or not, it was one of those rare times when every thing went smooth, which was vital, because if something were to go dreadfully wrong my LBS wasn't open and I didn't have another machine I was prepared to take into the slop. Well, I guess I could have taken Big Mama off the hook, but damn, she's soooo clean right now.

I attacked the supposed issue with "plan A", only to find a different issue that had me in one of those "Ahhhhh, that's the problem" moments. A short time later she was running smooth in the stand and a little attention was given to some other issues and I felt good!

The ride into work this morning felt even better, as I was able to actually use all the bike had to offer, rather than avoid certain gear combos, and the "ooooh, better not do that" factor. Too bad I was faced with a 25 mph head wind for over half the ride. At one point I had to drop down the middle ring going DOWN HILL, I just couldn't turn over the big ring any more. Now that's wind.

Fix your bike, it's worth it!

Winter Lonliness

2011-02-10T09:14:00.000-06:00

The winter doldrums have landed squarely on my shoulders. I've become irritable with myself. I complain out loud while riding to work. My training partners won't ride with me, they're too busy skiing. I curse the cold. And, when I say cold I mean, minus 35 degrees with the wind chill. It really hurts! Lately, I have resorted to shifting my commuter with my right foot manipulating the rear derailleur. You see, the ole girl is protesting just like I am. I gave her (the bike) a bath at work the other day just to show her I still care and I think I could have made a little sand box out of all the grit that was on the floor.

I've been trying to be positive, but clearly losing the battle. I've tried to imagine how all of this will pay off in the summer when I'm wearing about 3 oz. of clothing and trying to flex a new frame. However, as the cold continues and the weather guy talks about more snow coming I can't help but wonder if it's all been worth it.

I know, I need a vacation! Hmm, Jamaica???

Biking in the Cosmos

2011-01-31T08:44:00.001-06:00

My friends to the south (i.e. Minneapolis - you know who you are) often mock me for indoor training sessions, but man, sometimes it's just freakin' cold out. Now, I'm sure they would respond with all kinds of stats that suggest it's just as cold 150 miles south of me, but I gotta tell ya, when I head down there I'm expecting to see Palm trees. It just never seems as cold there as it is here by the big Gitchi Gummi (that's Lake Superior to non mid-westerners).

As I did final preps in my garage before my morning commute I tried to brace myself. Mittens over jacket cuffs - check, blinker on helmet blinking - check, blinker on bike blinking - check, head lights on - check, air in tires - check, good song on ipod - check. O.k., let's DO THIS!

I lift the garage door to a dark neighborhood, push the bike out into the drive way, turn and slam the garage door. One shove, a leg over and I'm rolling past my car and into the street. It's when I take the first inhale that I feel as if I'm in a vacuum, space if you will. Wait! I know my body just performed the necessary actions required for a breath of air, but my lungs seem to have suctioned in on themselves. Again, I go for the valuable oxygen and yes, a little bit seems to be coming in. The air actually is holding the precious molecule. Soon enough I'm able to pull in satisfactory amounts of the good stuff.

I must say, the first breath of the morning in Duluth sometimes has me wondering if this is what it's like to try to breath in space.

P.S. Good luck to my training partners up in the "ice box" of America competing in the Arrowhead 135. Definitely some hard guy stuff. I think those guys probably can breath in space.

Forced to be Something I'm NOT!

2011-01-28T10:48:00.001-06:00

As I move through my daily existence I'll admit that cycling is on my mind A LOT! I guess I put a lot of my identity into that endeavor. Some might even say, "That Eki guy can ride his bike a long way". With that being said I have to realize this isn't all I am and real life has a way of proving that.

During my forced hiatus from the bike I decided I needed to take care of some business around the house. I usually approach house hold "fix it" tasks with an insane amount of anal retentiveness and this has allowed me to accomplish a thing or two. For example, a few years back I decided we needed a shed, so I checked a book out of the library, read it, then built a pretty sweet shed (if I do say so myself). It kind of turned out like a mini Swiss alps style chalet. A minimalist could probably live there happily.

So, the little leak under the wash tub was going to be dealt with. I figured maybe an hour tops. I enlisted the assistance of my neighbor who originally installed the wash tub with me handing him a tool from time to time (Thanks Gary). In all honesty, plumbing scares me. I could flood the house - I don't want that! Well, much like that quick fix you intend to do to the bike before a ride that ends up canceling the ride, because it all goes so bad. While one problem would be solved another would emerge. I tried to think as if I were a molecule of water, "why am I trying to get out of these pipes and hoses so bad?"

Several trips to Home Depot, several ruined parts, a lot of water spilled all over the place and yes, some swearing, the job is done (fingers crossed) I think. I won't go into all the details, but the phrase, "Are you kidding me?" came out of my mouth so many times I can't count them as I saw a big crocodile tear droplet hanging from the "job site".

The moral to the story is that whenever I hear someone say, "How do you do that?", when they talk to me about a 200 or even 300 mile ride, I'm pretty sure I can find something about them that will get me asking the same question back. We all have something we can do well and other things that we wish we could. For me, I wish I was a better PLUMBER.

I'm so glad to be back in my comfort zone. As I swung a leg over my winter commuter this morning I whispered..."Miss me?". I could have sworn I heard, "It's about time"....

Resting at an All Out Pace

2011-01-24T14:13:00.002-06:00

This winter's training volume has been ratcheted up to levels I have yet to experience. As a result I have rolled out of the rack each morning to creaks and pops that have made me peek under the bed in order to track down the source of the noise.

Ice bags Ace bandaged to various joints while watching episodes of "The Biggest Loser" had me wondering, "Am I doin' this right?"

Well, being an educated man I decided that a degree in Sports Medicine wasn't needed to determine what was happening to me. I just plain 'ole needed a break. So, wracked with guilt for not riding the bike I implemented a forced hiatus to all forms of exercise. It is during this pause that I will recoup my mental faculties as well as relieve the myriad of physical ailments currently plaguing me. I have implemented a strict plan of consuming large quantities of strawberry ice cream and pale ale.

I'll be back soon...

While One Star Rises, Another Must Fall

2011-01-14T13:13:00.000-06:00

Recently, a meeting was held in Duluth's DBD Headquarters to mourn the loss of a formerly respected member. No, he didn't pass on to the great unknown, he merely fell from grace.

Once a great man and someone I was proud to call my training partner has lost all semblance of dignity, honor, and just plain self. The beginning of the end took place at the wintry scene of the famed Tuscobia Ultra, where he walked among entrants with the swagger of a man in his 20's. He entertained all as he told tales of past exploits. Men gathered at his feet listening to his yarns, while others stood in the distance, mouths agape.

The race itself told no lies as it dispatched the aged Farrow or Hondo as some know him with extreme prejudice. Farrow attempted to follow DBD protocol or so his story goes, but his WWI revolver faltered (again). He claims he went one step further in a last ditch effort at honor, hurling himself off a train trestle of sorts, into a rocky ravine. Alas, he survived and without a scratch which lends further questions to his claim.

DBD members held court at Duluth's Kitchi Gamme Club to determine Farrow's future within the adventure society. The scene moved from nervous supporters milling about sipping brandy to a fevered pitch as talk of Buffington's arrival gained momentum. Young Buff, or Big Buff (also a training partner I'm proud to say) is our rising star and has emerged as a figure of admiration among members and nonmembers alike. It's clear that his status among the DBD clan not only remains solid, but quite possibly climbs in rank. Soaring off a win at the previously mentioned Tuscobia Ultra he remains the apple of our eye. The irony of it all is that it was the broken soul, Farrow who once fought for Big Buff's, or back then, Jason's acceptance into the group. Now, it appears that it is Buffington who has gained Mallory's favor and may soon replace Farrow.

As the meeting was called to order Sir Mallory called for a moment of silence to remember and offer internal salutations to the aged one as it was clear the committee had made it's decision although no formal vote had taken place. Just then and without warning a stud of sorts entered via the east wing. It was Buffington, tan, handsome, and striding with his feet above the ground. Shackleton rose first calling out..."3 CHEERS FOR BUFFINGTON, 3 CHEERS!!!" The committee let out a resounding, "HIP, HIP, HURRAY...HIP, HIP, HURRAY...HIP, HIP, HURRAY!!". I found myself shoved to the back of the crowed, almost exiled as I am known to have supported Hondo through previous suspect trials. Quickly, the lad Buffington was hoisted high upon the shoulders of founding members Crazy Horse, Shackleton, and recent inductee Henry Hudson. The room erupted with cries of, "CAPITAL, GOOD SHOW, LONG LIVE BUFF!!!" Suffice it to say all thoughts of Farrow's legacy were dashed.

Dazed, I stumbled to a chair at the back of the room and wept the tears of a man lost, yet filled with the promise of a new beginning in the rise of Big Buff's star. As if I were born of two fathers I was torn by memories of Hondo's early tutelage, quickly replaced by this young upstart's hunger and talent. The tears ran down my cheeks, while a smile crept across my face...

The Harshest of Winters

2011-01-04T13:07:00.000-06:00

Recently I was awarded a brief respite from my training abroad. I must say it's nice to be home, but I will add that my daily commutes have been at best uncomfortable. The northern reaches of Minnesota have seen (in my humble opinion) a harsh winter and are we even half way through it?

The gear/kit that I work with throughout the winter months has proven to be quite effective, but there are times when it just doesn't matter, the bits and pieces are gonna get cold. It's rare that I am able to report that my torso experienced "old man winter" biting through, but last night I felt him. You know they say up here, "it's not the cold that gets ya, it's the wind", they're right.

Fortunately, the equipment has been performing in the cold, minus a few odds and ends either freezing up or simply breaking off. It's to be expected. An old friend loaned me a studded cross tire for the front which was like an extension to my life. He (Hondo) told me he doesn't need it any more as he is now heavily into cross stitching and mall walking. I miss him.

Bundle up friends, it's nasty out there. Duluth, Mn is in the thick of it now!

Wisconsin Endurance Mountain Bike Series Trophy

2010-12-23T18:23:00.000-06:00

WEMS comes through and sends this fine mug.

I knew if I poured my heart, blood, sweat, and tears into the WEMS races this mug would be waiting for me on the other side. Thanks WEMS, she'll be put to good use!

An Open Letter to the DBD

2010-12-15T10:14:00.002-06:00

This letter is in reference to the upcoming Tuscobia Ultra - 150 miles.

MEN

Men, as I lay awake last night, done with a day of training I shuddered as if a cold wind crept under me blankets. The sudden tremble came at the thought of pedaling (or in Kershaw's case foot traveling) a machine of torture (or pulling one) through an inconceivable distance. I shook me head and simply chuckled for I am in the company of MEN.

In this bleak and desperate time I find that honor may not be lost, for it is these MEN that I rest my weary head upon. Although, our salty little band of brothers may have fractured, it is not broken. It is events like the one that awaits in none but three sunsets that binds us.

Steadfast and with a full heart is the way in which these MEN will go forward. Stay salty, stay hard, stay nitty gritty. I will spread the word, I will tell the world your story as I know you would tell mine if I were in your place.

Respectfully yours,

Sir Eki

Off The Grid: Chile

2010-12-08T10:08:00.000-06:00

I nervously slipped into the capsule that would take me to my new training ground. I was skeptical, yet trusting. I heard Spanish being spoken at a feverish pace around me as I was being prepped to lower into mother Earth. What have I done?

My departure from Antarctica was without fanfare. A bag was placed over my head upon emerging from my icy depths and I was escorted to a barge where I was set adrift. I don't recall the time that passed as I lived in an altered state throughout the passing. A sudden "thud" announced that I had hit terra firma. Was I home?

The familiar voice of my trainer soothed me as he commanded that I remain calm and stop fighting the hood, it was all part of the plan. It was then that I felt the confines of my tomb like transport that would take me into the bowels of our mother.

What seemed like hours passed before my capsule halted with a jolt. I fumbled blindly at a latching device in order to free myself from it's grasp. I was out! I removed my hood to find that I still lived in darkness. On my hands and knees I attempted to explore my surroundings. Yes, it all began to make sense to me when I felt the round hoops filled with spokes, however one was quite large, while the other was it's infant. This machine of torment would be the beast I would tame.

While feeling about I came across a small candle worth about 3 minutes of illumination combined with flint and steel. As the candle was born with light a small hand scribed note lay at my feet, instructions of a sort. It simply read:

"Eki, you are to ride this wooden wheeled bicycle throughout this mine. You will establish a 'loop' by which you will complete laps until you receive further instruction. The darkness is meant to become your ally. It is our hope that while your rods and cones degenerate you will come to no longer need eye sight.

As with all of your training, it is not yours to question, but simply to obey. You need not worry of the logic behind this technique. Fear not, your shaman assures us that your eye sight will return at some point.

Godspeed..."

Off The Grid: Queen Maude Land, Antarctica

2010-11-29T10:08:00.003-06:00

My third "Off the Grid" post comes to you from a location I never thought I'd see myself in, the bottom of the Earth. My Shaman accompanies me in this remote location of Antarctica.

As grand as my Indonesian experience was I knew it was time for me to move on. I must admit that the case of malaria that I willingly subjected myself to was taking a toll. I am completely bald, covered in lesions, and dysentery controls my being.

Perplexed by my move to Antarctica, I attempt to take it in stride. The two of us (my Shaman and I) traveled by raft to the tiny island of South Georgia where DBD board member, Shackleton spend a good deal of time. From South Georgia Island we caught the current south into the Weddell Sea. We docked at the aforementioned, Shackleton base camp, from there it was overland by foot to a tiny outcropping by the sea, somewhere in Queen Maude Land.

As I write this I continue to grapple with the question of how training here will aid me in my cycling endeavors, nevertheless, I press on. In a rare twist, I am afforded a luxury, a SCUBA suit! Presumably this is to protect me from sea creatures that may be interested in feeding upon my open lesions (Indonesia). This "suit" was air dropped to me upon my arrival to the coast. It was a welcomed change as my loin cloth had become a bit, as they say, RANK!

My training here consists of being lowered into this hole where I am forced to hold my breath for 30 minute intervals. My Shaman whips me viciously if I am forced to "jerk the rope" as a signal to pull me up before the appropriate time has passed. I take the whippings as they are offered. I know it is for the best.

I'll be home soon...

Off The Grid: Indonesia

2010-11-19T10:38:00.001-06:00

I built this cabin with a leatherman as part of my training.

Dear reader, I write to you via my lap top from somewhere in Indonesia. It's not that I can't tell you where I am, I honestly don't know. My Trainer/Shaman/Guru has me involved in a training regime that I've been struggling to make sense of, yet I know I must follow his instruction as it will only benefit me in the distant spring classics.

I'll give you a brief description of what I have been enduring these past few weeks. I have come to realize that it is not a dream that I am shackled to my machine of torment. I can only surmise that this is a technique designed to de-sensitize me to the anguish I feel when I lay my eyes upon the beast. An hour before sunrise I am freed from my chains, fed a bowl of slop, and injected with a low grade dose of malaria as my "teacher" feels I must be completely "reduced" in order to gain the insight and strength needed to meet his standards of what I might become. I've given up on my daily requests to have my loin cloth cleansed as I know the answer. Instead, I toil in my own filth mounted on the beast that I have come to admire in some twisted way, much the way a victim begins to admire his captor. It sickens me, but it is my existence.

My hours are long and my load is heavy. Despite my burden I shall not complain for I know that I will see you all on the other side. Please do not be alarmed at my appearance for I have undergone many changes since you last cast your gaze upon my American being. I now blend with the indigenous populous as I travel from region to region. I know not where my next post will come from, but I hope it finds you well. Until then, I bid you adu.

That's me working in the mid-day heat. Don't let my appearance concern you.

To those of you who know me best, send my regards to my family. I miss you Amy, Betsy, and Gray, but it won't be too much longer...

More to come...

Off The Grid

2010-11-10T09:44:00.000-06:00

I have elected to sequester myself in this humble cabin.

Some might argue that the training season is the "best" season. I must say that at times I agree with that sentiment. In an effort to "be the best that I can be" I have made a decision that will no doubt cause a stir among some, namely the DBD'ers. Suffice it to say that I have flung myself full on into the upcoming training season with reckless abandon.

Two weeks of meditation have taken me to a cross roads. I have chosen my path and it goes without saying that it is not the popular one. O.k., o.k., it's "the one less traveled". I was trying to avoid that phrase. Through consultation with Mallory, Shackleton and Crazy Horse I have been cleared to leave my fellow DBD'ers in the dark about what my untested training regime consists of.

I can however, let my readers know that I have been sufficiently poked, prodded and tested in an effort to discern whether I am physically up to the challenges that await. My physical possessions now consist of a loin cloth, bike shoes, bicycle, lap top (from which I write to you), and one spear.

Please think of me in the coming months as I work to control my physical and mental being through deep meditation and physical feats of which I do not yet know. I will see you on the other side at the Ragnorok and the Trans Iowa this spring. I will introduce myself for you may not recognize me (think Tom Hanks in Castaway).

If you see my lovely wife and two adoring cats, please send them my best.

More to come...

Eki

That's me on the left in an undisclosed location.

Really? Are We Doin' This?

2010-10-27T13:30:00.000-05:00

I guess we all knew it was coming, but seriously does it have to come as such a shock? The hurricane style storm (meteorologists are currently discussing throughout the country) that centered itself seemingly above Duluth has unleashed. You know that feeling you get when the roller coaster is done clicking and clacking and you're heading to the abyss of the first descent, the one where your stomach tightens up into a little ball. That feeling is what hit me when I lifted my garage door to see WINTER. There was white every where and more of it coming down. Why? Why now? I'm not ready, no one even asked me if I was ready. It's not that I hate winter, it's the messy transition that gets to me.

Screw it! In an act of defiance toward Mother Nature, whom I'm constantly at war with, I decided to take Chili to work this morning. I fit her out with lights and cautiously departed, thinking all the while about that first "slam down" on the black top. To my delight it was all just really wet, no ice. Feeling more confident I opened her up into the big ring while I dug out my camera for this post, quite a risky move I might add. Riding no handed in super slop, in the dark, with cars flying past trying to take pictures is not recommended, but I did it any way.

Totally soaked from road spray I arrived at my place of employment only to find it suspiciously dark. "This is weird, where is everybody", I said out loud. Great! Duluth cancelled school (apparently they're frightened of a little wet snow) leaving me no youth to guide. So, wet and crabby I decide to get a little work done. Oh, and throw up this post, shhh.

I guess the winter will come, so we might as well accept it.

The Crash

2010-10-22T17:29:00.001-05:00

The left Bar End does not seem to be positioned correctly - Just sayin'

Sometimes it seems mother Earth just reaches up and grabs ya.

Recently I was finishing an enjoyable ride through some of Duluth's finest trails when suddenly and without warning leaves were shooting into my face and my head was bouncing along the ground.

Approximately 4 minutes from my house I ducked into a little piece of trail that I love. I've ridden this little 150 yard stretch of trail hundreds of times, yet this time things went very wrong. Here's a little summary.

Why the crash happened from my perspective:

Freshly changed tires pre-ride with quite possible too much air in them.
40 miles of hilly single track with zero calories (a little experiment).
Last thought before the crash; "Let's see how well these tires will 'hook up' if I hit this sweeper with some speed".
Sometimes I think I'm better than I am - clearly!

What the crash felt like through my mind and eyes:

"Man, you're really flyin'. Don't touch the breaks."
(nano second of thought) "The front wheel is washing out. The front wheel is seriously washing out!! The front wheel is no longer effective!!!"
"My head is bouncing off the ground like a tennis ball."
"Leaves are shooting into my sun glasses."
"Holy Crap! A miniature ball peened hammer just slammed into my right shin!" (my right shin making contact with the little air nozzle thingy on the rear shock)
"I hope my collar bone didn't break again."
"Wow, I really skidded a long way."
"I'm kinda hurt."

The aftermath:

"My handle bars look funny. Dang, they're backwards."
"Oh My God, my left calf and right quad are cramping so bad I'm going to wet my bibs."
"Walk it off, you're not going to the hospital."
"My bar end is pointing to the sky."
"My helmet is cracked."

The moral to the story is, be careful, you never know when you're mother's not happy with you.

2010: The Year in Review Part II

2010-10-15T14:15:00.004-05:00

The Salsa Two Four was supposed to be a 24 hour team effort that devolved into me doing a solo 8 hour version. The night before the event I was able to finally meet my teammate, Danielle Musto. Together we'd host an hour long ride for those interested, followed by a little chat time about endurance racing.

I felt pretty good going into this race and was really resting on the fact that I'm used to races in the 12 hour range. Overly confident I found that I was quickly "B-slapped" by Afton Alps. The event was phenomenally organized and Salsa just blew it up as a title sponsor! Full on body cramps and a mechanical eventually did me in on this baby. I was all done in at about the 5 hour mark - still good enough for a 7th overall. Everyone was hurting. It's safe to say I left this race disappointed and demoralized.

The WEMS' 12 Hours of Pitch Black Single Track came on the heels of an 11 day vacation complete with an over abundance of walking through downtown Chicago (over 50 miles in 3 days). Hoofing it through the concrete jungle doesn't sound that hard, but let me tell you it wears on you. My lower back was killing me and my hips were...my God my hips! "Please just get me on my bike where I belong!", was all I thought. The 'Pitch Black' would do just that.

I approached this one differently as I went out much slower and put less pressure on myself to try to take the race into my hands early. I wanted to see if I could come up from the back later in the race with conservation of energy being the focus, rather than "give it all up and then hold on!". I found that I had so much fun handling the race this way and the alone time in the trail was sublime. There's something about riding over night that bonds you to the bike and to what you're doing. I loved it and was able to rally late in the race closing on the leader, but not enough to grab the win. I'd settle for 2nd and be very pleased at the same time. A great way to end vacation.

Oh, the Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival. What can you say about this race? You've got to be there to feel it. I've been there several times and it's addicting, you just can't say "no".

I had high expectations for the Cheq. Coming off of a solid effort last year I was looking for more. 2009's race had me on track for about a 2:20 and a top 100 for sure until a flat at the top of the Fire Tower climb took me out of that pace.

I brought Jorge into this race with me. You remember Jorge, the little guy that lives in my GPS. I set him up to finish in 2:20 then I proceeded to watch him totally kick my A%$. I just couldn't hang with the little B@S*&$D. He dropped me on every hill and rolling out near the back of the field didn't help my chances much either (at the start). Jorge got to start right on pace after the national anthem was done. I however, was forced for the first 15 minutes to ride like I was heading to the store for some milk.

There are no excuses. I just didn't have the top end speed, although I did the best I could. The Chequamegon left me smiling and disappointed (a little) at the same time. Hey, they aren't goals if they're easy to get, at least that's what I say.

Last but not least the glorious Heck of the North. My home town race and last scheduled event of the year. Oh, and back to the gravel. Chili would come back off the hook for this race and I'd be happy to offer her more than just my daily commutes to work and home. The pace began in what I would deem a casual speed. The main field stuck together despite a few concerted efforts to break things up. Miles clicked off before it was evident that it would be the off road sections that decided this thing. In other words, the guy who gets through the woods the fastest wins the race.

Due to time constraints and the risk of boring you the reader, I am obliged to let you know that I went into the pain cave/rabbit hole/red zone more than I ever planned during this thing. The pace went from complete boredom to sheer panic in a nano second. I was fortunate to grab a 3rd place overall due to some climbing still left in the 'ole legs. I should have worn a heart rate monitor in this one, pretty sure I was in humming bird status at times.

To sum up, it was a great year! Riding with Salsa Cycles made it extra special, not to mention getting to know the good folks responsible for these bikes. I like to think I've made some pretty good friends with those that work and ride for the brand. Also, thank you Amy for driving to all those little towns miles from home just so I can do what I love. Thank you Charlie, Jason, Jeremy and all the others who put up with my nonstop babbling through those cold winter rides. Thanks everyone, looking forward to starting it all over again.

Stay tuned...

2010: The Year in Review Part I

2010-10-12T13:45:00.002-05:00

In an effort to put the 2010 race season to bed I will attempt to capture some of what I deemed high lights and low lights throughout the year. I'll let you, the reader discern for yourself where each segment fits. Pounding out the year through the key board will hopefully afford me some closure to some of the best and worst cycling moments of the year and in some cases, my life.

Dedicated training for 2010 began in the fall of 2009. I set my sights on the early classics with the Trans Iowa fixed as THE race. I froze my fingers, toes, face and core through what seemed like never ending miles of winter riding. The amount of road miles in the winter was more than I had ever done and some of the coldest. As winter riders know it's always colder on the ROAD. I didn't care as I knew the long hours on the road were what I needed to be ready come spring. I planned several of the DBD rides for members and I simply "sat in" on others, but nonetheless I was determined to stay out there.

Off the bike I thought about opportunities that might exist for me in the way of representing a brand. I put together a plan and chased it down. I floated my proposition to several companies and believe it or not there were more than a couple that were interested. However, there was one that I really believed in and one that I felt gelled with my approach to cycling. Enter SALSA CYCLES. I began correspondence with

Kid Riemer and soon enough I found myself typing a few letters to other companies explaining that I had found a home, but I appreciated their offer. It was a match and it seemed to only grow stronger as the year progressed.

The SALSA kit now on my shoulders, I felt a strong desire to make 'em proud, yet felt no pressure as they never stressed results. In an odd way that made me want to go faster, I liked it. As the winter rolled on I focused on nutrition and losing weight. I wanted to be skinny. The way I figured it a climber can suffer, climbers are skinny. I would be intent on changing myself to fit this role. I am fortunate enough to have to ascend a very steep grade right out of the gates every day when I leave work. I'd hit the mile long climb with a vengeance daily trying to shorten it each day, through the time it took me to get to the top.

THE RAGNORAK 105: The "Rag" officially kicks off the season and is typically used as a race that gauges competitors fitness and with the relentless bluffs on this course it's easy to tell who's been doing their home work. Here I'd bump into the familiar faces that I hadn't seen since last season. Also, I'd test the climbing legs as the "King of the Mountains" competition within this race adds a component not found in others.

Not sure if I could go for the overall win and the KOM together, I decided that I'd focus my efforts on the climbing and then shoot for the best overall position I could gather. Poor positioning on my part on the last significant climb allowed super strong rider Charly Tri to get the jump on the climb with Ryan Horkey fast on his wheel. I did my best to recover from the missed opportunity and took huge risks as we descended into the valley of Red Wing, Mn. Horkey and I would work well together in an attempt to reel in Tri, but it was not to be as we ran out of real estate. I was fortunate enough to take 2nd overall and nab the KOM in the process. It was a good day on the bike, despite hitting the deck on one of the climbs - Don't Ask.

TRANS IOWA: I'd celebrate my birthday on the bike during this race. The Holy Grail of gravel beasts is the T.I. in my mind. Coming off a 2nd place finish in 2009 I wanted to "show up" for this one. I put all my "emotional eggs" in one basket as I was determined to leave it all on the course. However, biblical rains soaked the region previous to the race and throughout the event. Farrow, Buffington, Tri and I (the chase group behind Gorilla and Meiser) toiled through the mud for 13 hours before calling off the effort in a group think debocle that spun downward in an out of control manner. I was a part of that "group think" process and the tipping point for me was when I saw a plastic bottle floating down the center of the main street. That small check point town with a very weird name would be the end of the T.I. for me. It was a bitter pill to swallow, especially when I got home, put all the gear away and came to realize that I didn't finish the race. This resulted in one of the lowest points I've ever felt on a bike, the failed Trans Iowa of 2010.

12 HOURS OF NORTHERN KETTLES: Finally, I'm on the mountain bike. This would be my first race on "Big Mama" as well as the first race of the Wisconsin Mountain Bike Series. I was a series participant and had my eye on a 1st place finish in the 12 hour solo division. I love the Northern Kettles course as I feel it suits my style of riding and it sits early in the season so I was hoping for a good finish. I jumped for the lead about 45 minutes into the day and never looked back. It was a beautiful day and the bike performed perfectly. I did my best to keep the low points short and to keep running from the field. I was able to cross the line in 1st place that day after 102 miles of single track and 11 hours and 50 minutes of riding. The part that sticks out the most was the finish, two guys at a timing table that simply said, "Good job Tim". "Thanks", I said as I rode to my car and started putting my gear away. Classic!

THE DIRTY KANZA 200: The events that took place over the 15 hours after the start of the race are hard to sum up. I wrote a piece (Rising from the Gravel) for this blog and ultimately Salsa's website after the race that ended up being almost as epic as the event. I suffered more in Kansas than I ever have. The heat (105 degrees with high humidity) began to gnaw at my will to live, literally. I rode the 2nd 100 mile leg with Joe Meiser in an effort that I believe bonded us in a way that can't really be explained. We fought the course as if it had a life force of it's own. Finishing that event goes down as one of the biggest things I've ever accomplished on a bike or in my life. I was lucky enough to take 5th place with Joe right next to me. We stumbled around that downtown area for about an hour mumbling to ourselves about how destroyed we were. It scared me.

THUNDERDOWN IN THE UNDERDOWN: The second WEMS race of the season for me. This one took place in the Underdown forest of the master single track builder, Chris Schotz. The course was the stuff mountain bike riders dream of. A huge 20 something mile lap that rolled through what seemed to be different biospheres. This course was purely a thing of beauty. The race however, would see me doing battle with none other than fellow DBD'er "Big Buff". BB was tackling this monster on a single speed while I pressed on with my fully suspended 29'er ('Big Mama'). The climbing in this course was steep and technical, I couldn't believe how Big Buff was working through it on his single. I resigned that it was his race. Suddenly, late into the final lap I saw my training partner laboring up a long slow climb. I would take him on this old rail road grade, wish him "good luck", then attempt to PIN the final 8 miles of the lap. It was bitter sweet passing Big Buff out there, but hey, I wanted to win too. I managed to gap the super human by about 10 minutes in order to grab my second win of the WEMS.

LEVIS/TROW 100 MILER: Good 'ole Levis rolled around in mid July and the depth of summer was upon me along with several racing hours. It didn't make things much easier when in the pre-race meeting the director announced that he changed the course making it longer, more technical and with more climbing. A collective gasp could be felt among the solo riders as this changed every one's mind set. I'm not sure about the other competitors, but I tend to spend about a week thinking about the race and planning how I want things to go, so when suddenly you're told that you're plan can go out the window it really changes things. Typically the Levis 100 miler takes around 9 hours, now we were looking at about 13. I felt a bit defeated before they even said "Go!". I would run this race with Big Buff (again) and Farrow this time. We'd be racing for honor. In hind site I know that I played the whole thing wrong and went out too hard. I was concerned halfway through as to how tired I was. Meanwhile, Big Buff had slipped away and was looking strong. Farrow was battling the same mental demons I was. I called my race at about the 11.5 hour mark taking 5th overall (3rd in geared class). I was disappointed in how bad this course beat me up. I was so tired!

Next up Part II: The Salsa Two Four (Eight Hour Version)
                               12 Hours of Pitch Black Single Track
                               The Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival
                               The Heck of the North

The Quest for Athleticism, Enter Boot Camp

2010-10-06T11:03:00.000-05:00

This used to be me.

The teacher becomes the student.

In the spirit of becoming a pure athlete I decided to mix up things a bit. The 2010 season is in the books and it's time to focus on bike rides that include breaks every 15-20 minutes and baggy shorts. In other words, time to rekindle my affair with the bikes. You know how people who are married for 60 years suddenly decide to start "dating" each other. Yeah, that kind of thing. O.k., I've got the bike thing figured out, but what about stopping myself from slipping into couch potato status? It came to me a few days ago, why not participate in the Boot Camp class that my wife, Amy and I co-facilitate for the agency we work for. In a nutshell, Amy and I developed a "Fitness/Wellness Challenge" within our work place (yes, we work for the same outfit). The whole idea was born over dinner about a year ago and we decided that maybe we could inspire some of the 200 employees we work with to "get fit" or at least start thinking about it. Part of the program included an exercise "class" called "Boot Camp" run by Amy and yours truly. Yes! This was the answer, I'd whip myself into shape and Boot Camp would be my vehicle.

I felt a little pressure when the core group of women began showing up for class. Now, I've been yelling at these girls for weeks to either "get their knee up" or "pick up the pace, that's not a sprint!" I felt I was in trouble when Kristina walked in, took one look at me in my workout clothes and started laughing. I thought, "Whatevs, Let's Do This!".

Amy threw out some instructions and we took it outside. I went through the whole warm up thing fine and started thinking about how this might not be as bad as I thought. Still in the warm up I felt a warm sensation in my throat, GROSS, it was the last drink of water heading North! Holy Crap! The warm up kinda sucked. I was kicking at things in the air that weren't there, then doing push ups that required me to cover ground while doing them. I was sweating bullets and we hadn't officially started yet.

My version of the "plank walk" did not look like this.

Spending 4 dizzying minutes at each station with 30 second breaks between them made up the crux of Boot Camp. I found some of the stations to be more manageable than others. Basically, the ones that had to do with high cardio were o.k.. The ones that had to do with strength made me weep. Spending so much time on the bike has left me with the upper body strength of a 7th grade girl. The way I figured it the class contained about 200 push ups, I would struggle on them all.

Then, the dreaded "plank walk" station. The station that I had expended a great deal of energy yelling at participants was now before me. I would have to experience their pain for myself. Now, all I was expected to do was plank walk for 4 minutes, it was possible, I could do this. Amy yelled go as I heard some distant laughter as the others knew I was heading to Hell. Like a fool I lined up next to Laura, a hard as steel hockey player who sets the standard for physical fitness. Laura's real nice and she just smiled as we got started, but it was the type of smile that left me wondering, "What was that all about?". It took about 30 seconds before I began to panic. My shoulder muscles were separating from the bone, I was sure of it. "I need my arms, I can't let them separate from my body", I thought as I watched Laura inch worm away from me while in the dreaded "plank position". "How is she doing that?" I began to have ill thoughts about her, but then I went back to the fact that she's really nice. At about the 20 minute mark, I mean 2 minutes I heard a voice from the distance yell, "Don't put your knee down Tim...ha, ha, ha (others joined in the laughter). "How ya doin' tough guy?", came from Amy (more laughter from the group). I was reduced. My knee was down and a steady stream of fluid poured from my chin. "Are these tears or sweat?", I asked myself as Laura came past me doing the plank walk BACKWARDS! Finally, Amy yelled STOP! I got up and quickly brushed the grass off my knees so Kristina wouldn't be able to tell if I put my knee down (I used to yell at her ALOT about that - whoops). I limped through the remainder of the class telling myself that it would all be over soon. I did finally make it and the breaks between my "ab sets" were spent staring at the ceiling back inside the building with the voice in my head repeating over and over, "You made it".

My arms are shaking as I close out this post, but I'll be back. These girls (Amy, Kristina, Laura and Cassie) are my inspiration. Man, I gotta get them on some bikes.