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

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

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



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!

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

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

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



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.