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.

This Time it's Not About the Race

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

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

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.