Cadence

Back to the Ranch

2012-02-12T11:44:00.001-08:00

ReFocus on the Arrowhead 135

2012-02-05T15:32:00.000-08:00

The Arrowhead 2012 in Photos

2012-02-01T18:25:00.000-08:00

Here are a few of my best from the race. Arrowhead Photos
(Please contact me at jkmerlin@gmail.com if interested in purchasing.)

Spectating this year only deepened my respect for those courageous enough to make it to the start line. It is one of the most spectacular events of the year. It is a pillar of the winter. The Arrowhead is what you train for in the Fall and plan for the rest of the year.

Dave and Mary Pramann, and their very special corp of volunteers deserve gold stars. Thanks to all that make this race a reality. It is a beauty.

The Arrowhead 2012 Prep

2012-01-27T18:25:00.000-08:00

Here's a great piece about the Arrowhead Ultra 135 on Minnesota Public Radio. I will be headed up to photograph the event starting Sunday. With a bit of luck, I'll come back with a few shots that do justice to this great race.

Good luck and safe travels to all those involved. See you at the finish!

100 a Month: Trip #3 Two Harbors and Beyond

2012-01-22T10:46:00.000-08:00

By now, these long days in the saddle are less about absolute distance and more about discipline. As I prepare for another run at the Trans Iowa this Spring, my training has become more psychological than just truly physical. As important as it is to get in the many hundreds of base miles by April, I find myself worrying more about the mental pitfalls of endurance events. I know that my failure to complete the TI last year was largely a lapse in brain power. So it is that I find myself now trying to train my brain AND my legs.

Easily one of the toughest challenges of many endurance events is the truly masochistic practice of waking at the darkest part of the night to start a race. Guitar Ted, the creator and organizer of the TI, has taken this ritual to a really base level. He lines up the racers at 4 AM. Counting backward, that's easily at least a 3AM wake-up, if not even earlier. This makes the 7 AM start of the Arrowhead 135 look like a lazy Sunday morning with breakfast in bed. (But what the AH 135 has, that the TI does not, is the brutal realization that you are to somehow get out of a nice, cozy bed and suit up for a 25 below Fahrenheit world of abuse...that lasts up to 48 hrs.)

So this dark crack of time between waking and sun-up is a unique part of the day. What happens in the TI, at least what I felt last year, was the sensation that I had been racing for over 12 hours by the mid morning. The reality? How about just 5 hours. My mind was tricked! Plain and simple. And it destroyed me.

So discipline. It is really tough to leave the snuggly warm arms of my sweetie at 5 AM. It's really hard to get all my shit together into the CamelBack. And like any good puppy, the bowels take front and center after just one bite of bagel. But if I can make it out of the door in under 30 minutes, I am free and clear. Just get on the road!

It was an exceptionally dark ride this AM. I took the low road next to the big Lake to head toward Two Harbors. Once out of the relative warm glow of the street lights, the powerful darkness of the Lake overwhelmed me. My anemic headlamp was sorely underpowered. It was an impressive gloom complete with eerie sound effects. A Nor'Easter was coming off the Lake and the wind howled through the straps of my helmet. It seemed relieved to be off the water and eager to blow through whatever was in its path. More than once, I turned to my right to see if some diesel engine was powering up. I knew it had to be the waves coming in against new shore ice, but my mind was already in a fragile state.

But there can be a wonderful peacefulness at this hour, too. Once over the initial shock of darkness, I knew deep down that I was fortunate to have this shore all to myself. No cars. No visual distractions. Just legs turning over pedals. And miles to go...

Just shy of 85 miles today. Six hours in the saddle. New plans to conquer my morning demons. Lucky to have the time to ride.

New Mexico...in no particular order

2012-01-19T22:49:00.000-08:00

New Mexico

2012-01-11T19:02:00.000-08:00

Just returned from a glorious few days of visiting family in Placitas, NM. What a change of scenery, light and altitude will do to the soul.

Many highlights to the trip. But a day spent cycling around Santa Fe was a real gift. I took the train up to Santa Fe, picked up my rented Masi road bike and got to work. As always, riding a bike is probably the best way to get to know a new place. After nearly 5 hours in the saddle and topping out at 9500 ft near the ski station above town, I felt like had just scratched the surface of what Santa Fe had to offer. If you are ever in the Santa Fe area, look up Mellow Velo for rentals, repair and great service. This is what a bike shop should look like, too!

let us make this a great year

2012-01-01T04:14:00.000-08:00

Hundred a Month: Trip #2 Two Harbors and Beyond

2011-12-11T12:57:00.000-08:00

Today's 100 miles was actually closer to 75. After 6 hours on the road, I decided to play my "equivalent card" in light of a 25 mph headwind for the last 25 miles of the day. What was 18-20 mph progress headed up the shore to Two Harbors turned into a real grunt coming home. We struggled to sustain 8-10 mph coming back into the stiff Southerly.

I was out the door at 5:15 and got in a solid 20 miles before meeting Sir Eki at 7am. It was great to have company heading out of town, up the shoreline. Neither of us had been by the Lake recently, and we were treated to another beautiful Superior sunrise.

We both knew we were in for it on the way home. We polished off a giant caramel roll at my favorite old lady soup shop in Two Harbors and flipped it for home. Heads down, Eki pushing a 39x16 singlespeed, me grinding away on a comparative ratio. There is no workout quite like a big steady headwind. Hence the equivalent mileage. My trip to Ely a couple of weeks ago felt like a 50 miler. Today cooked me like I had done 130 miles. Well...maybe not cooked. But pushing into a wind always fatigues your body in unexpected ways.

We limped it home slow but steady. For a mid December ride, we hit the jackpot. The last week had been a cold slap int he face. Today, we soaked in the unusually warm temps. It was a great ride and an even better workout. Thanks Eki!

Next up...January's 100 miler in Santa Fe. Planning on renting a road bike during our visit and heading into the mountains for a high 100.

A dark start, but a friendly full moon

Today was on the GF Presidio

Sir Eki keeping a stiff upper lip.

The wind was whippin!

My Happy Place

2011-12-08T10:19:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's taboo to speak publicly about one's Happy Place. Maybe a bit too New Age-y for some. Does it take away the magic of that warm, safe place by even mentioning it?

I don't know. All I do know is that it's been a month when I needed to find that space again. I almost never write about my job on this site. I write here to get away from my work. But two patients of mine died and one was sent to the unit in critical condition. Two were critically ill to begin with. One was set up for failure. The last was a code blue and necessitated me pumping on a 91 year old chest. One minute we're talking about living to 100, the next he is turning blue in front of my eyes. This job of mine can be surreal.

I also received news this week that I made the list for the Trans Iowa. For those who are not up on that one, it's a 340 mile gravel road race set in the farming hinterlands of central Iowa. Last April, it brought me to my knees in more than one sense. This year, I seek to finish it off but good.

What does it take to conquer that beast? Well, I know for one, it's gonna take a lot of alone time on the bike...and a really really safe, Happy Place.

So this week, my elder daughter and I broke out the one sure thing that sets me right. And no, I don't care about my Man Card anymore. All the corners have long been clipped on that thing.

So where's your Happy Place?...

New Baby and The Heck

2011-12-02T14:34:00.000-08:00

First: the 4th annual Heck of the North Gravel Road Cycling Classic is set for Saturday, September 29 2012. See Heck blog for minor details at this point.

Second: My world has been taken over by the addition of this beautiful new tool, the Nikon D7000. I can't put the damn thing down! The learning curve is a wee steep on this one, but I am diving into it like my life depends on it. So, I have a reason for the infrequent posts as of late. Once I get my head around it a bit more, I will be offering up my latest images.

Along the way, I am sending in the necessary postcards for the Spring Classics...the Trans Iowa and the Ragnarok. This is always an exciting time of year as you start to dream about next season's endurance adventures. I have decided not to compete in the Tuscobia or Arrowhead Ultra this year. My energies will go into photographing the Arrowhead, instead. I am sure I will miss the competition and I look forward to a return in 2013. But my date with the Big Dance this year will keep me plenty busy and challenged as I attempt to document this beautiful event.

100 a Month: Trip #1 Duluth to Ely

2011-11-14T15:34:00.000-08:00

In an effort to keep some long distance miles going over the Winter, I am doing at least one century a month. Yes, to some this a pittance. But for me, maybe just about right until late Winter, early Spring.

This was an especially delightful ride. A cold start for sure with temps in the upper twenties. But the sunrise over the Lake was magnificent. Digits started to thaw about two hours in. From north of Two Harbors, I was even treated to a small southerly tailwind.

For me, rolling north always means adventure. Even on the road, headed to a town I know well, the feeling still remains. I had the shoulder to myself and even the logging trucks were polite. It was just one of those days.

A word on the photos. I am shooting for practice. I am shooting to keep my eye sharp. The pics are all JPEG and mainly unaltered. Maybe in the near future, the setup will change. For now, the photos are my sketchbook for the day.

Ride: 2002 LeMond Zurich.
Weather: Start 28. End 45 degrees. Southerly breeze 5-15mph.
Camera: Panasonic Lumix LX5

Wanted: SRAM parts

2011-11-07T15:08:00.000-08:00

Wanted in used but good condition for my gravel bike:

SRAM compact crankset 50x34 (Rival, Force ect.)
10 Speed 32 max tooth SRAM or Shimano rear cassette (11-32, 12-32)
Med cage Rival/Force rear derailleur or SRAM mt. rear

Contact me at jkmerlin@gmail.com. Thanks!

The Dirt Bag and that Feeling

2011-11-01T03:58:00.000-07:00

No photos to bring home from the Dirt Bag gravel grinder this past weekend. My focus was to go as hard as I could for as long as I could. Pretty simple plan. I had even dreamed about taking an early flyer. Just because. But I knew that would be pure folly against the likes of St. Cloud's fast boys.

The Dirt Bag proved to be almost more a road race with what felt like to be 40% paved surfaces. And with the course almost flat, those with the carbon and the knowledge of the course did a good job of killing it. Having very few hard cycling miles in my legs of late, traded for those of trail running, I found it tough to keep the power on the flat sections. But really, all I was really racing was the course and me.

I think that still proves to be a defining element for these gravel road races and other long endurance events in general. Once dropped from the lead group, I am left fighting the battle alone. It is a lesson on not giving up. It is about going hard and finishing like you left it all on the dirt. You have to fight your demons with all the weapons you have acquired over the many years of pushing the limit. Sounds kind of militaristic. But it is a fight to the end.

And waiting at the end is the company of your buddies who just did the same thing. I'm glad I was able to sneak this last race in. I'm calling it money in the bank for next Spring's adventures. That's physiologically kind of unrealistic, but who cares. The season never really ends. It simply fades gradually into training for another year.

The Heck in Images

2011-10-18T09:34:00.000-07:00

Nowhere near the number or quality of images I wanted. Such is life and art, I guess. For me, the Heck and my photography are works in progress...hopefully improving every year. I feel obliged to put down what I know or remember. Here is a start.

The Heck of the North is found art. It is a mosaic of dirt, gravel and trail symbolizing the adventure of off-pavement cycling.

In the language of mountaineering, the Heck is light and fast. It is a free. There will never be licenses required. There is almost no advertising other than blog chatter and word of mouth. There are two handmade trophies for the fastest riders. But the emphasis is placed on the 99% who finish behind them.

The Heck of the North brings cyclists together from all parts of the Midwest. It is one of the last in a collection of events called the Almanzo Gravel Road Series. All are homegrown. All showcase the finest in local gravel.

Riding gravel is a revelation. Miles of road almost free of cars. Some tractors and few funny looks from inside the cabs of trucks. But mostly this space to ride bikes and feel the country around you.

Just like a wilderness canoe trip, sometimes there are places that require a change of travel mode. The Heck has four trail sections of various flavors. The change in speed, the recruitment of different muscles, and the treachery of rocks and roots all add to the experience of traversing the loop.

Marking the trail sections the day before is always rewarding. Just like grouse hunting, you end up walking places you would never imagine going. Wolf scat, ravens and juncos. It's not wilderness, but there are enough pieces of wild on the trails to make believe for a while.

Though the Heck of the North is not officially a race, there are many that ride hard to the finish. It is an awesome thing seeing the course come alive with the toil of machine and rider. Where normally the road is owned by pickups and logging trucks, for a brief few moments, cyclists control the gravel. For some reason, the backdrop of black spruce and bogs seems to highlight the beauty of cycling.

The Midway Checkpoint offers a few seconds or even several minutes to regroup. New field notes are loaded into pockets and bar clips. A moment to assess how the body is doing overall. At this point in the event, the cup is either half full or empty depending on blood sugar and conditioning. And, if you're really thinking ahead, a beer to help get the job done.

There are moments that seem out of focus. The strain of riding hard over gravel for hour after hour tests every cyclist. Maybe during a beer in the parking lot, or windshield time on the drive home brings clarity to the day's two-wheeled travels.

Navigation is an integral component. Though never the main intention, getting "off course" is a real possibility. Simply marked trails with corresponding field notes are the only way to negotiate your way home.

Unavoidable are sections of paved road connecting the route together. The last mile of the Heck may not be gravel but it pays tribute to suffering by going steeply up hill.

Most who ride the Heck are simply trying to complete 100 miles of gravel in one go. Some are trying to beat their time from a previous attempt. For six to ten hours, the rider is free to test themselves against a very challenging thing. Gravel cycling events like the Heck are a mini adventure. Unable to sacrifice being away from family for days, the few hours of dust, hills and exertion are a symbol of bigger trips taken or a time to plan new ones.

All who complete the Heck of the North are tough.

Wild Duluth 50K

2011-10-15T15:52:00.000-07:00

What a day! Gorgeous weather (with a big fat tailwind...not that it mattered running so slowly) with the finest views Duluth has to offer. But Lord, what a challenge. The course follows the Superior Hiking Trail from Jay Cook State Park all the way to the Lift Bridge in Duluth harbor. Nothing but constant twists, hills and descents all littered with generous sized rocks/rock slabs.

The body worked well today. My brain exploded only a half dozen times as I kicked rocks hidden by newly fallen leaves. Minuscule muscles in my upper legs and groin cramped but not to the point of lock up. I had no idea I had muscles in those parts. I do now. And nutrition was spot on thanks to the sage advice of Big Buff (10th place!) I am very content with my 13th place at 5:33.

And I have been on the fence about using fancy IPods and my favorite playlists. But I have now come to the conclusion that all one really needs is the latest cartoon video that your four year old brings home from the library. I have had Dora the Explorer haunt me at the Chequamegon 100 for 13 straight hours. For the Wild Duluth, it was The Backyardigans. And with that, for your listening pleasure:

or maybe this:

Thanks for the wonderful support crews and the exceptional organization of the Wild Duluth organizers: Kim and Andy Holak. Excellent work! Great event!

Fall

2011-10-07T03:55:00.000-07:00

I think the shoulder seasons of late May and early October are my favorites. One represents renewed life with its intense light green Aspen foliage. The other a celebration of low angle light, orange and cold front sky blue. I think my girls feel the same way...

About the Heck 2011

2011-10-04T16:35:00.000-07:00

I am working on a photo essay about the Heck of the North. Until then, here are a few that I especially like. My idea of motoring around the course shooting photos ala Graham Watson didn't quite pan out. But I may have gotten a few, and I learned something in the process. It's tough to run an event AND shoot it. Thanks to all who participated. There are some wonderful cyclists in the Midwest and I hope the Heck did them proud.

Bangin in the Brush: A short story

2011-09-17T20:11:00.000-07:00

Prologue:
This year I have spent a considerable amount of time thinking about why I cycle and run long distances. My latest theories hover around the notion that some people are still hard-wired to hunt. And to move across country. And chase their prey over long distances.
I started running when I was a kid. I would run home from school, back when kids were aloud to do that type of thing. No one was chasing me. I wasn't late. I simply enjoyed running.

Chapter 1:
The Bangin in the Brush 10K Trail Run is a Duluth masterpiece. Dubbed the "hardest 10K in the world", it winds its way through trails littered with roots, tall grass, rocks, bog and lots of short steep hills. It is a thing of beauty. I stopped paying to run short distance events, but this one is a must.

Chapter 2:
Lying in bed reading to Essie the night before the race. She asks her usual, "what are we gonna do tomorrow?" I tell her that mommy and daddy are going to run a trail race. She says, "I'm going to, too."

Chapter 3:
Essie and I go walk the kid's race course. I tell her that a "race" is where a person will say, "ready, set, go!" and then you run as hard as you can until you get to the finish line. She listened quietly and we walked back to the start. I lined her up with the other kids. Within a minute, the man said "Go!" Essie took off, following the pack of wee people. Ves and I followed along just in case Essie lost interest.

Chapter 4:
Essie stopped mid loop and said she wanted to catch the kids in front of her.

Chapter 5:
Essie crossed the line and was smiling ear to ear. She got a bag of cookies and a ribbon.

Chapter 6:
I have found that there is almost no pleasure greater than seeing Essie try something new. The enjoyment is 10 fold when it is something that I enjoy doing as well. I saw today that maybe, just maybe, she is wired like me. I have no idea why a kid would run for running's sake. It's hard. But I saw that spark of pleasure that only a hard run can give to a person. I hope she finds that spark again.

Epilogue:
Her momma had a good run and her old man took 4th overall.

On the Make!

2011-09-14T09:03:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year when I am on the make for a snow bike-for-hire. If I don't procure one, I might find myself moving toward a life of crime and/or worse...running my favorite winter events. As Farrow sez..."running is a gateway drug to triathlons..." The thought make me shiver.

So yes...I am looking for a snowbike that needs a temporary home with me, a foster snowbike father. Really, there should just be a rental library for these damn things. Two events is all I want to do!

I am 6'1", enjoy long walks/rides in arctic conditions and really love to wear the same frozen, sweaty, snot and pee encrusted wool long underwear for days on end. If you have a ride that might need a new home, or a winter vacation in Duluth, Call ME! Or email me at jkmerlin@gmail. com

Thanks! And remember... friends don't let friends run winter ultra's.

A Magazine: An Interview with Paul Schurke

2011-09-07T18:41:00.000-07:00

Check out my interview with Paul Schurke, winter/Arctic traveler and creator of Wintergreen Dogsledding Lodge in Ely MN. A Magazine.

On Summer

2011-08-25T11:33:00.000-07:00

Computer has been sick for days. No photos. No writing. But Summer has had her hooks in us but good. Ves and I survived a serious lightening storm thrashing on a recent ride at McCarthey State Park. We hunkered down in nothing but our lycra under scraggly spruce trees. We stayed apart, so that the girls would have at least one parent if one of us got fried. Seriously, that was what we were thinking. It's good to get thrashed by Mother Nature every now and then, though. Keeps life in perspective. A friendly driver and a long hitch hike home saved the day.

Prep for the third running of the Heck of the North is in full swing. So far, so good. Even working with the City of Duluth has been tolerable. I am really excited about the minor route changes this year. I think riders will loath me sufficiently by the end of the day.

Much more run training. I am once again putting events on the calender. It feels good to have tangible events now in the horizon. It has been a quiet race Summer this year and I am looking forward to getting back in the mode of training for events. The looming Trans Iowa 2012, the Tuscobia and Arrowhead this Winter, and the Banging in the Brush 10K and Wild Duluth 50K this Fall. I'm back to the 60lb pack and hill work outs. Long runs with Buffington on the weekends. And all this running for what? To have in my back pocket if a snow bike does not materialize for me this Winter. Options are good.

Hopefully will have the prehistoric Apple up and running this week. I have some classic photos of Farrow on the last DBD gravel training ride.

Trans Iowa v.8

2011-08-14T03:59:00.001-07:00

Prepare!

A Magazine: The A List...My Interview with Janna Vavra

2011-08-01T11:57:00.000-07:00

Steve Fuller Photo

Check out my interview in A Magazine with Janna Vavra, endurance cyclist and first female finisher of the Trans Iowa.

A Frightening Thought

2011-07-27T22:26:00.000-07:00

I have noticed an alarming trend in my training rationale as of late. I have raced little since my defeat at the Trans Iowa...due mainly to circumstances beyond my control. As I talk with fellow endurance folk, plans for upcoming Fall and Winter events are already being made. I am finding myself thinking ahead already for next year's T.I....something that may or may not even happen in 2012. I am thinking to myself, "do I run this winter and try to capture a very elusive win at the Arrowhead, or do I ride everything just to have Winter miles on before April?"

I have never felt a pull such as I have toward that god awful beast called the T.I. It is a form of mental illness, this longing to be part of and to maybe conquer something that will surely inflict a great amount of suffering. I must watch my motives in the next few months so that I keep my training in perspective.

This picture of Farrow minutes after finishing the 2011 T.I. haunts me. As he briefly broke into tears, he stated something that I will never forget nor will ever repeat to anyone. It is a stupidly powerful thing going into the hurt tank like that. It really makes no sense, yet is altogether beautiful.

Return from the West

2011-07-20T04:06:00.000-07:00

Back from out West. An amazing trip filled with great experiences for the girls and me.

It's good to be home.

Shameless Plug

2011-07-01T13:16:00.000-07:00

I've been published! Check out the cool article by Guitar Ted with photos by Steve Fuller and me about this year's Trans Iowa in July's issue of DirtRag.

The Height of Land Traverse 2011

2011-06-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

It really was a great idea. Duluth to Ely by way of trail. Having lived in Ely for several years, I was chomping at the bit to try to access my favorite little town via the wooded corridors that snake through the north country. Plus, I was proud to be doing some advance scouting work for my fellow DBD partner, Charlie Farrow, as he prepared to do an extended loop that included this section plus Grand Rapids.

So, with a three day weekend at my back, a wonderful wife and visiting mother in law to help with the girls, and a sunny forecast, I hit the trail at 5 AM on Friday morning. I was admittedly a bit concerned about the Biblical amount of rain we had received the days previous. I also knew I was flying blind about the lay of the trail north of the North Shore Trail. Having spent years traveling the area by dogsled, I knew well enough that many incredible trails in the winter are nothing but black spruce, Labrador Tea and bog in the summer. I decided to be an optimist and assume that the route would be mainly viable even after 3 inches of new rain.

After the initial 100 yards of the thickest mat of grass I have ever ridden through, the trail was in better shape than I expected. Wet, but progressively more rideable as the miles passed. I was filled with hope that I might have this thing licked.

Just before Jean Duluth Road, I hit my first serious water. Within yards of tackling the marsh, I stepped through a rotten stump and nearly broke my leg as I punched through frigid water to my waist. Still optimistic, the section was shorter than I anticipated and I reached the road still with my pride intact. At that moment, I saw roadies flying down the paved shoulder and I was struck by the difference in speed between us.

I hit some weird trail construction about three hours in. At first glance I was hopeful that I could ride the muck. It proved to be way too gooey and I walked the next mile of saturated mud.

As I approached Two Harbors, my wet, yet hard-packed trail became progressively more marsh-like. I rode through the huge puddles and became an expert on the different stages of frog development taking place in the boggy ecosystem.

I knew something was different by noticing the change in ground flora. In a rather Star Wars-esque moment, I realized I was treading dangerously on my first floating bog mat. I gingerly hopped from one clump of sedge to another. Suddenly, I was waist deep again and falling fast onto my right side. I quickly leaned onto my bike on the left and pulled myself out of the abyss. I remember a gentle ripple pulsating across the bog. I had the real feeling that if I had not had my bike as a climbing device, that bog would have swallowed me up with nothing more than a wet burp.

I quickly learned my lesson and navigated the rest of the bog more carefully. With heart still racing, I reached the next patch of solid ground with relief. Such a beautiful fright.

The Sucker, Lester and Knife Rivers were all at near flood stage. Watching these tanin stained creeks flow was a highlight of the trip.

As the trail progressed toward Two Harbors, it became wetter and more overgrown. I was walking more than riding. I decided to hit Hw 2 and headed north to try the next trail access a few miles up. Before hitting the trail again, I saw Dixie's Bar and Liquor and thought it a convenient place to top off bottles and the Camelbak. Like usual, the barkeep grunted toward the bathroom where all of the unwashed non-motorized heathen go to access water. After filling up, I turned toward the door with full bags and bottles in hand. With almost uncanny aim, I dragged my Camelbak hose mouthpiece right through the urinal. And for good measure, as I instinctively pulled the bags back, the hose twisted awkwardly again and succeeded in bouncing against the urinal wall. Totally disgusted but still realistic, I washed the mouthpiece off the best I could and click clacked out the door.

I found the trailhead for the start of the Yukon Trail and hoped for the best. I determinedly pedaled north trying to avoid the logs, hummocks and massive puddles. I stopped. The thought of mainly walking the next 48 miles to the start of the Tomahawk Trail became unthinkable. Doable...if I had no other options. But really. I love RIDING my bike. I love RUNNING. But I do not care for PUSHING my bike. So, I flipped it and headed back toward the highway.

My singlespeed was geared just about perfectly (32x20) for the trail but topped out at 12 mph on the pavement. It was going to be a long 70 miles to Ely.

The day was too beautiful to get out of sorts, though. I enjoyed the sun, the warmth and the steady progress north...even at a relatively snail like pace. I saved two Painted turtles from almost certain smashing by car tire...and was thanked unceremoniously by one with a steady squirt of turtle piss down my leg. That was just plain rude. And weird.

I settled into steady go mode and before long was riding the curves and rollers of Hw 1. As I neared Ely, I was filled with that great touring feeling of coming into a town by bike. There is nothing like it in traveling. All my old memories of living in Ely came back to me in new ways as I took it in by two wheels.

About 20 miles away from Ely, I began looking for the trailhead to the Tomahawk Trail. As luck would have it, two MN DNR employees came driving down the road with canoe on top and gear in the back. I inquired about the prospects of riding the trail and received a look of both suspicion and disbelief. They cordially encouraged me to continue on the road as it was their belief that the trail traversed a large amount of bog. I thanked them and considered my options again. I decided to limit the self abuse and headed to town on the road.

I hit town only a few minutes after my family had arrived. I had been going straight for almost 14 hours. The thought of a beer on the deck of the Chocolate Moose became all encompassing. Though falling short of the intended goal of making Ely by way of nothing but trail, I was satisfied with my effort and happy to have had the opportunity to get a good amount of saddle time in. Today was about discovery by bike. I look forward to the next chance of exploring this region of ours by two wheels.

Recon for the upcoming Height of Land Traverse

2011-06-16T10:28:00.000-07:00

In preparation for the Height of Land Traverse next Friday, I scouted out the North Shore trail by town to check on gearing. Having been laid up for almost three weeks from a minor surgery, it felt great to get onto the trails again with my beloved Clockwork. Don't ask me why I scheduled a surgery in the beginning of Summer. Whatever.

I am planning to ride from Duluth to Ely via the North Shore and Tomahawk snowmobile trails. I know the NST will be wet and buggy. I have no real idea how the Tomahawk will be. I can only hope that as I get uphill from the Big Lake, the trail might get drier. That's probably wishful thinking.

I'm going singlespeed and as light as possible. My goal is to make the trip in one push. I am guessing at 110-120 miles.

A detailed packout list to follow.

JK

A Day of Support at the Chippewa Triathlon

2011-06-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

For a nice change of pace, I had the opportunity to help support my wife as she attempted her first solo Chippewa Triathlon. The Chip Tri is a true Minnesota tradition: a 14 mile canoe route with several portages, a 29 mile trail bike loop and a 7 mile trail run. This year's event had incredible weather. And incredible mosquitoes.

Ves accomplished her goal of finishing in under seven hours. Somehow, every time I saw her come into the transition checkpoint, she had a big smile on her face. And I think she was the only one doing the whole thing while nursing her youngest in between sections. One tough athlete.

View photos of the day Here. Congrats to Avesa for an awesome performance!

A Dad, his Girl and her First Fish

2011-06-06T16:08:00.000-07:00

The "Worm-Kisser" lands her first. May there be many more.

Possibilities

2011-05-30T09:13:00.000-07:00

Cord. Cruising the Duluth Pack Store yesterday and I could not refuse a few yards of the stuff. Whenever I am in a climbing or outfitting store, I am drawn to the brightly colored spools like a moth to a lamp. They are a symbol of possibilities to me. My mind instantly creates elaborate scenarios where I might be desperately in need of a few feet. Guying out a tent fly. Lashing down a ski to the top of a dogsled. Stringing out a clothesline to dry rain soaked shirts.

This fresh hank was christened last night in our backyard. We pitched the tent and all climbed in to practice for future trips this Summer. Before long, this piece was strung between two D rings supporting my daughter's "play" lantern from the tent ceiling. Perfect. We snuggled in and let the patter of rain and crack of thunder lull us to sleep.

A Day in the Life DBD and a Report from the Field

2011-05-24T04:03:00.000-07:00

I am obliged to finally respond to some fan mail. The question often is asked, "...what is life like under that hallowed slate roof of the Kitchi Gammi Club, the home of the DBD Northern?" To be honest, it is not as glamorous as one might expect. Being the lowest ranking and least accomplished of the DBD team mandates that I perform many of the chores necessary to keep the more senior members satisfied.

After rising from my simple white pine plank bed, I start the day's tasks. First, I continue the job assigned to me by Shackleton. He misses the eldest member, Sir David Pramann, with such intensity, that he has bid me to reconstruct his figure from the ashes of his cremated remains. Needless to say, this is a dusty and tedious task, but I am making headway. This morning I finally pieced together his left, fifth toe. Shackleton broke down in tears by the sight of it.

Before long, I am pulled from that job to see to the aging Farrow. Locked most of the day within his comfortably padded room, I attend to the almost constant transferring of him from his bed to the commode. Upon the commode he often acts as though back on his trusty titanium Merlin mumbling, "this FEELS like the right road..." referring, I think, to hundreds of Trans Iowa cue card notes. I like Farrow, despite his somewhat creepy utterances about "Man Diapers" and "Boost...for Strength".

Sir Buffington is maybe the nicest of the lot, always with his constant singing of show tunes. Usually, the only task that he asks that I perform is to somehow surprise him with a destructive alteration to his bike, "...just to make the day's training ride more sporting!" Today, I filled his inner tubes with our finest butterscotch pudding. Then, I replaced his usual ceramic bottom bracket bearings with small pebbles from the shores of Lake Superior. I hope that he finds it "sporting" enough on today's ride.

The personal service to Sir Eki is probably the most unusual. He is obsessed with his cycling kit and dictates that his socks, jersey and cap all be ironed. Years ago, he was given a pair of custom made, white, patent leather cycling shoes by the King of Sweden. He spends the better part of the day shining them to a gloss so extreme, he uses them to shave by in the morning. But the job I never relish is that of polishing his race short chamois with an embrocation of the oils of capsaicin, caster and sperm whale. The odor is overwhelming. But the man can win races. I can only do as I am told.

So it was brought to my attention yesterday that I would be having a busy week. A piece of birch bark had a message written by Crazy Horse informing me that my gravel chakras were severely out of alignment. Then, the DBD lab technician left a note stating that my vitamin G levels were at dangerously low levels. Lastly, Mallory informed me that I would be having the "Royal Snip" on Thursday morning, seeing how I had already sired two female offspring. Shackleton, noting that my Spring gravel racing campaign was dismal at best, ordered me to "scout the northern regions of the Heck route as to assess trail humidity conditions." Seeing how it had been raining all week, I read this as a thinly veiled form of punishment.

So, today, on my "day off", I left the warmth of my beautiful bride at 4:30 am. I loaded my pack with enough water and provisions to last more than a day. I brought my camera to document the landscape and entertain Mallory with a "jolly picture show tonight".

By 5am, I was headed into the darkness, bound for Rosini Rd and the Brimson Trail. A steady rain was falling and the fog was thick. I pressed on, up the Lester River and the Smith River Rd. The rain finally let up. I began documenting the flora as new Spring growth was in full swing. At least ten different species of birds were calling out for mates and territory. Every ditch was lined with Marsh Marigolds and flowing with run-off. The gravel roads were soft and often lined with water filled potholes. It was Northern Minnesota in all of its early season glory. And I had it all to myself this morning.

After circumnavigating the northern terminus of the Heck course I picked up the pace. I finally returned to the club house after nearly seven hours and 100 miles in the saddle. My chain had been stripped of all its whale blubber lube by the knee deep swamps of the North Shore Trail. But I felt good. I quickly showered and readied myself for a full day of tending to my two daughters. The men asked what took me so long, but still gave me an extra finger of rum at supper. I must have done OK.

And if you are still reading, I was most encouraged to find sign of the greatest endurance athlete of them all on the Northern trail of the Heck.

Trans Iowa, Spring and Looking Forward

2011-05-18T08:31:00.000-07:00

I have a lingering nauseous feeling in my guts from this year's Trans Iowa. I remember the windy intersection and the farm house with the big cottonwood tree. I remember stopping, getting off my bike and swinging my numb feet back and forth, trying to get them right again. Most of all, I remember the feeling of knowing that I was about to quit something that I swore I was going to complete. I ate a Clif bar, nodded to the riders passing me like nothing serious was going on. But I was sick with guilt. I was mini depressed. I felt alone out there next to that old yard. It was a cool and very windy morning and for some reason I felt like I had already ridden 100 miles. I wish, in hindsight, that I would have pressed on. But at that moment, absolutely nothing felt right. The next few miles of riding past others as they forged ahead was a low point in my sporting life. I still am not sure why my systems crashed as they did that morning. I thought I had the mental tools in my head to deal with such a scenario. Now I am thinking that the act of carrying through with the plan to pack it in will be the best defense against similar situations in the future. Maybe I had to feel this at least once to better guard against it happening the next time I get low and weak.

So after a rather lack luster Spring of gravel riding, a few thoughts come to the front:

I will finish DFL, in a caboose, with a red lantern around my neck before I quit another race (barring the obvious risk of life and limb blah,blah,blah).

I will never run Ritchey Speedmax's on the rear wheel ever again.

And I will never feel bad about missing a race so that I can be with my family. Kind of a no-brainer, but the addiction of cycle-suffering is a strangely powerful force. I am so glad I have my girls in my life.

I am anxiously awaiting the next endurance challenge. It is deep within these epic events that we find parts of ourselves that we may have never known were there...both good and not so good. It is still a mystery to me why the suffering is so addictive. Why we throw ourselves into the pain cave. I like to think that it somehow ties us to our ancestors. It is in some of our genes to wander and seek adventure. It is a necessity like food and water. The mystery alone is enough.

Life

2011-05-13T11:40:00.000-07:00

Two sick little girls trump all gravel. I will miss the Royal. I already look forward to 2012. Have a great ride everyone and be safe.

Jeremy

A Royal Weekend

2011-05-09T09:04:00.000-07:00

This Saturday marks the inaugural running of the Royal 162, the crazy long haired cousin to the respectable Almanzo 100. This will be another fine day of gravel suffering.

After the experience that was the Trans Iowa (education? beating? embarrassment? hiccup?) I am unsure where my conditioning stands. I am unsure of my ability to pretend to race that far. I know I want to...but "want to" and "can" are sometimes worlds apart. I am afraid that all I can hope for is to hang on the best I can and see how she goes.

Oddly, this is the last gravel event I am signed up for this year. I want to make it a good one. Thanks for all the work Chris Skogen and company do to make this one of the finest cycling events in the country. Can't wait.

A Few More Shots From Trans Iowa

2011-04-29T04:18:00.001-07:00

Gravel

The Trans Iowa Education

2011-04-26T16:32:00.000-07:00

The Trans Iowa V.7 was an education. Or, how I got schooled by the demons that live within that cement like cake of wet Iowa gravel.

Despite my best intentions of riding with the leaders, or at least finishing the race, I succumbed to heavy legs, dark thoughts and a broken spirit. I wish it all could have turned out differently. I really thought I could be there toward the front. Not this year.

The Trans Iowa is a beast of gigantic proportions. One really has no idea of the magnitude of the event until you have saddled up at four AM and felt the punishment of the graveled darkness. By sunrise, I already felt like I had ridden for hours. I had lost the lead pack. I was losing contact with hope of riding strong. By only a few hours in, I knew I was done. Or should I say, I was scared to go on without a safety net support vehicle. Or maybe I was just plain scared. I was lots of things when I decided to pack it in. Proud was not one of them as I passed riders, head down, retracing my steps to the start line. I felt terrible. Where was my strength of leg and mind? Gone?

The silver lining to my scratch was being able to witness the finish of two incredible riders, my friends Tim Ek (finishing second) and Charlie Farrow (finishing fourth). Rarely have I felt such pride and admiration as I did seeing them come across the line. I was in awe. It was a truly amazing performance of endurance by both. And to Dennis Grelk, the overall winner, my hat is off to you. Another almost unbelievable comeback.

Here are some of my favorite photos from the trip. I will decide later if I will attempt another TI. It certainly left a mark on my psyche, and I only rode a short distance. To Guitar Ted and David Pals, impressive event you guys. Thank you for creating such a monument to cycling. Here are a few more photos Gravel.

Tim and Charlie at the finish

Tim Ek moments after finishing

Iowa Cement Gravel

First across the line, Dennis Grelk

Another hill toward the TI finish.

The Days Before the Trans Iowa

2011-04-19T22:39:00.000-07:00

I just read a blog from a veteran TI rider. Probably one of the best pre-insanely hard event write-up's I have ever read. Hard to build on it.

I have had the same nagging doubts about this event for the last few weeks. I feel like I have hit a pinnacle of what I want to attempt for a while. It is hard to believe, but I am actually sick of thinking about bikes, bike parts or any other gear minutia. I want it to begin and end all at the same time. I have to be careful what I wish for, though.

People at work have absolutely no idea what I do for fun. I am questioning it myself when I lay awake at night wondering why people do these types of things. It has become one of my favorite never answerable questions over the last three years. WHY?

One of my fondest memories of last year's Trans Wisconsin was when my partner, Farrow, and I decided to go for the finish on the last afternoon. We were nearly hypothermic (but recovering). We were beyond tired. Yet, I for one, had the sensation that this was our chance to summit. I don't climb anymore, but the feeling of just letting go and moving forward was one of the most liberating and scary notions I have had on an adventure for quite some time. The TI is another 8000 meter peak for me. I think we can do it if the weather holds. I will hopefully be getting a view of the summit on Sunday.

Here's to a safe trip. Good luck to all those who are attempting the summit.

Ragnarok 105: A Front and Backseat View

2011-04-10T16:26:00.000-07:00

This was truly my first go at riding at the front. I'm 40 years old now and just starting to want to be at the sharp end of the pack. The view is exhilarating and intimidating.

The Ragnarok 105 (or 111 this year) is one of the finest gravel road events of the year. It is exceptionally hilly. The steep, limestone bluffs of the Mississippi River provide a dramatic backdrop to arguably the most challenging one day cycling events in the state. The creators of the ride this year decided to make the course even more difficult with the addition of more "minimum maintenance roads (MMRs)" and what seems to be a hill every three minutes. The route is a graveled thing of beauty.

Being a member of the DBD has, of course, a long list of perks; unlimited use of the Italian Dolomites training chalet, bottles of the finest red wines on the house, a stable of the world's most technologically advanced cycles, and unlimited raspberry malts at Culver's. I have shared bottles of Madeira with the most influential people in the world of bicycling and adventure sports. But there is a dark underbelly to this puppy called the DBD. It's a belly that wants to be scratched and scratched and scratched until one day you find yourself a week away from the world's hardest gravel cycling event and you wonder why you ever started scratching that damn puppy underbelly called the DBD.

I digress. The view from the front was awesome. At one point in the first few miles I was leading the whole pack. Then the king of the mountain (KOM) competition began. All of a sudden, I was looking at the rears of a lot more riders. But I was determined to stay with the group. An older DBD patron advised me before the start by saying that if you wanted to finish big, you had to stay with the front group even if it meant red lining. And if you flat, that's the end. So I worked hard to reel in the group after cresting the sharp KOM hills. And I did. I always caught back on and settled back in. In the back of my mind, I wished that I was not having to work so hard to stay with the group. But I pushed the doubts back and tried to relax despite the constant uphill attacks and the desperately sketchy descents. Hang on! And somehow I was.

The second to last KOM hill was a snow covered beast. I saw the riders ahead pedal through the old, snow filled tractor ruts. But by the time I got there, the paced had slowed and I was forced to dismount and push quickly through. I quickly remounted and that's when I heard the dreaded dead, metal ping of a flat, rear tire. Ahhh! I threwp;.=\my bike to the side of the trail and yelled up to Farrow that I had flatted. Being DBD, he reached into his jersey pocket and flung back the revolver bullets. Thankfully, all landed in a snowbank and I decided to fix my tire instead of dig for the bullets.

I had a new tube in within a few minutes. But the race was over. I quickly put the wheel back on and pedaled as hard as I could up the hill. I was officially off the front. I nonetheless put my head down and started to ride time trial style for the next ten miles. I heard riders come up behind me but I didn't feel much like chatting. I was pissed with my luck and I wanted only the watching cows to be part of my sour mood.

But the miles ticked off. The landscape impressed with it's early Spring glory. The Phoebes sang and the turkey vultures soared high over the bluffs. And I still had 70 miles to go.

I will say this. I fell back into a group of excellent riders. They were funny, talented, strong men. They saw me through my darkest miles. And above all else, I remembered that I am a lucky man to be out sharing this fine gravel adventure with some great people.

Like usual, though, I eventually found myself alone tapping out the steep hills in the strongest rhythm I could muster. And I was finding at the end of the race that I still had some power. Maybe it wasn't the power needed to stay with the front group, but it was the strongest I had ever felt at this point of the race from years past. Before long, I was attacking the last hill and winding down the road where the KOM had all began. I felt good.

But the evil seed of doubt had been planted. There were dark moments while riding that I wondered how I was ever going to hang with the top riders in the upcoming Trans Iowa. Why had I even gotten myself this far into the steep, slippery slope of endurance racing. What was I trying to prove? And to whom? The cold raspberry goodness of the Culver's malt on the way home only partially heeled the scar left behind from the day's bad luck and pain. Maybe it WAS only bad luck. Maybe I could have hung with the leaders longer if I hadn't of flatted. But I won't know. Not for another two weeks. Not until the TI.

As I write and lick my wounds the day after the event I am left with mixed feelings. Part of me feels good for finally being at the front. Part of me feels scared shitless about the upcoming adventure that is the TI. And a lot of me wonders how I could ever train enough to pretend to belong with those top riders. Time will tell. Until then, here's to the fine people that ride the hard events like the Ragnarok. And to those that put it on. Thank you for the suffering.

Minneapolis Musette

2011-04-08T10:50:00.001-07:00

Check out the latest write up about the Heck of the North in the Minneapolis Musette!

The Spring Classics Begin

2011-04-07T16:10:00.000-07:00

So the French and Belgians may have a few races they call the Spring classics...but it will be years before they equal what we have going with the Almanzo Gravel Road Series (AGRS)!

This Saturday marks the start of the AGRS series with the Ragnarok 105
It is one of my favorite events of the year with its incredibly hilly and beautiful bluffland course.

If you are new to the AGRS, check out the website and look into one of the four other events of the season. Gravel road riding will change how you view cycling forever. See you on the rocks!

On Review: Salsa Woodchipper Handlebar

2011-03-31T09:21:00.000-07:00

Product Details: The Salsa Woodchipper mountain drop bar. Black, bead blast 7075-T6 aluminum. Tested 42 cm width. Claimed weight of 332 gm in 46 cm width.

Dimensions: 110 mm drop, 80 mm reach, 38 degree drop angle, 26 degree flare angle.

Test Rider: Me. 165lb hulking beast of muscle.

Test Rig: New, secret, steel cross bike. Intended use for the upcoming Spring gravel classics: Ragnarok, Trans Iowa, Almanzo Royal 162.

Replacing: Bontrager Anatomic C: 44mm width, 125 mm drop, 75 mm reach, 260 gm.

Test Location: Rolling gravel roads of rural Duluth, MN.

Disclosure: Salsa Cycles is a sponsor of my race, The Heck of the North Gravel Classic. This being said, my intent is to give an unbiased review of this product. To Salsa's credit, they are a company that values rider input of their product. I truly think they would value a poor review as much as a good one just so they could make the next one better.

First impressions on arrival: A bar only a mother could love. The multiple sweeps of this bar give it a rather awkward appearance. I had strong suspicions that this bar was going to feel weird on the road.

Pros/Cons of bars being replaced: The Bontragers really felt great while in the hoods. I loved how flat and seamless the transition was from the bar to the brake hoods. The drops felt OK, with the anatomical bend going on. But the drops were too short. This is probably a good thing on the cyclocross course, but not for my gravel road racing style.

On top of the Woodchipper: In the hoods, I was surprised by how comfortable they felt. There is no weird inward twisting of your wrist while on the hoods. I had shift levers oriented straight forward like my road bike set up. The somewhat narrower width of the bar actually matches my shoulder width better. I had good control of the levers and the drop angle felt very natural.

In the drops: This is where these bars really surprised me. Instantly, I was amazed at how stable and comfortable I felt. The relatively low drop allowed me to easily stay in the bend for long periods of time. The added length of the drops (compared to the Bontragers and any other bar, for that matter) not only increased hand position options, but also made for an extremely stable platform to control sketchy downhills. While cruising on the flats or head down into the wind, I noticed that my position with my hands on the distal ends of the bars felt uniquely natural and comfortable. I even had images of the old mustache bars ridden on safety bikes in the turn of the century. A good design that I am glad is being utilized again. I would venture to say that I spent at least 50% of my ride time in the drops. For me, that is unbelievably noteworthy.

Climbing: Wow. I am a rider that likes to stand on climbs with my hands in the drops. The Bontragers felt very limited in this capacity. The Woodchipper excels! The slightly flared out drop sections provide the perfect angle to leverage against while standing and climbing. I literally felt stronger on climbs because of the added stability. The difference between the Woodchipper and any other traditional bar in this category is exceptional.

Overall: I rode home after my initial three hour test ride composing this review in my head. Maybe it was the warm, sunny day. Maybe it was an unusually fresh pair of legs. Maybe I had truly discovered a missing link in my overall cycling comfort. I felt like I had finally noticed what truly feeling comfortable on a bike was. The variety of usable hand positions sets these bars apart. I felt like I had a new bike, one that was custom made for me. This handlebar now joins the elite class of products that revolutionize riding comfort and efficiency: the Specialized Avatar Expert channeled saddle and Brave Soldier saddle cream. I am seriously considering putting these bars on my road bike and my wife's touring rig. Helmets off to Salsa Cycles for creating these bars. They are truly one of the best bike components I have used in years.

The Slick 50

2011-03-21T18:51:00.000-07:00

The Cars-R-Coffins Coffee Bar was the start of the infamous Slick 50. I was happy to be part of this last run from the now closing shop. It will be missed.

The ride provided plenty of opportunities to shake the dust off of overly bike-trainer-ed legs. The hills felt steep but the burn was refreshing. Spring.

Good stuff, Hurl. Thanks for the ride.

L'Eroica

2011-03-13T11:25:00.000-07:00

This is a must. Beautiful.
http://vimeo.com/20622427

Gravel

2011-03-08T04:55:00.000-08:00

This is a new site I have created to help keep the camera nearby. Gravel.

Arrowhead Ultra: The Race to the Finish

2011-03-03T11:27:00.000-08:00

If there is one thing that really hit me about this year's running of the Arrowhead, it was the sense of being welcomed back by an old friend. A friend that likes to play a bit rough. I began to remember certain turns in the trail. I remember that old beaver dam bog. Oh ya, that clearing that opens up to fantastic views to the north. And how could I forget this hill? And Orion! You are back to guide me through this whole crazy thing...just bright as could be, right over my trail. Maybe I was a bit tired and undernourished, but I was moved by the familiarity and the knowledge that I was traveling intimately through this spectacular country. I was part of the landscape again. That sustained me even when my old friend didn't know when to say when.

I knew from past experience that there is a giant sucking monster on the trail and that monster is called MelGeorge's Resort. I have seen grown men reduced to rocking and swaddled toddlers there within the resort's coziness. Like some sort of Greek myth, men are lured away from the grip of the race by their lovely sweethearts who have a warm cabin waiting for them. Do not be called hither, brave racers...resist the comforts and press onward toward your Arrowhead destinies!

After a terrible "sleep" I left the TB ward that was the sleeping loft, fumbled with a new set of warm, dry layers and topped off my water supplies. I had stayed longer than I wanted, but I left before I lost my edge. I was still tired and foot sore and that is what you want to be. Just get back to moving toward the finish.

I knew the giant hills that lay ahead and I began psyching myself up for them. The sun was coming up, a fresh new day was starting and I began my very auditory checklist of bodily functions. In reality, I was feeling much better than I had anticipated. My left knee was doing great. A couple of new heel blisters were unwelcome, but the pain started to fade within a few miles. I started talking out loud about how well I was doing. I mean, I started to lay it on pretty thick in a cheesy, motivational speaker sort of way. Anyone who would have come up behind me would have thought I had started down that slippery slope to cuckoo-town. But I knew what I was doing, and it helped cement my being on that lonely trail.

I was entering arguably the hardest quarter section of the race. There are many factors that contribute to this. The first is that you are really starting to feel the physical toll of being on the go for over 24 hours straight. Then there are the hills. There are hills that are so steep you have to lean into them to avoid falling backwards. And then there is the distance. I don't think a damn person really knows the true mileage between MelGeorge's Resort (the "halfway" point) and the last checkpoint at The Crescent Inn. Some say 35 miles. Others 45. I once thought is would never come on my first go at the race two years ago. You just never seem to stop climbing hills. But man, this is a wonderfully pretty section of trail if you stop and admire it now and then. I felt fortunate to be running it during the day this year as opposed to the two previous nighttime passages.

I was taken aback by the sound of a sled careening down the trail behind me. A slender man in what appeared to be long underwear and a baseball cap was gaining on me like I was standing still. Before long I met a fellow from California who proudly told me that he was the only competitor who had finished all of the Badwater Series events. I was impressed. But I was more impressed by the fact that he was still running with seemingly little exertion. Where did this guy come from?!

We were on a long, relatively flat section of the course when I discovered two things. One, it does not have to be dark to start feeling very, very sleepy. Two, you can fend off this sleep by talking more to yourself and by using your ski poles as snow-marshmallow whackers. These were what I was calling the clumps of old snow still clinging to the branches of the trail-side firs and spruce. I began a game of trying to dislodge all of the marshmallows that I could while still moving briskly down the trail. After several near misses, I realized that it was a really stupid thing to be doing because if I broke one of my poles I would be at a huge loss of forward propulsion. That, and the lone woman on the bike that passed me asked me how I was doing in a way that showed real concern for my mental health. I caught myself saying to her that I was fine, just bored. After she was gone, I realized what an odd thing to say. Bored? I was out in the middle of the woods, on a beautiful sunny day, racing to some distant casino...and I said I was bored? I did actually correct myself after saying that to the woman and added that I was just keeping my mind distracted. She chose not to stay long in my company.

As happens magically for me in this race, I found the day slowly start to fade to afternoon, then twilight. I was making decent time despite my lack of sleep. I had pushed through the pain of wanting to nap. I was knocking off hill after hill after hill. And then I came upon the man from California. He was warming his hands on the engine block of a volunteer's snowmobile. I kept moving by the whole scene. In fact, I had started to run again, or really, for the first time this whole race. Very slowly at first, just on the flats and gentle downhills. It felt really good to be using different muscles. But why was he warming his hands? There is a habit I have from working in a hospital. As I walk down the hallway I often glance into rooms as I go by. It's rubbernecking at ambulance scenes on the side of the highway, just times thirty. But I keep walking because it is not my drama, not my life. I save that energy for my own patients. I wanted to stay out of this guy's drama, too. Just like at work. I needed to save my energy for me. Very selfish, I knew, but he was with volunteers if he truly needed to quit and get safe.

Not long after the snowmobile, I heard the clatter of the man's out of control crazy sled coming from behind. I realized that we were essentially traveling at the same pace and so I waited up for him. He and I were both feeling pretty stoic about the hills and it felt OK to have some company for a change. After watching him charge down hills, I noticed that he had one of the worst assembled sleds I had ever seen. He was using clear plastic boxes for storage, not the standard duffel bag arrangement. Barely keeping everything together were five bungee cords hooked to anything that would hold. What seemed to be at the foot of every other hill, California would reattach the cargo in a new fashion. The whole get up reminded me of some dust bowl era jalopy loaded and lashed together heading to the West Coast. But whatever, I thought. The man seemed to have recovered from his cold hands spell and we were still moving forward.

Things changed as darkness came on. I knew we were starting to come out of the hill country and the last checkpoint was now a reasonable distance away. But my traveling companion started to have issues. First his sled was now falling apart and every few minutes he needed to re-lash the boxes. That took time. Then, he started to cool off from sweating too much. I helped him zip up his coat after he put on mittens and another layer. Then his water bottles were frozen. He blamed it on his support crew (support crew? who was allowed to have a support crew?) I gave him a half liter of my water. Then chocolate chips. Before long, I was ahead of him by 20 yards, then 50 and soon he was out of my sight. I could still hear his sled rattling down the trail and I thought he was surely warm enough by now.

By this time in the race, I was starting to grow weary of trail mates. I sensed chaos with this guy. I did not want to be part of such a sloppy outfit. And I could really smell the barn by now. I knew all that was left now was Wakemup Hill. The dreaded bald monster where the fabled tee pee of doom once sat. Just as the other two races before, though, I was growing anxious to finally reach it. In the dark, I was starting to second guess the trail. There were new logging staging areas and some of the route looked unfamiliar. I told myself to keep eating, drinking and trusting my navigational instincts.

The Wakemup Hill is outrageous, particularly when sleep deprived and in the dark. It is if some movie set director said, "Hey...people...I need a giant, tree-less hill right here! And put a two track path straight up it! No...I don't care if it looks like a three year old designed the trail...I want it going straight up! No switchbacks! Now put it right where you least expect it!" All of a sudden, it looms in front of you. But it is such an iconic landmark of this event. There are certainly longer hills and it is by no means a mountain. It's out-of-place-ness is what sets it apart. I began the trudge upward and decided not to look up. At roughly halfway, I assessed my progress and kept it in low gear. The top came soon enough and with it, the best view of the entire race route. Orion shown straight overhead now. No Northern Lights for me this year. You are not on top of the hill for more than two minutes before you go straight down again on its backside. Such a goofy place.

I really put it into high gear now knowing that the Crescent was within a couple of miles. I hoped California was doing OK. What seemed like forever (this is a very common occurrence at this point of the race) I finally came to the highway leading to the checkpoint, hot food and hopefully a few minutes of sleep.

I unhooked my sled and brought in the necessary items to be reloaded. A very helpful volunteer guided me to a table. Wanting and hoping desperately for a couple of hours sleep, I was informed that racers were only being allowed one hour sleeps. I was thankful for any at this point. I ordered a pork sandwich and beef barley soup and started the ugly process of drying off my feet. My heels were badly blistered. My toes, though swamp-footed, were hanging in there. My food came and I inhaled it while simultaneously re-taping my feet. Just like at the Queen's table as my mom would say.

Much to my surprise, California came in looking tired but OK. He sat down at my table, ordered, and soon had his support team refilling bottles and getting fresh clothing. I finished my food and headed to the most comfortable place in the bar. I pulled out four cushioned chairs from a dining table and got prone. The bar music was straight out of a 1977 Pinto. It was loud. I drifted off to sleep with, "Carry on my wayward son/ there'll be peace when you are done/ lay your weary head to rest/ don't you cry no more..." If only Kansas knew how fitting that song would be.

I woke up with a shake to the shoulder. Dave Pramann gave me the nudge and said my hour was up and my competition was leaving. I sat up shivering. I had had these all body shakes once before a couple of years ago. I have no idea what they mean. I was not anywhere near hypothermic but to the folks sitting at the bar and a couple of race volunteers, I might as well have had one foot in the grave. I once again got my last set of dry socks on and the same gracious volunteer helped fill my water. I was out the door with my heels absolutely killing. I knew the ibuprofen and last few drops of my adrenaline would slowly dull the pain. But I was twenty one miles from the finish and it was midnight. Amazingly, the thought of just a few more hours travel made it sound like a sprint to the finish. It's all so relative.

I was not five minutes down the trail when I saw the next sign of California's demise. A full water bottle lay lonely in the middle of the track. I stowed it on my sled with the off chance I might catch him. This last section of trail was difficult in an entirely different way than the last. And again, I was thankful to be hitting it at dark thirty. This was the never ending spruce bog to the finish. Flat as a pancake with many miles of straight ahead views and little in the way of variation. In other words, it is designed to absolutely bend your brain with boredom. Last year, I hit it at four a.m. on my bike. Many times I had to get off so that I did not crash while falling asleep at the wheel. Two years ago, I actually did "sleep" while walking in. I figured the darkness might help mask the repetition of Dr. Seuss trees that line the way home.

After an hour's progress, I saw a headlamp ahead but no blinking red taillight. As I approached, I thought it was a runner that had passed me while I slept at the Crescent. But then I heard the sound of crashing plastic and I knew it was California. I had been following day old wolf tracks on the trail and I thought I might give him a scare just for kicks. But as I got closer I decided to skip the stunt. He immediately said it was good to see me, then asked if I had a spare pair of pants. He said he had fallen into the snow and soaked his legs. This story made no sense to me due to the fact that there were three foot high snow walls lining the snowmobile trail. I hesitated and told him no, I needed my spare pair of heavy long underwear in case I needed to bivy. He asked where his baseball hat was. I told him it was on his head. He said he was really cold. I dug into my bag and pulled out my heavy sleeping balaclava. I helped him put it on. At this point, I knew California was at risk for real injury to himself and potentially me. I asked if he had anything to eat and he said he had a couple of Gu shots left. Again, I gave him more of my chocolate and a couple of fig bars. I debated what to do. I was starting to lose my running heat and needed to get moving again. The only other option was to totally hunker down, lite up the stove, build a fire, get out the bags and hope to restore some heat. But all of that sounded unrealistic. I said let's start running again so that we can warm up. My firm belief is that with proper nutrition (including hydration), moving forward on the trail is almost always warmer than taking an emergency bivy. California followed behind me a few meters and I thought about what to do next.

It dawned on me to ask him if he had a phone and sure enough he produced the biggest iphone I had ever seen. I asked him how to work it, but by the time it got to the phone numbers, the battery lost power. I put it inside my coat and we ran for another ten minutes. Another attempt and I reached one of his support crew at the hotel. In a very loud and direct tone, I told him we needed a snow mobile volunteer to pick up California due to hypothermia. He said he would get right on it. A wave of relief swept over me. Now...we needed to keep moving until they found us.

After thirty minutes of anxious but relatively uneventful travel, we spotted the headlight of a snowmobile coming toward us. California was hanging in there but I knew we was cold. I unhooked my sled and helped them get loaded. From all of the starting and stopping, I was progressively losing my running warmth. I needed to rev up my engine some how. They finally took off for the Crescent. In the exhaust filled silence it dawned on me that I was not out of the woods either. I had probably thirteen miles to go with almost no prospect of seeing another racer or volunteer. I pushed the thought back and let my brain stem take over again. Breathe, eat, move. I took off at the fastest pace I could sustain.

I somehow stayed awake through the next ten miles. I was on the edge, though. By the time I hit the major intersection of snowmobile trails (a highlight, where signs designate the upcoming lodges of Lake Vermilion...including Fortune Bay Casino, the finish) I was starting to come unglued. It was thirty below and I was so close! But sleepiness put a headlock on me. I started the usual talking out loud banter with myself. The thought of napping in a warm room was something that I could almost physically taste. I missed the coziness of my wife and daughters. My feet desperately needed an hour of dry heat. And my metabolism craved something other than chocolate and gels. That's when I also started seeing things that weren't there.

I ran intermittently every couple of minutes. I was starting to see people in the trees by the side of the trail. It wasn't really scary, just odd I thought. But I was getting close. At every corner I looked for that left hand bend to the finish. After so many hours of non-stop movement, I was really starting to get tired. But there was no stopping now.

Finally, I saw the turn off trail for the casino marked with the race flags. The relief was enormous. I carefully crossed the highway and started the very long, slow climb to the hotel. My mind was getting dangerously fuzzy. I looked up suddenly and saw a skeleton holding an armful of firewood. Yikes! I looked again and rationalized that it was probably more snow marshmallows on the tree branches. It had to be! I ran past it as fast as I could, though, keeping one eye on the skeleton, one on the trail.

The last drop of adrenaline in my body cleared my head as I ran 100 meters more for the lonely finish line banner next to the hotel. It was six in the morning and only the most die hard gamblers might be awake enough to witness my crossing. I put my mittened hand in the air and gave myself my last congratulations of the trip. You did it, I said out loud. I felt a wave of satisfaction and relief flow through me now. I was done and I was still in working order.

I parked my sled at the back door and entered a place of lights, warmth and the old air of casino cigarettes. I wound down the hallways to the race headquarters room. Heads raised from laptops as I stood their dazed and slowly thawing. The ice from my eye lashes and neck gaiter was dripping down my face as I returned the warm smiles of the volunteers. It was finally time to stop moving.

Arrowhead Ultra: Race Day 1

2011-02-16T09:33:00.000-08:00

We packed into Kerry Arena's warming house with only minutes left before the start. One last go of indoor security, artificial warmth. One last round of "good lucks" to the people we knew. Someone yelled "FIVE MINUTES!!" so we zipped up coats and pulled down balaclavas. The first real shot of adrenaline began to flow.

The bikes lined up first in the dark. The multitude of blinking red safety lights is always a spectacle. Headlamps shown brightly as racers made last minute nervous adjustments to their rigs. Someone next to me was having a panic attack about a tire or wheel or missing child. A nearby rider offered a helping solution to the issue (another example of the quality of person that does this race...the panicked rider soon was ready to go thanks to the assistance). Then Dave the race directer gave the countdown and a resounding "Release the Hounds!!" The bikes were off. We people of foot travel stepped up to the snow banked starting line. Another five second count by Dave and we were off!

The one thing that sticks in my mind is how fast some of the runners took off. I had made a pact with myself that I would only walk until Gateway Store, the first check point. I figured that thirty miles would give me a good idea of the condition of my injured knees. So I walked and watched as we started to spread ourselves out down the Blue Ox Trail.

It was a giant relief to be finally moving, heading step by step closer to Fortune Bay and the finish line. I began a verbal checklist that I would continue throughout the race. Feet? feeling OK and warm. Hands? are cool but will warm up. Knees? feel great, no tinges, pangs or aches. Core? a bit warm...don't sweat too much, take off a layer soon. Mind? let everyone go...you will catch them again...have faith...they will falter. I settled into my fast walk and paid strict attention to staying on track with drinking, eating and watching my core temp. I knew that if I got behind on any of those three things the race would be jeopardized.

The inevitable leap frogging began quickly. I stopped to shed a layer and pee and two people passed me. Soon, I am back and passing them. Everyone I go by I say hello to and maybe ask where they're from. It's hard to carry on anything like a discussion but I figure it is the polite thing to do and may make for a safer race. It's also a gauge to assess the overall chances of survival for that particular runner I meet. There are a couple that I know will not make it to the halfway. But most seem pretty solid at this early stage in the race.

The undeniable beauty of Northern Minnesota is really what dominates in the beginning of the Arrowhead. As the sun starts to slowly come up through the black spruce trees I am reminded for the hundredth time what draws me to this country. It is quite simply the wild feeling I get traveling through spruce bogs in winter. There is no scenery like it. It defines wilderness for me. Although we are not really in a wilderness, the snow, quietness and vastness of the bogs makes a convincing act.

My eyes and ears start tuning into the surroundings. I hear a lone evening grossbeak high up in an aspen. A pile of grouse feathers in the snowbank is all that is left of a recent fox ambush. But most of all now it is just quiet. The best thing about the Arrowhead Trail is that there is almost constant diversity. As I think back now, days after the race, and wonder why I didn't get bored it is because of the variety of terrain and scenery. There is always a new bend, a new hill, vista or bog. Except for the last twenty miles. But that's another story.

Miles and miles. The knee is holding up great. The weather is humid, cold and calm. The sun makes a low arc over the treeline never seeming to get very high or warm. I know I am approaching the first checkpoint, but walking is still skewing my sense of speed. The day is passing quickly and methodically, but foot travel is so slow compared to cycling. I have gotten better at adapting to my new snail pace but there are moments that I long to be back on my bike making rapid time.

I hit Gateway Store on schedule. For the last several hours I have planned my short visit there. I air out my feet, refill water, call my wife and slam some crackers and peanut butter. It takes longer than I anticipated but I am out and up the trail with the last light of the day. It is good to see other racers that I thought were long gone. In reality, they are only minutes ahead of me. Soon, I will be making contact again.

I go as long as I can without turning on my headlamp. I finally turn it on for the first time and confirm that I am on the firmest part of the trail. My ability to feel the trail and stay on the good line becomes almost second nature. Later in the race, when my mind needs encouragement, I tell myself to travel like a wolf; always saving energy, always staying alert.

The evening turns quickly to night and I am determined to make it to MelGeorge's in one push. I see a headlamp and flashing red light up the trail and I am soon making contact with a skier. He is walking, having succumb to ultra slow and cold glide conditions. We chat and he is in surprisingly good spirits. I continue on and wish him luck. I remember the beating my feet took two years ago when I was forced to start walking on my ski attempt.

My first late night is brightened by two occurrences. The first is a wall tent and free hot chocolate in the middle of nowhere, miles before the halfway. The warm glow of the lantern and the generous liquid gift was a welcome surprise. The second was the large bonfire burning at the last shelter before MelGeorge's. The snowmobile volunteers had sparked it and were doing a great job of keeping it going. I stopped and refilled my camelback, ate a bar and adjusted socks all by the warmth of the fire. This was a huge boost to my night. I thanked them and made for the last hilly miles of the night.

I was surprised at how slowly I was rewarming after stopping. It felt damp and really cold. I was beginning to look forward to the first wall of a hill just to get my temp up where it should be. I was over the first huge hill when I ran met my favorite volunteer heading the other direction. I told him it was great to see him and I asked how cold he thought it was. He said it was only ten below. I was shocked and then a bit alarmed. We said goodbye and I picked up the pace. My fear was that it was me who was having the trouble regulating enough warmth. Ten below is not cold enough to make me feel like I was. I forced the thought to the back of my mind and ate more chocolate chips.

With seven miles to go, I came up to another racer on foot. He was caring a backpack and making pretty good time. He wanted to stay with another person for the last miles and so we stayed closely paced. I knew the miles coming up and began encouraging us both. I knew he was having a hard time staying warm. I reminded him to keep drinking and eating as I tried to stay on my strict 15 minute regime. We finally hit the lake trail to the cabins. I flashed my headlamp on his face and saw for the first time that the tip of his nose was waxy-white with frost nip. I told him to cover up. I picked up the pace just enough to lead him across the lake at a pace we both could sustain. We were within a hundred yards of the MelGeorge's landing when we met another snowmobile volunteer heading out. She checked on us and told us that it was 27 below. I knew it! My legs only get chilled when it is colder than 25 below! I was right along along.

I pointed my companion down the access trail to the checkpoint cabin. He was starting to get groggy. I checked the main lodge for a phone, but they were locked up. I caught up with him and we unhooked our sleds below the porch. It felt great to be here! I entered the cabin to see several racers in various states of recovery. I quickly found a bed upstairs and began stripping down to my base layers. The grilled cheese sandwiches made by the wonderful volunteers unfortunately were not agreeing yet with my tired stomach. I ate what I could, set my alarm for an hour and buried myself under a comforter and someone else's pillow. I drifted off into a fitful state of exhaustion.

The Arrowhead 135 Starts Here: Sunday Preamble

2011-02-06T15:09:00.000-08:00

The Arrowhead Ultra 135 won't win you any friends at work. Let's be clear about that. So, people start complaining about the cold and how far away the car starter will work. Someone turns to you and asks what you're doing this weekend. I answer I am headed to I Falls to start this race. "Where does it end?" The usual quip about not even walking to the mailbox when it's that cold. "How many miles?!..." Ya, it's over 4 marathons long, at temps close to 30 below...and I'll be pulling all my gear in a sled...about 40 lbs worth. It's a really good way to end a conversation with someone. They kind of shake their heads and turn back to their work. I have noticed that talking about events like this almost make others angry with you. They thought they were doing well by sticking to their new year's resolution and then I come along and, well...isn't that a bit extreme? You jerk.

The good Jason Buffington and I headed up to the Falls early Sunday morning. We discussed the usual things; sports nutrition, my decision to apply again to grad school, the humorous article written about the Arrowhead in the Duluth News Tribune, gear, and as always strategy for the race. Buffington was cycling and his world would be very different than mine starting Monday morning. He is much smarter than I am and certainly stronger. With some luck, he would have a podium spot secured sometime by early Tuesday morning. I, on the other hand, would be hours away from the halfway checkpoint still wondering why anyone would choose to take the slow road to Fortune Bay (the finish).

About thirty miles from I Falls, we stop to gas up at the Gateway General Store, the first checkpoint of the race. We walk behind the store to check out the trail and see how well it had been groomed. It was certainly better than some years. The good people who operate this store generously allow racers to "blow up" upon checking in...stripping down to almost nothing, airing their nasty, reddened feet and generally taking over the store before pressing on. They also know that the racers will drop a fair amount of cash in the quest to refuel on good ol' gas station grub. But be careful future users...don't accidentally refill your water in the live bait tanks placed dangerously close to the tub sink.

The enormous steam clouds of the Boise Cascade paper mill signal our arrival into International Falls. It's a beautifully clear, cold day and the air is thick with the smell of paper pulp. We wound our way through the small downtown and eventually pulled up to the hotel where their motto is "Welcome to the end of the day"...which, after only one night there could be changed to "Welcome to the end of days". Let's hope the new management can add a little spit and polish (or maybe just the polish) to this once great motor lodge.

The fact that our room wasn't ready gave us more time to hang out with friends we only see a few times a year. It is a great feeling to be around so many genuinely friendly and unique people. This endurance crowd is growing but is still relatively small. These are the same people that will be racing gravel road events come April and hitting the single track of Summer and Fall. We are the misfits of the cycling world, with our "clown" bikes and homemade contraptions to help keep our bodies warm in the middle of the Winter. I'm not one to be drawn to clubs or conventions...but this collection of fine folk are worth the extra miles. It is good to see the people of the Arrowhead.

Having nothing better to do, and finding out that the hot tub is under construction (why? during the busiest weekend of their winter?) I decide to get the gear check over and done with. The check in and gear check are overseen by Don the gear Nazi. He greets me with a friendly smile this year and knows from the previous two years that I generally have my poop in a group. But still there is the mandatory pulling out the required items of the race....20 below sleeping bag, stove, fuel, lights, ect. This goes quickly, though, and before I know it I am lugging my race duffel out of the way to repack. This room is always a great place to reacquaint yourself with other racers, check out other's gear choices and generally get in the groove of the event. I spy the handsome new limestone trophies this year for the Arrowhead a Trois finishers: those that have finished in all three categories (ski, bike, foot). There are two others this year besides me, Tim "Tuscobia" Roe and Matt "the Lonesome Luddite" Maxwell, who are vying to be the recipient of the "Rock." When asked about my chances, I am cautiously optimistic but say my recent cold and knee injury sustained at December's Tuscobia 75 mile run are nagging question marks.

The afternoon is spent nervously lounging and then just plain napping before the official evening race meeting starts. This time of the race is an awkward one, where you have the time to second guess clothing choices, tire air pressures or any other minutia that conceivably might affect the outcome of your race. Buffington and I finally get into our room and sack out for an hour. I know that a person cannot store sleep, but the coming sleepless hours seem to make it a wise decision.

At 4pm, we head over to the Falls High School for the mandatory race meeting and spaghetti dinner. This is, of course, just another opportunity to discuss the race, recount past war stories and talk about upcoming events. Dave and Mary Pramann, the race directors, are obviously doing a wonderful job of taking over the event this year. Dave is a formidable competitor and a veteran of many Arrowheads having set the record for the bike. My table of racers is none the less acting like as many fifth graders at the back of a school assembly. We are cracking jokes, laughing inappropriately and otherwise enjoying the heck out of the whole affair. It would not be an Arrowhead without the characters present around my table. Charlie Farrow, among a few select others, has become the face of the Arrowhead Ultra. Josh Peterson, who has started all seven, is another that represents the race well. Each one has many a story to tell. Throughout the evening, several are retold complete with new fabrications and embellishments.

After the very generous raffle, we plow through our allotted plates of spaghetti, garlic toast and iceberg lettuce. We discuss more strategy, weather forecasts and clothing options. But slowly, people filter out of the auditorium and Buffington and I head back to the hotel.

Thankfully, my cold does not seem to be getting any worse. My energy feels intact. Back at the hotel, Buff and I put the finishing touches on our gear and head back out poolside (indoor) to claim a chair around the growing table of racers hanging out. It is impressive to see all the decked out snow bikes juxtaposed to the fence of the pool. The wheels have become freakishly wider over the last couple of years and the gear bag options are more and more customized. Part of me wishes to have my own snow bike. But another side of me is relieved to have the simplicity of a sled and my own two feet for locomotion. If there is one truism in winter travel it is the simpler the rig the better. That goes for everything. Cord over velcro. Buttons over zippers. Anything that can be made less complex has a better chance of surviving extreme use in sub zero temps. I will see a vivid example of this later on with another racer's coat. My Wintergreen designed clothing, most of which I have used for over ten years, is designed on that very concept. Keep it simple, stupid (KISS), as they say.

Finally, the humidity of the pool and the approaching hour of doom drive us to our beds. I am drinking copious amounts of water to stay hydrated for the very dry, cold air tomorrow morning. We watch a little TV but nothing is on. I pretend that maybe this year I will get something like a decent night's sleep.

After tossing and turning with a little sleep thrown in, I beat my alarm to the punch. To me, this limbo between comfy hotel and harsh reality of the ensuing adventure is one of high anxiety. We don't audibly say "why?" anymore, but Buffington, and I am sure many others, are asking it in some form. This is not the time to contemplate the question. There will be miles and miles of quiet reflection time for that soon enough. I grab my sled and bags and make for Buffington's car for the start. I am desperate to get this thing rolling.

This was Big!

2011-02-04T17:28:00.000-08:00

A resounding success! I am so happy about the whole damn thing! Many friends fared well, too, making it even better.
Much more detail to come. Another huge thanks to my wife, family and friends for supporting me through this one. Thanks to Lara and Ron in Ely for taking care of me at the finish and beyond.

Jeremy, DBD

The Quest for the Arrowhead 135 Starts Monday

2011-01-29T18:34:00.000-08:00

It begins Monday morning. Follow along here...Arrowhead Ultra

Full report on return.

DBD Discuss Early Season Strategy

2011-01-10T08:19:00.000-08:00

In a very rare meeting, DBD members and wonderful family (excluding the elusive and extremely secretive Buffington, and charming but even more elusive Chrystal) Farrow, Pramann, Ek and Kershaw met at an undisclosed Duluth pub.

After the usual berating of all those who were not present, a lively discussion detailing all aspects of past and future racing ensued. Foremost was the debate over whether or not the absent one, Buffington, had the medal to make it onto the podium at the upcoming Arrowhead 135 Ultra. It was agreed that Buff has a chance. The Buffs absence, though, put a damper on the DBD vote of confidence pertaining to his future. In many ways, he continues to disappoint.

Speaking of disappointment, Farrow held forth, like usual, about his all too many hours this year spent in the company of event care givers, good Samaritans, and Red Cross volunteers. It was not spoken of, but most around the table were aware of his recent weeks spent at the DBD farm league in Valentine, Nebraska (the "SandHillers" club). Although he looked in fairly good health, it was questionable whether or not he was still hitting the Ensure too hard. Time will tell whether or not he will disappoint again at the Arrowhead.

Pramann and his lovely wife Mary were their usual upbeat selves and, in many ways, continue to be the poster children of the DBD. I am sure that there are many who are relieved that Pramann will be no longer a threat in the wilds of I Falls now that he is producing THE event. Who knows, maybe he is simply giving everyone a head start this year just to make it more interesting for himself.

And Sir Eki and his better half Amy were in good spirits. Maybe it is due to the fact that Eki will soon be turning pro and arriving at all future DBD sanctioned events via a Sikorsky X2 helicopter. Although showing the occasional smile, it was evident that his recent months training abroad took a toll on the man. By doing simple calculus, I estimated Eki to be weighing at no more than 35 pounds. In fact there were times that, when he turned to look at Pramann, he would appear to vanish. His max wattage though, is estimated at 75 w. But due to his toddler like weight, this corresponds to a power output far greater that Armstrong at his peak. Amy, god love her, is trying desperately to spoon feed this man back to normal American weights.

And Kershaw...a big question mark. This will either be a break out season...or one that will push him closer to going back to grad school. The proof will be in the Perpetuem for this man. More soon.

The Tuscobia Experience

2010-12-23T11:28:00.000-08:00

Always this nagging question of "why?" Why am I out doing this? What purpose does it serve? About fifty miles in, I made a quick stop into the berg of Radisson. Not far off the trail, the bright lights of a Spur station beckoned and my drive to keep moving was trumped by my body's need to void and also refill the water bottles. I dropped the sled and felt the instant ease of walking without forty pounds of gear carabinered to my waist. Like a feather.

I wanted to be here and gone. Fill up and get moving. One of the women came out from behind the counter and asked if I was in "that race." I said "yes" and asked if she had a sink with hot water I could use. She pointed me to the Bunn coffee machine and I slowly began topping off my liter bottles. I began heading for the candy aisle to buy the token, bathroom usage, surcharge PopTart when she stopped me and asked me if the race was for a charity. I was caught off guard a bit by such a reasonable question.
"Um...no," I said.
"Well, I thought it was. What do you get, then, for finishing? Do you have to pay to do this?"
Another logical question that my reptile brain could hardly fathom.
"Ya...you have to pay to play. And I think we get a hooded sweatshirt."
She looked at me like I was just about the biggest idiot she had ever seen. This hurt because, not long before on the trail, I had verbalized my tiredness of all those Ford vs. Chevy, cheap beer drinking, trophy deer hunting fools that inhabit many towns of this upper Midwest region I call home.
"We race just to do it. But a charity is a good idea..."
She walked back to the counter with more fresh ammo, I'm sure, about those fools from the City who dress in weirdly colored, tight fitting exercise suits. With headlamps strapped to their foreheads.

I hightailed it back to the sled. Despite the mini interrogation, I was feeling good. The reality is that I spent very little time mulling over anything of importance during this haul of a race, much less why anyone would want to pay to do this. I did not question the convenience store clerk's rationale. I was just in straight go mode... "rip, shit or bust," as one of my old boss' used to say. I picked up the poles and began that rhythmic swing, stepping as fast as I could down the trail.

The one thing I was forced to think about while on the trail was the total change of speed compared to being on my bike. Holy crap! The time needed to go 3 miles, toward the end of the race, became a huge mental challenge. Mid race I was feeling particularly cocky that I might just finish several hours before I had expected to. I had been able to run much farther than I previously thought possible (roughly 40 miles). After the last checkpoint in Winter, though, that dream fell by the side of the trail. I had to continually remind myself that instead of biking the distance in only a few minutes, it would now take HOURS!!! It became just another example of how mental toughness begins to be an equal to the physical in this type of event. I was frankly happy that it was dark for a large portion of the race. Otherwise, I would be forced to SEE that those spruce trees at the end of the tunnel of trail are STILL two miles away and not very quickly changing their position relative to me.

I was encouraged to leave the last checkpoint with John Storkamp. I knew he was strong, but I had never traveled with him before this race. He led out on our final push to the finish. We chatted for a while as we settled into our own walking rhythms. He turned around once to ask if I had seen that coyote or wolf cross the trail in front of him. I tiredly said "no," I was too busy studying my shoes. But I had heard the yips and howls of a coyote pack a few miles back. His blinking taillight started to creep ahead and I knew I he was just too strong for me to hang with. I somewhat gladly let him go so that I could focus solely on my now aching, blistered feet. I was in constant pain now and every step was starting to be a new challenge. And then came the wave of tiredness. That type of pure sleepiness can be so tough to work through. I started scoping potential bivy sites along the trail. I realized that I was doing my usual canoe camping habit of trying to find the perfect camp site...always paddling ahead to the next red dot on the map...thinking it might have a better view or landing or tent spot. I rationalized that if I hold off on a site long enough I might just be able to sneak past the sleep zone. I slammed another handful of Ghirardelli's finest chocolate chips and strode on. (Next to my stupid Hammer Perpetuem (which has become my blood on these races), the dark chocolate chips are gold.)

It worked. Finally I was at mile 65. No sleeping. Storkamp was long gone. I turned around and a lone headlamp was quickly coming down the trail. Before I knew it, a fella with a Texas drawl was asking how far ahead John was. I said, in some disbelief, that he was at least a half hour in front of me. Tim Neckar then proceeded to run ahead, chasing that skinny rabbit down the trail. I couldn't believe he was still running! Just for kicks, I tried to run and nearly fell flat on my face. Those muscles were long since cooked! So I kept walking as fast as I could.

I rolled into the parking lot in 21 hours and 31 minutes. Storkamp 20:25 and Neckar at 21:02. I limped into the warming tent and said hi to Tim Roe and Nick Wethington who were diligently keeping the home (propane) fires still burning. I limped back to the back of the Subaru and arranged a makeshift bed with my down bag. The pain in my feet and hips kept me from sleeping soundly, but I was allowed a few minutes of sub sleep. It was enough that in an hour, I rolled out of the car and began packing up for the drive home. The amazing effort it took to just walk around the car sweeping off the snow solidified my decision to skip the bivy. I had to physically lift my legs into the driver's seat. The lube in the joints had totally been depleted. If I would have stopped to sleep on the trail, I now knew that I would probably not have been able to fire the legs back up again and continue. I briefly worried about the Arrowhead (and it's 135 miles) and then decided to just relish the fact that I had knocked off a rather large new challenge for myself. Now...if I could just figure out how to dive stick without moving my legs...

Tuscobia Ultra Success and Soreness

2010-12-20T06:15:00.000-08:00

Third! 21 hours: 28 minutes of pure Tuscobia Trail running bliss. And lots of walking at the end, too. More race details to follow. Feet took another pounding and I am in need of a little repair. I'm asking for new hip flexors for Christmas.

A big thank you to Tim Roe and family for their generous hospitality and excellent race production!

A Night before the Tuscobia

2010-12-16T04:10:00.000-08:00

The sled is just about loaded with provisions for the haul. By tomorrow, I will have tweaked the clothing choices to "just enough" plus a few more articles for testing's sake. Food, in the way of the standard powdered variety, is neatly sealed and ready to rehydrate. The weather forecast is checked at least three times a day.

As I walked home from work yesterday I once again found myself thinking about this latest, upcoming test of my endurance. There is no hiding the fact that I have had thoughts of doubt regarding my ability to pull this one off...let alone her big sister, the Arrowhead 135. But walking along some more and I decided to shake my thinking up a bit. I now am telling myself, and actually feeling, that I am so fortunate to have the physical ability, the family support, and the time to actually attempt endeavors such as this. It is a gift...not a curse. It is an opportunity.

And it is always good to do good when the opportunity arises.

DBD in Chaos. Training Continues...

2010-12-03T18:17:00.000-08:00

The winter season seems to bring out the demons among those dedicated to the calling of endurance racing. I sit here, wrapped in my buffalo robes, sipping a smooth Sandeman Medeira in front of my hearth, wondering about the psyche of my DBD brethren. It seems that passions are running high and angst has over flown. I am on the fringe now and it saddens me to look into the once proud house that was the DBD. I hope that she can be rebuilt...

In the mean while, I am continuing my training for the Tuscobia and Arrowhead Ultras. The Tuscobia will be a much needed shake down for my attempt at the Arrowhead record. Every year seems to bring a new form of challenge and this year will not disappoint. In some ways, the foot travel aspect of these events will be as difficult as any I have attempted yet. I am bolstered somewhat by my relative successes at my two previous Arrowhead completions...but that is a slippery slope. Complacency is a killer. As always, the weather will dictate much.

Until then...I am hauling my sled, alone, through the winter wilds of northern Minnesota... looking forward to the momentary peace that will come from completing these two insane events.

I long for calmer seas within the DBD headquarters.

Trans Iowa

2010-11-15T22:26:00.000-08:00

photo courtesy Guitar Ted/Trans Iowa

I'm in! This photo helps bring it to life for me for some reason.

You Never Know

2010-11-04T18:36:00.000-07:00

I'm standing by the grill tonight, waiting for the chicken to cook. A rare quiet moment. No kids laughing or crying or yelling. The stars are out and it is cold. And the cold and the quiet remind me of a barren stretch of trail south of the halfway point check-in at the Arrowhead 135. And I know I'm going to hit it at dark. Late at night dark. And I will be alone, almost certainly. And that feeling creeps into my gut. The race is an artificial event but the emotions that arise from it are very real. So real that I can feel them three months away. Standing by the warmth of my Weber. I can feel that cold creep in and it gives me that crazy alone in the woods feeling. Part fear. Part excitement. That is the feeling that keeps me coming back.

Perfect

2010-11-04T04:04:00.000-07:00

Every now and then you have a ride that comes close to the perfect. Last night's didn't start out that way. I had been feeling leg tired over the last couple of days. I had just put on a new saddle and was worried that I was going to have to monkey with it more than once. I was starting out later than I normally do, too, and had no lights on board. And still trying to get the new drop bars and brake levers dialed in.

And then is all faded away. The temperature was cool and the wind kept me focused. The late evening light turned everything golden orange.The eastern horizon over the Lake was like some impressionist's experiment with purple and blue. The hills seemed to disappear before I knew it.

And the bike just felt perfect. One of those rare times when it truly does feel like an extension of your own body (that tired expression that is used in every hi-end bike review).

I had been pondering the idea of what compels me to ride and think so much about riding these days. But it only takes one of these types of rides to remind me of the total joy of two wheels.

The Quest for the Arrowhead 135 Ultra Triple Crown

2010-10-27T18:19:00.000-07:00

First of all, I want to dispel a few rumors and myths. My fellow competitors for the Arrowhead 135 Ultra Triple Crown or, "A135UTR", Tim Roe and Matt Maxwell, are generally all around good citizens and worthy representatives of the sport of endurance travel. Some of the stories of Maxwell's, the "Lonesome Luddite", forays to Seattle to shadow Bill Gates and other Microsoft heirs are mostly untrue. Especially the ones that involve the drunken pilot imitation he did one return trip taxiing off the tarmac at Dallas/Fortworth. And I know for certain that there is no way he rode his trusty Pugsley straight through the security checkpoint at O'Hare. The others involving his preference for burlap underwear during competition, citing "superior breathability" HAVE been accurately documented, though.

Tim Roe, on the other hand, I know less well. And frankly, I know he is hiding something. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I suspect that he is working for the Canadians...therefore the Queen...in their quest to establish the fabled "South East Passage." Starting in Winnipeg and ultimately trying to reach Superior, Wisconsin, this fabled all land passage has haunted many explorers. I suspect that he is trying to link the Arrowhead Ultra route with his storied "Tuscobia Trail". I am afraid his "interest" in winter endurance activities may soon be exposed. Watch it, Mr. Roe, I am on to you. And your clandestine plan to run Canadian Malkin's Jam to rural Wisconsin and beyond is extremely un-patriotic. I am so close to calling my local Tea Baggers organization. They will be incensed.

Meanwhile, I am busy activating my DBD Dryland Arrowhead Ultra Training Regiment. A sturdy backpack filled with a 60lb tube bag of sand, Chester Creek trail, and my trusty running shoes are all I need. The suffering is almost total. The rewards, come February 3rd, will be pure. I am already feeling a mist of salt water on my lashes as I think of the glory that will be mine. Until then, I will continue my self sacrifice per DBD protocol.

In the meanwhile, buy American preserves and pray for Maxwell's confused, gluttonous soul.

Next Time...

2010-10-16T07:33:00.000-07:00

Serious sinus infection Stop
Unable to race 50K Stop
Moving like an octogenarian Stop
Will battle Matt "the Lonesome Luddite" Maxwell another day Stop
That's life Stop

Open Letter to DBD Headquarters

2010-10-13T18:34:00.000-07:00

Mr's/Sir's Mallory, Shackleton, C. Horse and G. Kropp

It is my intention to run my first 50K marathon this Saturday, October 16 in this year 2010 among the falling leaves of the Superior Hiking Trail.

I seek to further my understanding of personal suffering in my preparation to conquer and finish the last of the three modes of travel in the Arrowhead Ultra 135 this winter...the foot division. It is my belief that this endeavour will likely take me deep into the pain cave.

My actions are by no means designed to belittle the DBD tenants. I do not ask for forgiveness...only your understanding and respect.

Sincerely

Jeremy Kershaw

COGGS Movie Night and Gravel Promo

2010-09-27T17:15:00.000-07:00

Another great COGGS movie night is happening at the Zinema on Sept 30th at 7:15 pm. The movie we're watching is Bicycle Dreams, a documentary on the Race Across America. This race involves trying to ride 3,000 miles in 10 days and the movie shows the depths of despair that the riders endure to try and win this insane event.

Here's the trailer: http://bicycledreamsmovie.com/trailer.html

Tickets are $7.50. I would get yours early because this movie is showing in the small theater, which has room for 30-40 people. You don't want to miss out on this one!

I will be giving a brief promo of the gravel racing scene in the Midwest including a plug for the Heck of the North.

Come support a great bicycle organization and a great movie theater.

Jeremy

Autumn is Here

2010-09-19T15:55:00.000-07:00

Who said the running legs are dead? I had a great time running the "world's hardest 10k", the Duluth classic, Bangin in the Brush. I took 6th overall and was very pleased at how I felt during the race. It is a killer of a course, with knee deep loon shit, logs, rocks and slippery corduroy, and extremely sharp hills. An altogether classic trail race.
On Sunday, Farrow and I headed out in the dark of morning to get some long, gravel miles in. As hard as it is getting up at 4am on a weekend...it is always worth it. Charlie and I have ridden very little together since completing our Trans Wisconsin race in June. We both admitted that we are still processing that effort. Like other major events, it is difficult to really talk to anyone about it unless that person was there, too. So, we enjoyed the miles and the darkness and the comforting crunch of gravel under our wheels talking about what counts in life.

Getting Ready for the Heck of the North

2010-09-16T11:53:00.000-07:00

Busy, busy. Double checking field notes and getting them to the printer. New Heck stickers this year, too. Riding parts of the course with Farrow and other DBD this weekend to check out critical spots. Constant updating of drop-out's and drop-in's. New hat embroidery in the works.

And we are pretty smitten with this little gal, too.

AGRS Jersey

2010-08-20T14:20:00.000-07:00

Chris Skogen has created another masterpiece. This one being the Almanzo Gravel Road Series 2010 jersey. He is taking prepaid orders until September 15. Go to the AGRS site for ordering details.

Here She Is!

2010-08-11T18:11:00.000-07:00

Many more photos to come. Avesa did awesome. Silvia Brook did her best to come out wrapped in her cord. She is doing well right now. Thanks for all the good wishes! Jeremy

Who Is Silvia?

Who is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admirèd be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness.

Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness,

And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,

That Silvia is excelling;

She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling:

To her let us garlands bring.

William Shakespeare

Summer in Duluth

2010-08-03T16:07:00.000-07:00

It's been a beautiful Summer up here. Tall ships. Lush gardens. Babies that don't want to come out. And lots of Lake Superior. Can't beat it.

Nesting...Waiting...Riding

2010-07-28T03:50:00.000-07:00

Lots of readying going on around the Kershaw house these days. Baby girl is due any day now. My wife has performed the ritual "sewing of the sofa pillows" (we now have three, lovely new ones PLUS a beautiful nursing pillow). I have risked my life removing the small maple trees growing high up in our roof gutters, fixed the man-can toilet from its constant refilling issues, and otherwise tried to remedy any other ankle-biter house problem that will not be addressed until the new kid is eleven. Its all very weird, I know...but just try to stop the urge to nest. I think it would involve smoking three packs of Camels a day and severe constipation. So, I think it best to just roll with the calls of mother nature and get the world ready for the little sister.

My wonderful wife is very understanding of my continued desire/need to be on two wheels on a regular basis, though. I have rediscovered my fondness for the road bike and smooth pavement and otherwise trying to go fast. Frankly, it is a welcome reprieve from the bone jarring, nerve damaging adventures of early this Summer (I know, I know, shame on me for saying anything negative about my beautiful gravel addiction!) But the change-up is great. I know I will gravitate back to the dirt soon enough. For now though, it is just nice to fly over the road, look at the green woods and fields, and think about the new life that is going to be rocking my little world soon enough.

The Last Push to the Shore

2010-07-07T14:34:00.000-07:00

We hit the first sand just west of Drummond. After the hammering we had taken from the last down pour, every foot closer to the Lake I considered a success. The storm had left its mark on the trail in the form of countless mini-dams, bottomless looking puddles and displaced boulders. It was going on 5 pm and we had at least another 80 miles to go. Once again, we entered the weird, weird world of night-time mile-making.

We had been in the same predicament before. The mornings on the Trans Wisconsin would have their own momentum as our tired muscles slowly loosened up after the first few miles. There was the anticipation of the day...what we would see, where we would eat, how far we would go. By 2 pm, though, I would hit the daily doldrums...a low period of energy, of motivation or sense of drive. I recognized it fairly early in the trip and it helped tremendously to have a travel partner such as Farrow to help get through these spells. This period would always pass, somehow, by a stop at a tavern, a tough trail section or some beautiful stretch of Wisconsin farmland or wood. Before you knew it, the witching hour was upon you. Since the sun set so late, this new part of the day actually happened a bit by clockwork. Near 7 pm, we would always seem to have another 70 miles to go. It always seemed impossible, yet I think both of our daily clocks would reset themselves to somehow magically tic off another set of 50 or so miles. Even as I write this, I'm not sure where the energy came from. Certainly not from my hundredth Cinnamon PopTart or Peanut Nutroll. I think darkness brought about a way in which we focused less on our surroundings and more on some perceived destination or sense of speed. It was probably a good thing that we couldn't see that our speedometers rarely read above 12 mph.

On this last push...our go for broke run to the Lake...our one and only summit attempt...I was running on almost pure adrenaline. I knew it wouldn't last, but my hope was that it would carry me close enough to the Lake so that it would be impossible to stop no matter what time it was. But when I stopped to take a picture of "Poncho" on the trail, and then he got one of me...I began to notice just how rough we were looking and feeling. Who was this plastic coated one I was riding with? I have said it before and I will say it again. Farrow was starting to be an eerie likeness to one of my greatest wilderness mentors, Paul Schurke of arctic travel fame. I learned from Paul that just about anything can be made to work in a pinch...and you can always go further than you think. Farrow was headed to the Lake with or without me...and just like the rest of the trip, he was a companion I did not want to lose now. I was going to the Lake no matter what.

A fitting final resting place for Trans Wisconsin riders? (just south of Norwalk)
So we rode. And we called Rich to let him know our ETA. We knew we were going to be pushing the time we told him...but we used it as a big carrot. We HAD to go hard now. But this adventure would not cut us any breaks in trail conditions. Just when we started to make decent time, we would hit an uphill road made of nothing but sand and bear tracks. The bear tracks were awesome, but only for a brief time before the hike-a-bike carried us back to the task at hand. This Trans route would push us to the very end.

As night came on, we seemed to enter one of the most surreal environments I have ever traveled in. We were on one of the loneliest roads of the trip. A fog began to settle in. The temperature dropped 20 degrees. My headlamp on my helmet was almost useless against the strange ground fog we were riding through. We navigated by Farrow's lone handlebar light. I was getting vertigo by trying to focus on the road by looking up to the trees as markers for the road edge. Charlie was unusually silent and I knew he was getting cold and pushing it to the limit. The rattle of his cheap, red, poncho was all that I heard after a while. We would comment on how strange the night was just to hear ourselves talk...just to somehow frame who we were and what we were doing. The fog started to mess with both of our psyches. It started to drizzle. I threw on my cheap, bank robber balaclava that I had bought at the Drummond general store. I loaned Farrow my wind breaker. We kept riding.

As we pushed on to the Lake we both felt like we were being pulled magically to the water. There would be long stretches where we would say, "I feel like we aren't pedaling! Are we going downhill? We're going 18 mph on the flats! Look! I'm not even pedaling!" We were both losing it! This is when Farrow started to laugh. I asked him what was so funny. He said that he had just scared himself by thinking that someone was chasing us...until he realized it was the rustle of his own poncho. I laughed but at the same time I realized we had better hit the finish before we both totally lost it.

As we pushed on, I tried to keep us awake by telling my guiding stories from my summer in Greenland. For the first time in a long while, I stirred up memories of that amazing time I spent kayaking the awesome, iceberg filled fiords of the west coast of Greenland. The stories helped me. I have no idea if they did anything for Farrow. But before we knew it, I was looking for one of our last turns! But again...more sand. More epically slow forward progress. I could hardly sit on my saddle due to my butt being so raw. I knew Farrow was in his own personal pain cave, too.

Finally, we saw yet another eerie light in the distance. I finally realized that it had to be our man, Rich, shooting flash photos from about 100 yards away in the fog. That camera became a lighthouse! Ride to the light! We finally reached him and he said, "you've got another 200 yards to go...finish it off!" He then got behind us and lit the way with his van's headlights (this probably counts as "support"...). Farrow and I joked about sprinting to the line but before we knew it we were at some random turnaround with no where else to go. We stopped and looked at each other. Rich handed us a beer and took photos. It was black as tar out and we had no idea where the lake even was. Supposedly, it was within a few feet of us. Rich shepherded us into the van. I think I gave Farrow a quick hug before we got in. We were done. We were headed home.

The Fine Art of Crash Camping

2010-07-01T16:28:00.000-07:00

One of the best parts of the Trans Wisconsin, and non-wilderness bike touring in general, is the art of finding a decent place to sleep for the night. My wife and I discovered last year that there are many great places to flop that have nothing to do with KOA's or state parks (nothing against state parks). In particular, I grew to appreciate the versatility and all around comfort of the traditional, village park pavilion. It seems that just about every small, Wisconsin berg has something close to a Lion's Club sponsored covered shelter that doubles as baseball diamond-fairground-picnic paradise. And the real beauty...no one seems to care if you pitch a tent or throw your bag on, under or near a picnic table. Coming from both wilderness camping and a long history of car camping, too, I was blown away by this new form of rural camping. I sincerely felt a renewed sense of pride for this fine country I lived in.

The Trans Wisconsin proved to be a good testing ground for this new type of camping I will call "crash" camping. Farrow and I were not going to limit our day's travel necessarily by the accommodations we may or may not find at the end of 150 miles of gravel. So we hoped for the best and prepared for the other. It was liberating.

Here is a classic from last Summer:
The great thing about pavilions is that they offer some serious protection in case of the surprise, violent thunderstorm that are so common in the Summer.

Here is the beauty in Hazel Green that the town authorities let us use the night before the race:
We had a major front and storm roll through the night before the start. Charlie, Jim and I all pulled up stakes and headed to the relative security of the girded structure. It kept our gear dry so that we didn't have to pack wet tarps for the first day.

Now, down the road, Farrow and I did find it necessary to find something that qualified as a safe haven but was sans pavilion. Sometimes, all that means is a piece of public land. Thanks to our country's wonderful National Forest Service, this could mean anything from a lovely FS park to simply a FS road leading to a clearcut. Our last night had us utilizing the latter. But it worked fine. No traffic, no hassles, no charge, and plenty of leg room. Farrow even found a way to hang his bug hovel ("or haven"). Not to shabby:
All in all, I think the simplicity and creativity that hobo camping affords the tour racer is a refreshing change of pace. Light is right (although Charlie may have pushed the envelope a bit on that front) and I will modify my tarp/bug netting set up for next year to shed a pound or so. My down bag was an added night time bonus that I think I would take again. The Trans Wisconsin has far more limiting factors during the day then where one is going to sleep. In fact, that is the least of your worries. Water and calories trump easily. We got lucky that the mosquitoes were not too bad and the rain held off most nights. I think it important to pack with those two things in mind, though. The little sleep that I got on this trip was actually pretty good sleep thanks to the bare minimum I decided to carry.

I will take this new found love of hobo-esque camping where ever I travel and know that, with a few essentials, I can roost happily almost anywhere.

Trans Wisconsin or Travels with Charlie

2010-06-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

First of all, this trip is especially hard to write up. Don't know if it's the intensity, or distance or compression of events. Even a few days out now, I have only bits and pieces to retell to my family. I try to form some sequential story, but it quickly dissolves into a random hodgepodge of suffering vignettes. So it goes. Anyone who has ever done a major expedition knows just how tough it is to relay the experience to others.

First off...a few photos. Try as I might, I wanted to capture some feel of the trip via images. Here are a couple of that stand out:

This is Charlie at his finest. He will now be known to me as "Poncho". At one of his weakest moments, he turned to me and asked if someone was following him. He laughed when he realized it was just the rustle of his fine, red plastic cape. I secretly hoped the end was near. He started to freak me out after that incident.

Charlie and I found the perfect place to take five. Knowing how Farrow has a fondness for cemetaries, I thought he might never leave.

Sleeping beauty and I actively sought out the finest in lodging. This 4H booth at the Viroqua fairgrounds worked perfectly. I let the senior member of our expedition have the bed.

We actually had a hard time out-running this paver. The road crew was so surly that we almost went back and left our tire signatures. But we pedaled on.

After making a mad push to the end of the route in Point Detour, we were greeted by Rich and Lynn and a couple of beers. We were both stupid with fatigue. Farrow nearly hypothermic, me wanting another hundred miles of sand. Just kidding.

Before the trip, co workers and family were asking how the race was going to go. I answered over and over that I had really no idea. I had succeeded is my other endurance endeavours but this one was different. As much as I wanted to follow Charlie's plan of attack, I knew that I might end up a full two days behind him. I simply had no past experience to fall back on for reference. How would my body handle multiple days of long distance gravel abuse?

As I learn the endurance cycling game, the ability to stay strong willed and flexible become almost more important attributes than pure cycling strength. The Trans Wisconsin was a testament to this fact. Through some act of fate (and I don't really believe in fate) Farrow and I ended up riding together for all but three hours of the event. I have had some strong mentors before in my outdoor career (famous arctic explorers, Boundary Waters guides and other tough men of the woods). By day four, Farrow was showing flashes of expedition brilliance. I know this will probably stunt Charlie's emotional and social growth to some degree, but I would be remiss in stating the way we were. Charlie showed the resolution of all the hardest of guides I have known. He has the ability to take it to the nth degree. He suffers better than almost any that I have known. And he generally has a smile on his mug. Good stuff in a travel partner.

Soaked from riding for hours in the heaviest down pour either of us had ever ridden in, we rolled into the small crossroads of Drummond. We stood outside the general store because the air conditioning inside would have killed us. We were cold, wet and feeling like we might not make our goal of finishing that night. We quietly ate our Pop Tarts, beef jerky, and anything else we had handy from our food bags. I was quietly worried that I could not handle another cold, wet bivvy. Charlie was feeling his chance of finishing slipping away, too. Did the rain annihilate the upcoming forest service roads? Is there anyway we could pull this off?

Many riders were seeing this race as a long tour. Not so much about speed as simply finishing. I, too had a bit of that, but I really wanted to finish fast. As the days wore on, I started comparing this to climbing stories I had recently read. And to arctic runs of glory. Could we reach the summit? Could we reach the pole?

Standing on the porch of the Drummond General Store, Charlie said, "...let's just go. Let's go. Let's finish it!" I said, "OK." We saddled up and headed out of town. We were going to go for it. Nothing held back. No feelings of what if. This was really the first time I had had that feeling of putting it all out there. It was unlike anything I have ever felt. We were going for the summit. But man...we had 70 miles of the toughest trail left to go...

Part 2: The final push and living in a fog.

Trans Wisconsin Success!

2010-06-22T20:21:00.000-07:00

Home! What a wonderful feeling.

Charlie Farrow and I arrived in Point Detour at 2:30 AM on Tuesday morning. Graciously picked up by Rich Hendricks and Lynn, I was home by 5.

It was an adventure like none other I have ever had. Thank you Charlie Farrow for being an incredible partner in crime. Thank you Joe Meiser for creating this thing of beauty.

More to come soon! Must nap! Must commence the eating.

Into the Wisconsin Unknown

2010-06-14T12:13:00.000-07:00

OK...so there is not much about Wisconsin that is unknown. But adventure is all relative...and this will be pushing the envelope for me on two wheels. From the Illinois border on the south to the cold waters of Lake Superior in the North in as few nights as I can. Sleeping under the stars (or mosquitoes). And lots of gas station food.

Follow along at http://www.transwisconsin.com/p/ride-reports.html

See you on the shores of Lake Gitche Gumee.

Tain't Right

2010-05-31T11:51:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough week. Off the bike for almost seven days now since the Chequamegon 100 and almost 12 hours in the saddle. Stressing about the upcoming Trans Wisconsin. Why? The cruelest of injuries. The kind that are just as debilitating as a sprained knee...but are not as socially acceptable to chat about. It's just not fair that certain parts of the body are tabooed. You just don't talk about your sore anus and gluteal cleft at the water cooler like you might about your tennis elbow. It just ain't right. It's just one of those weird things about our culture. So is my blog an appropriate place to talk about taboo cycling injuries? Probably not. I will cut this conversation short by saying, people, treat your nether regions with the love and care you would your hands or your knees. Otherwise it's a simple show stopper. Trust me.

So what do you do instead of ride for hours and hours. You act like a normal person and build that cedar fence in your backyard... And make blueberry pancakes for your family...

Rebuild your bike for the Trans Wisconsin...

Save a wayward crow baby...And otherwise enjoy life! See you on the road and trail soon...

The Chequamegon 100 vs. Dora the Explorer

2010-05-23T13:25:00.000-07:00

"DBD...!"

"I'm a map, I'm a map, I'm a map..." sung in Dora the Explorer sing-song voice. Repeat 1000 times. Replace with "Backpack backpack...Backpack backpack..." same author. Repeat...

"I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the Fandango
Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening me
(Galileo) Galileo (Galileo) Galileo, Galileo Figaro
Magnifico-o-o-o-o
I'm just a poor boy nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity..." Queen "Bohemian Rhapsody"... The only other lyrics I had in my head besides Dora.

I'm sitting on the back bumper of Farrow's car drinking a beer. It's 20 minutes post "race". We chat with a couple of fellow finishers about the day. I say that at one point during the race, I really felt like having a smoke. Just throwing off the pack, leaning against a nice old white pine, and rolling a perfectly cylindrical Drum cig. Then I throw out my opinion on whether or not smoking is actually better for you then endurance cycling. We all decide it's pretty much a draw.

The Chequamegon 100 proved to be an epic battle of wills. Will my body withstand this 100 miles of trail punishment? Will I ever want to get on this mountain bike of mine again? Will someone please tell me where the heck I am?

I give a lot of credit to the brave gang of men and women who created this beast of an event. It's a cool idea: utilize as much of the wonderful CAMBA trails as possible while somehow looping the riders back to the start in Seeley. Do this all for no entry fee (outside of donating to CAMBA) and you have the makings of something really special. Throw in the elements of self supported navigation (field notes or cue cards) and a race mentality and you have a perfect storm of potential craziness.

As I generally do not like writing race blow by blow accounts...I will try to hit this story from other tangents. First off, I am slowly gaining something like long distance event miles...the Arrowhead twice, a few gravel centuries and one 12 hr WEMS race. Not exactly a huge resume...but not a total newbie either...and I have been lucky enough to have finished everything I ever started. This event was very different than anything I had ever attempted, though. Quickly I realized that I was going to take a pounding on my rigid, SS 29er. The CAMBA trails are not especially steep, but there are plenty of roots, rocks and tight corners to keep things tough. I had never considered myself a true mountain biker but I was hoping this event might initiate me into some sort of funky brotherhood.

Somewhere at about mile 30, I realized that this thing was going to be a race of attrition. Starting out, my main goal was to finish strong (by my own set of standards). I quickly started to appreciate the companionship of a fellow rider by the name of Nick from Iowa City. Both on singlespeeds, we were rolling along well together. As we got deeper into the course, it became more apparent that there would be safety in numbers. By mile 45, we had latched onto another group of 5-7 riders. I really liked this aspect of the race. In fact, by the end of the day, it would become comical at how many times you would see someone, then lose them and them find them again coming from a totally different direction. My band of merry travelers would stay fairly intact until about 75 miles in. Then all good things began to fall apart.

The course was incredible. But by the halfway, just about everyone I spoke to had got turned around, odometer readings out of wack, or otherwise totally confused by the mapping and field notes. It was really handy to have others nearby to bounce course direction theories off of. Having put on a race based on cue cards, I am a stickler for detail. The field notes for this event were a little more for people that like to "feel" their way through the woods. A bit more "organic" maybe. There was plenty of room for interpretation. Some might say a bit too much room.

By mile 75, I was alone again for a few miles. Survival had become my driving force. I wanted to finish this thing with honor. So did everyone else I was riding with. By mile 85 I had latched onto another group of three guys. We all wanted to just get the heck to the finish. But such brutality. More confusing directions, more missing cues, more aching biceps.

Like a poorly produced movie, our group once again split with old characters being reintroduced out of nowhere (Matt Braun...how nice to see you again. What are you doing over there on THAT trail?) Matt and I stumbled across the correct way home at mile 95. I was so relieved. He slowly pulled ahead and I finished a couple of minutes behind him. It was the strangest ending to a race I had ever done. But it still felt great to be done.

What draws a person to attempt a race like this? What drive is present for people to want to continue on after the fun is gone, after the tanks are empty, when it hurts just about everywhere? There were moments when I questioned my sanity. Who would choose to do this? Is it a hunter- gatherer gene? Is it a war thing? Were my ancestors nomadic tribesmen of the plains and woods? Is this how a person expends that energy in the 21 century? I am still not sure. Maybe I really don't need to know. Maybe I am simply glad that I have found a creative, fairly non-destructive way in which to blow off this weird energy... (Now where did I put that lighter?)

But if I ever have to listen to another Dora the Explorer ditty stuck on repeat in my head again...you might want to go looking for my bike somewhere in the woods of Wisconsin.

It was a day of beautiful pain.

Into the Unknown Again...

2010-05-21T03:53:00.000-07:00

It has been a year or so of cycling firsts for me. This is another...100 miles of Chequamegon's finest. This awesome event is yet another free, grassroots effort put on by a couple of people who just love the sport of cycling. Cheers to them!

I am attempting this singlespeed and on my wonderful Clockwork hardtail 29er do everything ride. It should be a crazy adventure. Here we go!!...

To Put Things in Perspective...

2010-05-04T15:52:00.000-07:00

I don't usually post stuff like this...

http://www.bikepacking.net/forum/index.php/topic,309.0.html

But I stumbled across it in my midnight browsing. My first thoughts were of complete awe. Then, part of me thought it was a really stupid place to (try to...) ride your bike. By the time I went to bed, I was pretty much still in awe. I can almost taste the Alaska that I remember from a NOLS summer many years ago.

Anyway...give it a read. It's good to have these points of view tucked away in your bag of tricks when you think the going is getting tough.

These are on the Horizon

2010-05-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

The Chequamegon 100 http://www.chequamegon100.com

The Trans Wisconsin http://www.transwisconsin.com

All systems go for now. The Trans Wisconsin will be a test unlike any other I have attempted. I will write more about both soon.

Proud Papa

2010-04-18T13:54:00.000-07:00

This is just about the coolest thing my daughter has done to date. This is a "map" she drew a couple of days ago detailing where our house, Ama and Popop's house, the Halloween store (aka, the Coop), library and the park are in relation to each other. The explanation involved wild hand gestures and a few sound effects thrown in for good measure. I was floored. My girl the cartographer. I just about wept.

Ragnarok

2010-04-12T18:49:00.000-07:00

It happened approximately 200 feet from the top of Lehrbach Hill, five miles from the finish. No, wait. Maybe it was at mile 75 or 80 when he came as a shadow on a ride that had no derailleur. For the last 50 miles, I had slowly been gaining on the one person I knew was a singlespeed rider. It was nothing malicious, just two riders going as hard as they could. I was feeling like maybe there was a chance I might just take that archaic class of cycling known as the singlespeed division. Or otherwise known as the "cheap bastards, Luddites, competitive-but-not-fast-enough-to-win- outright, masochists." But I digress.

He rode up and my heart sank for the first time. I looked down at his rear wheel to confirm if he was a man of one gear. He was. And he seemed like a decent fellow, too. Just pedaling along in no apparent distress. Where did you come from!!!?? I acted for a second as if my stomach was not sick of the sweaty gym sock tasting "Per-retchu-em" I was trying to keep down. I tried to pretend that the solo riding I had been doing for the last 80 miles had not taken it's toll. I engaged in small talk as the headwind slowly destroyed any reserves I might be hiding in my skinny legs. And then he just slowly rode away. And that was that. Relegated to second in my make believe race within a race.

This second Ragnarok (for me) had been beautiful so far. I felt strong and confident in my gearing. The weather was perfectly cool and cloudy. Birds! Redwing blackbirds, Redtails, Bluebirds, a lone Meadowlark, Phoebes and more Phoebes. I heard them all as I pedaled alone up and down those relentless farm road hills and ox-cart paths the race creators seem to find. Occasionally, a group of geared riders would blow past me in their rag-tag pacelines. Then, as the inevitable next hill would start, I would blow past them in my singlespeed lope as they slowly spun away. But mainly I was alone. Me and the lonely goat or milk cow. The periodic, ancient farm dog laying in wait until the very last moment to lunge one more pathetic lunge. Way to keep fighting, old guy. Daffodils growing in the ditch. Someone's tired mattress resting in the grazed over woods. But just keep pedaling, Man. Keep going. One hill after another. Another arrow and dot and mile ticked off. Another field note sheet completed and crumpled in my jersey pocket.

After the gentlemanly singlespeeder passed me at mile 80, I entered my survival time. My dark time. Dark thoughts. Ten miles of noticeably dwindling power reserves. Claustrophobic roads. More intense wind. My stomach was coming close to full mutiny as I tasted what should have been in my gut but was on my tongue. I was going to crash and burn with 15 miles to go.

But then it happened. My speed steadied. I got on top of my negative thoughts and replaced them with can-do mantras. I hit ten miles to go. I can go ten damn more miles!

And then he appeared. He was maybe 200 yards away. Damn! Could I really consider catching him? Was I racing? Was he racing? Did this matter? Without thinking, I started to pedal as hard as I could sustain. Oh, shit, I was going to have to work hard!

He started to get closer. Holy crap! I might just catch this guy. Was I racing? Did it matter? Before I could even rationalize, we approached the next and maybe one of the hardest hills of the day. Relax! Just ride within yourself. Steady. The rider then stepped off his bike. I couldn't believe my luck. He was done in. I had him! Not that we were racing. I pedaled up to him and told him what a strong ride he had put in. He was surprised to see me. He probably wasn't racing, though. I continued to climb past and to keep it nice and steady. You got him! You got him!

Then, my heart sank for the second time. I heard the faint sound of tire rolling over limestone. I glanced wearily under my right arm and saw his shadow. How!? This man had risen from the depths of despair and had caught me! The agony! How? I put the hammer down as I anemically tried to put a few feet on him. I crested the top of the hill first and didn't stop. Did he have anything left to counter my weak acceleration at the top? Apparently, yes, he did.

We rode all out for the next two miles. He in front of me by 20, 50 then 100 feet. I was in awe of this man. I was out-gunned...out-geared by one tooth. He beat me. But were we racing? In my tired, gravel bounced brain, I was. I was thinking of Paris-Roubaix heroes. Countless bridging stars who had conquered their demons to catch the lead group and go on to win. Entering the velodrome knowing that you are good...but not good enough to win the sprint. I had never felt this before. It was all myth. All made-up drama. But It was awesome. I felt like I had actually competed...even if my competitor had not. Or maybe he was, too. Maybe I forced him to compete for some bizarre, pseudo division right of honor. It didn't matter.

I crossed the line feeling like I had given all that I could to this Nordic deity gravel event. I congratulated my fellow competitor, Martin Rudnick. I hugged my waiting daughter. The other fast riders were already half way through their post ride beverages of choice. Many were dressed and loading up their cars. Someday, maybe, I might be in that lead group. But today, I would not trade that feeling many miles back, for anything.

Here's Something to Get You Ready for Spring!

2010-03-25T19:14:00.001-07:00

On Tuesday, April 6th (the week between the cobbled classics Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix) the Zinema has been kind enough to show the film A Sunday in Hell. This film is a legendary documentary about the 1976 Paris Roubaix and features the efforts of cycling legends Eddy Merckx, Roger de Vlaeminck and Francesco Moser. This film is widely considered to be the best cycling film of all time and is a must see for anyone into cycling. The beauty and drama of cycling in this film is unparalleled. A must see I tell you!!!

Here's the details:

A Sunday in Hell
4/6/10
7:15 pm
Zinema Movie Theater
Ticket price: $7.50 for adults and $6.50 for students and seniors

COGGS gets 60% of all ticket sales, so showing up for the movie is like putting $4 back into our trails. So please come, bring your friends and lets have fun as a cycling community enjoying some great cycling culture.

Here's some links to get inspired:
Intro to the movie - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ktTXjSqvJc

Another 10 minute clip including Merckx driving it at the front and a lot of cobbles - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWTj6H2KKr4&feature=related

Amazon giving information on the film - http://www.amazon.com/Sunday-Hell-Merckx/dp/B000NO1ZTS

The Hills are Alive...

2010-03-25T14:09:00.000-07:00

Hills. I love them. I decided to do some hill workouts and kept it local. Duluth has many good ones to offer. Some rival the best of those that I have ridden in San Francisco.

I hit 4th St. E, Lake St. and Piedmont. This was all that I could handle in the short hour I had to ride in the morning. I have come to the conclusion that Piedmont/HW 53 is one of the longest continual climbs in the city. Can anyone better this?

I spent the afternoon doing another ride north of Lester River. I love how easy it is to ride in this city of ours.

Another 100 in the Bank

2010-03-20T18:56:00.001-07:00

Up at 4am. To the Billy by 5. Wait for Ek. Finally hit the road again for a long day in the saddle...

This morning was cold. All of us were hardened from many long, cold rides this "off" season. But the recent thaw made us all a bit sour today. Cold toes within 10 miles. Frozen water bottles and camelback hoses within 20 miles. We had been tempted by Spring and she is easy to fall for this time of year.

We headed up the North Shore drive and were witness to one of the finest sunrises in quite some time. Intense blue lake melding with the warm orange sun. We all tried to imagine we were on the shores of some tropical beach instead of this frozen port up North. I think the thought of a warming sun brought back to life at least one of my toes. Farrow's snapping turtle head toe, or otherwise known as his right, great toe, probably suffered the most. He repeatedly cried out in pain and it sought to unnerve many of us. We all tried to drown out his wails but to little success. I know I saw Eki reach for his revolver more than once and then slide it back into his pack unable to finish the job.

Conversation ranged from kindergarten to maybe 7th grade humor. I almost choked on my bagel laughing while listening to a Farrow diatribe about saving the helpless of the world. I, for one, need this in my life. The ballbusting is relentless.

As far as the condition report of the DBD: Eki spent most of the time trying to look at himself on his new, red Salsa and could only average maybe 10-11 mph tops for the morning. If it weren't for the fact that he has good genetics and a willing sponsor, I might worry about his upcoming lack of desire to get his new rig dusty. Bares watching. Buffington rides like a man who doesn't know what to do with his teenage energy. He could prove to be a revelation in the upcoming Spring classics and T.I. He should consider wearing lead ankle weights and pulling a trailer. Hendricks should feel under the weather more often. Then at least he will stay in contact with the main peloton instead of riding 20 meters ahead. And instead of listening to his usual musical selection of ABBA, the Carpenters, Black Sabbath, and Hannah Montana...he graced us with his total attention, albeit muted by trying to keep down a catfish dinner he ate a few days ago in Louisiana. And Farrow. It is true that that man rides an extra 4 miles per 100 by just zigzagging in and out of our well tuned paceline. He reminds me of my days long ago riding tipsy back from the college bars to my apartment. Combined with his cries, his condition has many of us concerned. How does this man do his activities of daily living (ADL's)?

At the 50 mile mark, I decided I had had enough. I needed to get some real training in. I love my DBD partners like sisters. But enough was enough. If we weren't stopping at a quilt shop for Eki's new afghan, then we were cruising gifts stores for Bufffington's lighthouse collection. So I parted ways just before Beaver Bay and headed back solo. Finally, I could feel the burn in my legs of real cycling. I could feel the resistance of a lake headwind. I could rise to my potential and test myself against what the road had to throw at me. I wished my brothers well as I saw them head straight to the local craft store. I hope they made it home before dark.

110 Miles of Love

2010-03-08T11:34:00.000-08:00

A pace line? On gravel rigs? It was beautiful. Despite the mechanical foibles of one of our lead riders (name rhymes with Farrow...) our hearty band of cyclists had, on almost all accounts, a great day. It was a day that I needed desperately to prove to myself and to my fellow DBD that I had what it took to withstand the first of the gravel classics, the Ragnarok.

The weather was spectacular for the first week of March. By 10 AM, we were all down to base layers and warm feet for a change. What a relief! The sun came out and by noon, we all felt like dancing! Our line kicked into high gear (for 3 of the 4 were on single speeds, Ek, the only smart one among us with his geared rig...) and it was as if we had wings and smiling lasses bringing us cool bottles. It was glorious. I felt amazingly good for having no where near the miles that my partners have. For the first time in a long while I felt that I could hang with the occasional bursts of manic energy brought on by Hendricks. We are now convinced that the raucous death-metal that Rich listens to while riding with us gives him a shot of energy comparable to only the richest EPO. It is truly amazing to watch. He is like an animal possessed at time...racing forward alone as if to bridge to an imaginary lead pack somewhere.

The day ended a bit on the rough side for me as I experienced a sour stomach from too much sickly Gatorade (which I almost never drink) mixed with my ever present Pertetuem. I done got dropped with a few miles to go. But the humility of some in the pack slowed up enough for me to tag along to the finish. At least that is what I led them to believe. Little do they know that I was secretly waiting to try out "the Look" on them as we climbed the last hill on Strand. But, I took pity on my fellow cyclists and let them feel like they were helping me out. So it goes.

I hope to have at least on more solid 100 miler in before the Ragnarok. Then, who knows? Maybe I might just feel something like prepared for the Spring Classics.

Spring?

2010-02-26T06:44:00.000-08:00

On a walk up Chester Creek yesterday morning with my daughter, I stopped dead in my tracks after hearing, then seeing a robin high up in a Maple. I pointed it out to Es and told her Spring must not be too far away now. I obviously still enjoy lying to my girl. Anyway, I was elated. The walk yielded many interesting sights and sounds including: dark holes in the creek ice where we could see the melt water coursing underneath, lots of beautiful icicles, squirrel foot prints, and something that supposedly scared Es after she stepped on it. I have no idea what she was talking about. I told her it was probably a snow snake. She said, "scary!" Yes!

This morning I was blissfully warm in bed with Es snuggled in next to me when I heard yet another wonderful sound. With the window open, I could hear a Cardinal calling from the creek. Now, neither the robin or this cardinal are going to score me any points with local bird nerds, but that doesn't matter. Although not terribly rare up here, cardinals still catch my eye and ears. In Nebraska, where I grew up, they were very common. Hearing their calls and song are a direct link to my home state and growing up. And Spring.

Birding is one of those skills that I am so glad I finally acquired (thanks largely to my mom). No matter where I am: walking to work, riding up Lester River Rd, paddling the shore of some wilderness lake, birds will catch my eye. I remember one day in San Fransisco. I was hauling demo'd sheet rock out of a downtown office site we were remodeling. I was on the sidewalk next to the truck when I saw a pigeon flying very quickly toward me, just a few feet higher than me. But then out of nowhere, a Peregrine Falcon intercepted it only a few feet from my head. It was like watching a Top Gun training video. I looked around to see who else had seen this! No one...my workmates weren't quite the bird watching type (my favorite co-worker had just been released from jail...again. He was a good guy...) The side effect of noticing birds is that you start to see many more things that people miss. It's now a habit. I count red tailed hawks while I'm driving. I count the crows who flock together some days on 4th St near St. Mary's hospital. I hope the Merlin pair finally come back to the Spruce tree on the corner of my block. You begin to notice how integrated birds are in your daily life. The world would be a sad, quiet place without those feathery friends.

Now, if Spring was only really coming soon. The robin is a good start, though.

Hitting the Road in February

2010-02-21T13:26:00.000-08:00

My riding partners have already been having big weeks of training. For me, today was the first good test. Several hours of hills, cold feet and good company. Lots of miles thinking ahead to warmer months, but also enjoying the strange weather of Duluth. It could easily being snowing right now, so we all feel fortunate to be getting in some solid road miles. Not a bad start for the season. It is my intent to pack as much riding in (while still staying somewhat sane...) this year before my dear number two comes rolling along later this summer. So I have a calender with plenty of good rides...the highlights, I hope, being the Trans Wisconsin, the Almanzo Gravel Road Series and the Chequamegon 100. Definitely no where near the number of events as my buddies, but plenty for me.

Here's to your cycling season being all that you want it to be. Have fun and stay safe!

Back from the Arrowhead

2010-02-04T07:48:00.000-08:00

It is always a challenge to write down cohesive thoughts after an adventure. This year's Arrowhead Ultra Marathon was very different than last in several ways. I finished 12th in 24 hr : 7 minutes (I really wanted to break 24 hrs). Last year, it took me 55 hrs; 34 min. That's the major difference. So much faster on the bike.

The weather...could hardly be better this year. The start was a brisk 20 below, calm and wonderfully beautiful. The day also remained calm and sunny. My one night out was relatively balmy at a bit below zero. This compared to last year's minus 20 and 35 below temps at night. Pretty cold stuff. The difference between having to bivy twice last year and not once this year was huge. I dare say that you lose a bit of the feel of the race by not sleeping out at least once. But the flip side is that doing the race-sleep-dance is always tough and I did not particularly miss it. I have had many, many nights out in the winter and it's always more fun with other people and a big fire.

Up until 3pm on Sunday before the start, I was undecided about whether to walk or bike. It was not until we checked out three different trail sections that I decided to pack the bike. I was very, very cautious about using my non-snow bike (a 29er with only 2.5 tires compared to the dedicated snow bikes that dominate these events now with 4 - 5 inch wide snow tires) after getting burned in an earlier event this December when I pushed my bike for 14 miles through mashed potato snow. But the trail was packed hard. This would be a good year to get away with a normal bike. I was oddly disappointed by the idea of being on the trail for a much shorter time. Yes, a lot more suffering by foot. But almost twice the adventure, too, just by the clock. The trail was just too perfect for the bike, though, so it was back to Holiday Inn to pack up the new bags I had sewn specifically for my single-speed rig.

Here are my top 10 memories of this year's Arrowhead:

I believe in exposure therapy. So the fear, excitement and anticipation of heading out into the night was especially strong this year. I left the halfway checkpoint of Melgeorge's Resort at just after 8 pm. I had stuffed myself with grilled cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate (THANKS VOLUNTEERS!!!) in preparation for a very long night. After riding a few miles with a couple other people (thanks for the company Andy!) I headed down the trail into the night. It was just so beautiful that nothing could get me down. I had to relish every star of Orion's belt (just like last year). The orange, misty moon rose smack-dab in the middle of the trail. By 2 am, it was helping light my way. No wolf tracks this year, but I still felt their presence now and then. You just have to enjoy the fact that very few people in this world get to experience the peace of being out in the woods at night, "alone" and traveling smoothly through a winter paradise.
I had a blast before the race actually began. My traveling companion and roommate Jason Buffington was a wonderful partner. We had great conversations about a very wide array of topics. Charlie Farrow was his usual jovial self and does more for the sport of amateur cycling than anyone I know. The rest of the racers that I met were all very friendly. It is great getting to know this group of people. I really, really like the fact that almost everyone is low key but competitive, able to joke and take a joke, and just fun to talk with. I noticed this among the gravel road cyclists I first met this Spring. Well, a lot of familiar faces from then plus some new winter adventurers. Overall, a really swell bunch of people (and their families, too.)
Along those same lines was the pre-race dinner and meeting at the local VFW. It does not get any more hometown than a VFW meeting hall. We had more opportunity to see old friends and get introduced to new ones from around the world. I really enjoyed the long lull before the start of the storm. Plus, we were treated to speeches by the mayor and local DNR officers. What more could you ask for? Well...a traditional spaghetti dinner with iceberg lettuce and garlic bread...of course. The VFW guys who hosted were great. A big thanks to those veterans!
A rare spectacle of seeing over 200 blinking, red lights at the start of the race worn by all the participants. The exhaust from the snow machines, the chatter of last minute goodbye's, and the frozen breath of the racers made for a palpable experience. I hope someone got a picture.
The landscape of first 20 miles (and the rest of the event, too, for that matter) was exactly what winter should look like. White flocked spruce and pine. Hoar frost coating every branch of alder and aspen. An orange sun slowly rising above the curved tops of the bog black spruce. It was like being in Lawren Harris' "Spruce and Snow." There is nothing in my mind that symbolizes Northern Minnesota like spruce bogs in the winter. Our Arrowhead trail would course through many by the time of the finish (more on this...)
The lights of Melgeorge's Resort. They remind me of the lights of Wintergreen Lodge as we would be running our dog teams back home across White Iron Lake in Ely. There is something very magical and nostalgic about traveling over a frozen lake at sunset toward the warm glow of cabin lights.
Winter racing (and endurance racing in general) is all about keeping the engine running smoothly. The cold aspect, long duration of this race plus the remoteness all add layers of complexity to finishing strong or barely surviving or dropping out. I am proud of the fact that not once have I felt close to hypothermic during this event. But what a struggle to stay fueled and hydrated. I don't want to see another Clif Bar for at least 6 months or a drop of Hammer Pertetuem for at least a year. But they work...as well as to be expected for 24 hours. As much as I enjoy traveling slowly through the woods on personal trips, the act of racing adds a condensed level of challenge that I value in these days of few vacations. I need that adventure in my life.
The Hills. The Hills. Oh my, they are a challenge at 3 am. And this from a guy who LIKES hills. They don't stop. The section of hills on the way to the third and last check point are formidable. Ever year the time it takes to get to the Tipi checkpoint near Wakemup Hill is deceptively long. It is bad dream long. Can't reach the end of the hallway nightmare long. And then there it is. The Wakemup Hill. A cruel, bald hill. And sweet relief on the other side (the start of the equally long but flat, black spruce bog section). It is a brutal test of endurance for me. But the race would never be the same without them.
Fighting to stay awake on the home stretch. I knew it would be hard because last year I slept while I walked. I remember thinking this is what soldiers feel like (except for the being shot at part...) This year, the black spruce bog was equally challenging if not more so. Add the fact that it was pre-dawn, I had been awake for 22 hours and that I had to balance a bike instead of just shuffle along. I was down to my last cup of warm water. I could not stomach anything to eat (just too much enduro-chew). It hurt to keep my eyes open. So I started talking to myself again. Making lists of things I was going to do when I got to the finish. Nap! Eat a hamburger and fries and milkshake. Nap. Just keep going. The faster you peddle the faster you can sleep in comfort. This is the part of the race that I really was happy I was on a bike traveling 9-10 miles an hour versus the 3-4 of walk/skiing. But I love this section. Kind of like the love of a really bad, abusive relationship.
Many people have said it before and I will again. You better like being by yourself. There is just a lot of silence. Maybe the song of a chickadee and the crunch of snow under your tires. Maybe the bad song stuck in your head (let's hear it for having the "Chicken Dance Polka" lodged in your brain for the first 20 miles!). But mainly a lot of quiet. Listening to yourself move through the woods. That's just about as lovely as it gets.

I will be back next year, God willing, to try my hand at the third and last mode of travel...the walk. I can hardly wait. (OK...give me a couple of months...)

Demons

2010-01-24T19:24:00.000-08:00

What another stressful week. The great news has been that my daughter has been feeling normal after her rough illness last week. What a relief. Then I was blind-sided by a weird bug that sent me to the doc twice. Then mother nature flexes her muscle. Rain in January? I have seen plenty in February, but not during the coldest month of the year.

Ahhh...the week before the Arrowhead Ultra is always a mess. My mind doubts. My demons awake from their fitful slumbers. Actually, I think they have been awake for the last month tormenting me in other ways (the well-being of my family). Part of the challenge of this event for those that are new to it and veterans alike is that it is tough to train in the winter for such a long race. What constitutes an adequate training day? How long when I know I will be traveling for over a day and maybe three? Tough to process.

So what to do? I will pretend that I have enough miles in. I will make sure my gear is good to go. I will relish the time I have with my wife and daughter. And I will lie awake before sleep remembering what it feels like to travel in the woods alone at 3 AM when it's 30 below. This is where my demons are. Where are yours?

This is Where I Go

2010-01-18T17:38:00.000-08:00

This is as close to flying as you can get on skis. This is where I go to get my head back on straight. Ely is the place that I might just call home again...but not yet. Right now, it is sweet relief in the form of great friends, superb skiing and low key living. It is good to have an Ely in your life.

New Year's Musings

2010-01-02T11:00:00.000-08:00

Photo by Vincent Kershaw

I am sitting here in the kitchen, nicely rewarmed from the morning's workout: run up Chester Creek trail to ski circuit with skis, poles and backpack....swap running shoes for skate boots and ski Chester hills until wanting to vomit...replace skate boots with running shoes and coast down the trail to home. Repeat tomorrow.

All good things in my life come to a screeching halt when my wife informs me my daughter has had another febrile seizure. This is her 6th one. We should be getting use to them by now but the total scariness of them has given my wife (who unfortunately has witnessed more of them than I have) and I a weird form or PTSD secondary to my daughter's various bouts with illness. No matter how many times I reread the Mayo clinic site or the AAP literature on the relative non-serious nature of these events we are still left shaken after each new seizure. Frankly, it is like watching an alien try to abduct your child. It is surreal. They are usually at night. And I really hope she grows out of them soon. So it goes.

All training these days is geared for my second attempt at the Arrowhead Ultra Marathon in International Falls on February 1. My big goal is to finish this event in all three categories: cycling, skiing, and walk/run. This year, I will arrive with both a bike and walk set-up. Upon examining the trail conditions the day before the race, I will make my decision upon the mode best suited for success. I am mentally preparing for a long walk. I am filled with anticipation and a healthy level of respect for the course and weather. That is what makes this event a winner in my book. It will eat you up and spit you out if you are not prepared. Fun!

And my day just got brighter after reading Mr Farrow's latest entry. I am honored!

More soon. Go enjoy the cold!

Old School Cross Training v.2

2009-12-24T19:36:00.000-08:00

Lots of snow coming down today. The single track is all buried in 10 inches of powder. The groomer is quietly waiting for it to all end before packing the ski trails. But I have the secret weapon...a two and a half year old who is sick of being inside. So out we go!

1. Corral toddler and find appropriate winter clothing. This will be the bulk of the work out so pace yourself. Once again, start off cool because you will be sweating by the time you open the door and hit the snow.

2. Find snow shovel and get side tracked into shoveling out driveway, neighbor's sidewalk, your sidewalk, alley behind house and pathway to garage.

3. Find sled hanging in garage rafters and locate toddler in backyard.

4. Place toddler in sled and run down alley...approx. 100 meters. Repeat or..."Ah-Din, Ah-Din!!"

5. Realize that bump in backyard is no where big enough to call a hill. Proceed to abandoned street and climb hill way too big for toddler. Check for cars.

6. Fly down hill at warp speed. Avoid cars stuck along the curb.

7. Run back up hill...("Ah-Din, Ah-Din!!!") pulling toddler in sled behind. Imagine you are Rocky in Russia training with sleds loaded with stones and logs.

8. Important side note...clothing: strictly old Carhartts, cotton T-shirt under fleece and socks at the toes of old pack-boots. Even better are socks are all the way off.

9. Heart should be racing at the top of each hill after pulling child, sled and 5 gallons of free-loading snow in sled.

10. Repeat #'s 4-10 until daughter has glazed look on face...roughly 3 hours. Or until hypothermic from sweaty, cotton T-shirt under too many layers.

This is an all time classic workout and one that should not be missed through the entire winter season. Enjoy!

Merry Christmas

Jeremy

Wanted: Pugsley for Hire

2009-12-20T16:09:00.000-08:00

I'm on the hunt for a snow fatbike...Rent, Borrow or on the Cheap! Any ideas? Give me a shout!
I'm 6' 1" (a 20"frame?).
Or how about someone start a Pugsley library? A real winter rental service!

Thanks!

Tuscobia 2009: Or Taking your Bike for a Walk in the Gutter

2009-12-19T18:17:00.000-08:00

I was so psyched for this event! It was my first attempt at cycling a winter race and I had high hopes...with a healthy dose of dread pending the local trail conditions.

It started off great with an unspectacular trip down to Park Falls, WI. With only a few miles to go I noticed a familiar looking rig pulled over on the side of the road. It was Charlie Farrow!...with a couple of new friends. Poor Charlie had a rear wheel rusted to his drum brake. Lucky enough for him, it was a hopping Friday night and the locals were out prowling their favorite watering holes. This gentleman was kind enough to stop and try to whack the snot out of Charlie's wheel...but to no avail. Within minutes, another good Samaritan arrived...

He of course wanted to see Charlie's I.D. first...long story short...Charlie finally made it down to Park Falls but only after his battery died (after I told him it would be OK to leave his lights on during the wheel change...sorry buddy!)

Well...we all made it to The Edge O' Town Motel eventually. Rich Hendricks was coming in the morning after he decided to bravely fight his shop, bike stand clamp with one of his right hand fingers. Jason Buffington made his usual family commitments look like child's play as he joined this group later on in the evening. Part of the fun of these events is being lucky enough to get together and share war stories from previous campaigns...be them work, play or other. We finally got to sleep knowing that wake up would come in just a couple of hours to meet the 4:30 AM bus departure.
Charlie makes sure that absolutely not one molecule of bike come in contact with his rig during transport. Jason laughs, once again, knowing that his bike is programmed to secretly steal race details from Charlie's Pugsley.
Charlie and Jason discussing the merits of using a pee bottle or bag in case of an emergency en route.
Rich Hendricks and Jason talk trail conditions as Buffington readies his rig.
Farrow adds another lead bar to his frame bag..."just to make things sporting"...
This will be the last photo of me with a smile on my face for several more hours...the horror....
We all wanted to get this show on the road. Who knew that this would be the fastest 100 feet I would travel all day.
Well...it took only about 100 meters to figure out that this was going to be a very tough day. Conditions were such that my fat Racing Ralph tires were no match for the soft snow. This was a day strictly for the fatbikes. Within minutes, several of us with just our summer rigs were walking down the trail taking our bikes for a stroll. Every now and then, one would get the courage to try a new line only to flail helplessly in the fluff.
Finally, Jason and Chris Schotz decided to try the gutter, a one foot swatch of line right on the outside of the groomed trail. I followed suit. For a minute, I actually felt something like real forward progress. But as I watched Jason and Chris struggle on, I knew I would not be able to hang on. My singlespeed gearing was just a hair too high to continue without going into the red. So I backed off and took a minute to assess my situation. Pulling out the map, I knew that I did not want to get stuck in no man's land between towns with no highway access. I decided to walk on to the next town, one that was 12 miles form the start, and hope that conditions improved somewhere in the mean time.
After a couple of miles, I was forced to deal with my blistering heels. My newly fashioned winter Tuff Lucks were working great for pedaling but not so great for such extended walking. I stopped, and as I put on another layer of moleskin, another walker with sled passed me. It is tough to be passed by these courageous competitors on foot knowing that I should be miles ahead of them with my chosen mode of travel.
As I neared the town of Birchwood, I knew deep down that my race was just about up. I climbed a small hill outside of town and I heard the tires of a cyclist coming up the highway that paralleled the trail. He pulled up to the trail and I hung my head in defeat as I agreed to join in on the highway back home. As we stood on the shoulder, a couple more riders came up the road. As he passed us, he said he had heard that the trail was rock hard just outside of Birchwood. Without a second to lose, I walked back to the trail and continued my bike push to glory. I was overcome with shame for having joined those that chose the highway of sin. I had sinned! I had acquired race information illegally! I had been tempted by the easy road and I had given in! I was determined now to carry on and try to repay my transgressions. Were my bloody heels enough of a payment to the cycling spirits? I promised I would never give in again. (these fellow cyclists on the highway were wonderful sinners none the less. One would happen to save my can just down the road.)
I optimistically trudged closer to town with notions of 7 mph in head. I reached the burg of Birchwood and pressed on to the outskirts. As I was crossing the highway to reconnect with he trail, a trio of snow machines gunned it front of me. A blue-gray cloud of exhaust filled the air. I saw the trail turn into mashed potatoes.
It was no use. The trail passed town was even worse than before. I was watching the trail of Jason and Chris ahead of me alternately weaving between gutter and walking. I pushed my bike to the next highway and gave up. My heels were done.
I pumped up more air into my tires and hit the highway. I figured I could make it back to Park Falls sometime after dark. I could get a good ride in, at least.

After about 5 miles of highway, a truck pulled over loaded with bikes. I began to know how the cyclists in the Tour feel when the broom wagon pulls up and taps them on the shoulder. I threw my rig in the bed and scooted in next to Schotz and the fellow that I had originally joined on the highway of sin. Now, it was just the highway of shame. I felt a little better knowing that I was sitting next to one of the best mountain bikers in the Midwest who had bravely carried on with his skinny tires until reason finally took over.
Schotz and his father would eventually drive me back to the start line where my car was. We had stopped at the halfway point to inform the race crew that we were scratching. We also learned that Charlie and company were making decent progress having come through not that long ago.

On the way home to Duluth, I looked forward to having a full evening with my family. I tried to rationalize the day by thinking we (Rich, Jason and I) simply did not have the right tool for the day. I particularly limited my options with just the singlespeed. The event was a lot of fun despite the physics of the day. I am determined as ever to prepare for the Arrowhead. The need for a real snowbike is looming, though. Just how can I beg borrow or steal one for the big one? We shall see. In the mean while, thanks to the kind folks that helped get me home. Thanks to the Duluth Four. I had a good one. I learned a lot.

News Flash!!! Buffington finishes the race! Unbelievable! More details to follow!

Old School Cross Training

2009-12-15T18:32:00.000-08:00

I learned this technique from a Czech plumber turned Olympic speed skater.

1. Back up sewer line from house to alley with toilet paper, roots and toddler poo.
2. Buy house that has done-it-yourself plumbing in basement floor that would not be code anywhere within the US.
3. Make sure ground outside is frozen at least a foot and a half deep.
4. Hire an excavator to dig clean-out pipe for access (must be at least two years ago)...but keep pipe opening buried at least an unknown depth below surface of driveway.
5. Rent pneumatic hammer after work.
6. Proceed to spend four hours slowly removing frozen rock/gravel from a hole that is no where near big enough to be of any use other than to pulverize knuckles.
7. Make sure you are scheduled to work the next day so as to not make anything too convenient.
8. Take hour long shower to thaw out shins, knees, lower back and ears.
9. Watch basement drain overflow with above shower water.

If done properly, and with enough "repeats", this method can be a very effective alternative to traditional, bike-specific workouts.

It's 4:00 AM...

2009-12-08T03:59:00.000-08:00

Three hours of sleep. One very long shift at the hospital a few hours ago. I start packing for the morning as soon as I walk home from work that night. Water...peanut butter crackers...tools...rum...my revolver...my birch bark map of the North Lester Region. I am set. I have wrenched on my ride for hours the day before prepping it for what will be a very long and rather remote ride.

4:00 AM...I awake after said 3 hours of sleep. My legs no longer move. I can not raise my head. I fear that I have a bad case of temporary paralysis caused by a rare affliction called exhaustion. I reach over and poor another four fingers of rum...one each for my comrades who will be riding for his majesty this morn. I am a shell of my former self...let sleep come swiftly.

New Heck Registration Rules

2009-11-27T12:44:00.000-08:00

Not to be left behind in the ever changing world of gravel race registration processes, I have developed a revised entry system for the 2010 running of the Heck of the North. In no particular order, here they are:

Veterans of the Heck will be given first shot at entering. Actually veterans will be the only people I will allow in the race. A "veteran" is any one I think would be cool enough to have in my race.
First time riders, or "greenhorns", or "bastard" riders, will be given a fair shot at getting in, too. If I feel like it. But here are the rules for them:

I will be accepting entries on the first new moon of the month of August 2010, between the times of 14:30:30 and 14:31:00. That leaves a large-ish window of 30 seconds. The new moon is calculated to fall on the third Sunday of August.
I will only be accepting entries by horseback, with a RCM officer at the reigns. No US mail, UPS, or Fed-Ex will be allowed.
All entries will be things that are bright and shiny, or other things that keep my interest, or are made of alcohol, or are inside jokes that only I, and other veterans understand.
If I should receive an entry AFTER the allotted time frame I will personally urinate on it. Then I will dry it off on my radiator until crisp and then set it on fire in a large black kettle. Once the ashes are cool, I will defecate on them. I will then take the ash-mash and seal it in a 5 gallon pickle bucket and bury it in the woods behind my house.
All late entrants will receive a photograph sent C.O.D to their homes of their late entry forms/gifts to me placed in afore mentioned bucket.
While this process is going on I will be receiving donations in the form of cash, liqueur, trinkets, bike parts, Gopher's tickets, and college fund donations for my daughter from my "veteran" riders. These I will photograph and put on my race blog for others to be inspired by.

It is my sincere hope that these changes will simplify and help keep pure the event that is the Heck of the North. If there are further questions regarding registration rules...tough. They are all right here.

Thanks for thinking about doing my race!

Flight of the "Tuff-Lucks"

2009-11-16T18:48:00.000-08:00

Born from the soles of Steger Mukluks, the knees of Wintergreen Design windpants, and the heart of a Specialized touring shoe comes....the "TUFF-LUCK". Part mukluk, part cycling shoe...all BUSINESS!
Well...in theory. Test flight to follow soon. Here is the birth story:

Just When I thought it was Safe

2009-11-03T22:17:00.000-08:00

So, I'm walking home tonight from work and it's late and I'm tired. I had a wonderfully hard ride earlier in the day, and the hill to my house was now reminding my legs of the day's activities. As I was approaching my door I had a sense of contentment with my cycling goals for the time being. I felt a welcome reprieve from competition and the need to push myself. I got home, showered, ate several bowls of Cheerios and was about to retire to my room.

Then I did something stupid. I checked the Arrowhead 135 Ultra website. There, I was informed that the registration was closed and I, as expected, was on the roll call for this year's event. But what was disturbing was the flood of competitiveness that I felt as I read the names of those signed up (and there are some BIG names signed up this year...) It was frightening, exciting and perplexing all at the same time.

Just when I thought I could relax for a week or so...now I'm planning for a full winter offensive starting with the Tuscobia Ultra and hopefully ending with the Arrowhead.

By no means will I come close to winning either one of these events. But that seems to be irrelevant to my brain stem. It appears to be a deep, dark necessity within me to be part something like these two races. They are hard. They are beautiful in their environments. And they must fulfill some bizarre missing element within my otherwise wonderful life. So in I go. See you on the other side.

Wanted

2009-10-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

OK...This will be quick. I am on the lookout to either buy or borrow a wide wide wide set of 29" wheels for the upcoming Tuscobia and Arrowhead 135.
I am also looking for a new (to me) -20...-40 degree down bag.

Thanks!