I finally managed to submit an entry to the Dirt Rag Literature contest, but sadly, it didn’t win.  I thought I’d post it so someone other than my wife (and the judges with poor taste at Dirt Rag) would have a chance to read it. If you’re interested, check it out!

 

I open my eyes and see a bright white ceiling.  I notice the rough texture of the ceiling tile and watch odd patterns emerge from the chaos.    I feel strange.  Drugged.  I try to move but my muscles argue and refuse to cooperate.  I manage to turn my head and see my wife sitting in an uncomfortable chair.  She gazes at me with a sympathetic smile.  A nurse stands beside her. The pattern of colored shapes on her scrubs dances and shivers.  It frightens me.  She leaps into action at the sight of my movement.  I try to speak but my throat feels like sandpaper.  My wife approaches.

“How you feeling?”

“Bad,” I force out and cringe from the effort.

“The doctor said it went really well.” She’s speaking in a bright, excited tone, so I know she’s giving me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.

“He said the nerve was purple and inflamed and that he was able to clean out the herniated disc and everything looks great.  He said there’s still plenty of disc left so you should be in good shape.”

It starts coming back.  A sneeze, while standing in an odd position, bulged out an already inflamed disc in my lower back.  I was out of action for a year.  After months in physical therapy with little success, my choices were reduced to dealing with life status quo or taking a chance on surgery.  I wanted a piece of my old life back.  I rolled the dice and entrusted my doctor to repair me like a broken machine.

I try to speak again.  She see’s my trouble and stops me.

“Just get some sleep,” she says. “I’ll be back with the kids later,”

I nod, smile at the good news and lay back into the bed.  I might actually be fixed. The deep pain in my back and the strange,  hypnotic beeps of the machines fade as I fall into a deep peaceful sleep.

It’s hot.  The sun beats down on the dozen of us straddling our bikes just behind an orange line painted in the grass.  Spectators stare at our brightly colored lycra that we wear proudly.  We’re already sweating and staring at our water bottles.  We all think the same thing. It won’t be enough.

“Ok everyone!, Race time!, TEN, NINE”

I clip into my right pedal.

Deep breath.  Exhale.  Deep breath.  Exhale.

“THREE, TWO, ONE, GO!!!”

Derailleur shifters click like machine gun fire as we accelerate. My lungs expand and collapse pumping oxygen to my thirsty muscles. The group forms into a line.  There’s no speaking, there’s no need to. We’re all looking forward across the wide, grassy field at a small opening in the forest canopy.  Twelve riders and only one will be first.  Less than 20 seconds of effort and my legs are filled with burning acid.  My bodies self protection system is screaming to halt this mad intensity.  It’s more than it can handle.  I punch the override button and battle on.  There’s always more power.  Who ever can find it will be first.  The pain is intense but there is no where else I’d rather be.  The adrenaline pumps through my veins and I’m feeling higher than an any combination of drugs can replicate.  The waves of emotions cascade like waterfalls through my head.  I want the pain to stop.  I want to be first into the forest.  This dichotomy battles itself out in my head.  The forest is approaching.  Everyone waits for the move.  I see it.  I want it.  I go.  I don’t know where it will come from or if it will be there, but I go.  My legs turn at what feels like an unimaginable cadence.  I wonder if the fabric of space will tear.  Surely time as we know it has stopped and the universe is focused on this one moment.  This one effort.  My lungs rip molecules of Oxygen from the atmosphere. I’m shoulder to shoulder with another rider.  We’re close.  Someone will pull ahead or we’ll both crash.  I find more and pull inside.  We’re in.  I’m first.

Now it’s time to pull away.  I pedal hard down the first straight away.  I dive into the next corner and pump the bike through the rolling terrain.  I ease my heart rate down from its dangerous levels as I focus on the trail.  My mind scans every corner, rock and root. I pick out spots to bank into turns.  I unweight and float over the ground.  Any lost speed or effort is unacceptable.  I calculate the momentum I can carry into each corner.  My tire tread slips, slips slips and then catches as I roll out of the turn with speed.  My mind and my bike are connected on a deep level.  It’s just an extension of my body.  We dance over the terrain.  I do not ride with my bike.  I ride with my mind.  This is where I belong.  I steal a glance behind me.  There’s one rider that can match me today.  He’s on my wheel.  I need to attack and drop him, but the time must be right.  No wasted effort. I feel invincible. I decide to test my opponent. I shift and attack a climb with everything I have.  My heart threatens to explode as I reach the top.  I look back.  He’s still there.

Then there’s a sound, an awful sound.  Pssshhhhhht.  A flat tire, but no, wait, that’s not exactly right.  What’s going on?

“Mr. Lennon? Mr. Lennon?”

“Huh,”

“I’m sorry, but you need to stay awake for this”

The nurse is releasing the air from the blood pressure apparatus.

I readjust.  I’m confused.

“OK,” my voice scratches out.  I try to adjust myself but can’t move an inch without severe pain.  I collapse back into bed.  The nurse performs her tests and measurements, reminds me about the small button I can press to inject myself with high powered pain medication and walks away.  I drift off.

It’s cold.  It’s very cold.  The sound of a bicycle tire crunches on top of packed snow. My legs turn lumberingly slow moving the massive fat tire over the crusty terrain.  It’s dark but a crimson glow is forming over the eastern horizon.  My headlamp illuminates ice crystals hanging in the air.  They dance around me like fairy dust. On my right I hear the river rolling through the valley.  The sound of rushing water is amplified by the blanket of white insulation covering the ground. I’m wrapped in a synthetic cocoon that protects me from the cold.  The trail is alive beneath my wheels.  It’s constantly collapsing and evolving.   One moment I float on soft pillowy powder then I crawl through broken crust that rivals a  technical rock garden.  I pull the bitter cold air into my lungs.  It stings and reminds me that I’m alive.  As I crawl along the trail in what seems a desolate tundra of another world, it’s hard to imagine that I’m only miles from home in theCuyahogaValleyof northeastOhio.  The crushed limestone towpath is buried beneath me.  The flat, smooth trail frequented by thousands off walkers and cyclists in the summer has been transformed by nature.  My wheels may never touch the snow of the Iditarod trail, but there are always ways to challenge ourselves if we just open our front doors.  I approach a road and pause for oncoming headlights.  I stare though the orange tint of my worn goggles as he pears through is frosted windshield.  He’s warm and comfortable, sipping his coffee.  He stares at me like an alien.  I feel more engaged and alive than he will feel all day, possibly ever.  I can feel my body temperature drop and my hands and feet tingle.  A harsh gust strains to penetrate my layers of armor.  My truck’s thermometer read -6F as I rode away.  It’s time to move.  I climb onto the saddle and pedal hard into the snow bank and float onto the trail.

“Mr. Lennon, time to wake up.”

“Huh, weren’t you just here?”

“That was two hours ago.  We have to perform vitals every two hours.”

I’m sleep deprived and in a drug hazed bonk from lack of food.  My body demands calories and rest but my care provider refuses.  Modern medicine knows best.  She has her way with me and I drop back into bed.  I try to turn to my right side and my muscles revolt.  I stare at the button hanging beside me like the forbidden apple.  One press and the pain will disappear. Before I can make another attempt, I’m out.

It’s a crisp, spring morning.  The sky is the same deep blue of my wife’s eyes.  I stand in my driveway, sipping coffee and embracing the peace.  I hear the garage door slam.

“Daddy?

I turn to see my five year old son, skipping towards me, still pushing his left shoe onto his foot.

“Yeah, bud?”

“Can you take off my training wheels?”

“You think you’re really ready this time?”

“Yep, I want to ride on two wheels!” he says while pointing to the sky like Superman.

“You sure?  You’re not going to chicken out again, are you?”

He stares at me with a strangely mature face, “Yes.  Take off my training wheels.”

I don’t argue.  I take his tiny 14” Trek and throw it on my truck’s tail gate.  I grab some wrenches and remove the training wheels.  I see terror mixed with nervous excitement on his face.  I know it well.

“All right, let’s go!” I say.

I walk his bike down our driveway and onto our quiet road.

“You going to hold me Daddy?”

“Just for a while.  Once you’re steady, I’ll let go.”

“OK,” he says uncertainly.

“If you lose your balance, just put your foot down.  OK?  Easy.”

He starts pedaling. I’m trotting behind him with a solid grip on his shoulder. I can feel his balance steady.  I gradually loosen my grip as he becomes more stable.  I’m just gently holding his shirt and then I let go.  He rolls about twenty feet, realizes he’s riding solo and topples over to the side.

“Dad! You let me crash!” he says while laying on the ground twisted like a pretzel with his bike.

“You were riding !  You had it!” I say as I jog towards him.

He gets to his feet and stares me down as if I killed Santa Claus.

“Come on, you had it. Let’s do it again.  When I let go, you just keep pedaling down the street and try to ride around the circle.”

He straddles the bike and climbs on the pedals. We start off again. He locks into a solid, balanced position quickly this time.  I loosen my grip and he’s gone.  He pedals away from me.

“Dad, I’m riding on two wheels!”

“Good job!  You got it!”

He rounds the cul-de-sac with ease.  With each pedal stroke his movements become more relaxed and natural.  How quickly we bond with these awkward machines.  He’s riding straight towards me. He’s smiling.  His dark eyes are bright with wonder.  A new world is opening up in his mind.  He’s feeling the gentle breeze from his movement.  He’s already sensing how to move the bike with slight shifts of his body.  He’s experiencing the overwhelming sense of freedom and adventure from sitting on a bike saddle. The same emotions that I feel every time I climb on a bicycle, he’s now experiencing for the first time.  A tear wells up in my eye as he rides towards me, back pedals to lock in his coaster brake and skids to a halt inches from my feet.

“Dad! Daddy! Dad! Daddy!”

“Huh?”

The fog lifts from my drug induced sleep.

My two boys stand at my hospital bed. Their bright faces energize my spirit. It feels like weeks since I’ve seen them.

“Dad!  Did you have an operation?”

“Yeah, I did buddy.”

“Uh, Are you going to be OK?”

I remember the look in his eyes.  The joy and wonder of endless possibilities.  That moment hasn’t even occurred yet, but it will, and very soon.

I smile.

“Yeah, buddy, we’re going to be just fine.”

 

 

What better way to spend the 1 year anniversary of back surgery than to race your fat bike in a state that just happens to have some of the best breweries in the country.  That’s what I thought when I signed up for the Farmers Fat Bike Race at Cannonsburg Ski Resort just north of Grand Rapids Michigan last Fall.

 

Snow conditions were looking great up until the massive spring thaw we had last week.  I kept checking the website for updates, but they assured us the trail would be great for racing with or without snow.  A step onto any trail inOhiothat day would have resulted in a boot stuck in the mud, so I was skeptical, but the family loaded into the minivan with a fat bike, skis and snowboards and we headed off forMichigan.

 

I met teammates Larry and Kelly Ayer at the race with their brand new state of the art, lightweight fat bike, the Salsa Beargrease.  They raced the duo category and shared the bike.  I stood atop my “out of the box” Moonlander weighing in at 36 lbs, about 10 more lbs than their lightweight rig.  I was geeking out at the staging area over everyone’s bikes.  These people are taking fat biking to an entirely new level.  Titanium frames, carbon forks and high end components were littered throughout the field.  Everyone was using clipless pedals while I had my flat pedals and a pair of boots that weighed more than most of their frames.  I didn’t have any expectations other than having a good time, so I wasn’t too worried about it. 

 

The race was a timed 3 hour format.  Whoever could ride the most laps of the 3 mile race course in 3 hours would win.  Pretty simple. 

 

We all lined up on the starting line and it was time to roll.  The course started with a hard pack double track climb.  The pace was hard and I had my heart rate higher than it’s been for years staying in line with the main pack.  My legs tried to remind my brain that I hadn’t raced or even ridden very hard in a long time.  The adrenaline of my first mountain bike race in 3 years was enough to keep me going hard longer than I should have.  It felt amazing to finally be back in the middle of a mountain bike race and I embaced every second of pain chasing the leaders up the trail.  There are few things on the planet I enjoy more.

 

We finally crested the first climb and dove into a fast singletrack decent.  The trail carved down switchbacks and up and down banked corners.  I felt like I was riding  a trail in mid August.  A trail that was covered in snow only days earlier was bone dry and fast.  The sandy soil they have is truly amazing and needs to be imported in mass quantities toOhio. 

 

I was blow away that the Moonlander handled so well on this twisty singletrack.  High speed singletrack racing was the last thing I expected, but was rolling the Moonlander through it as fast as any mountain bike.  Endless traction meant no worries about overshooting a corner.  If I found I did have a little too much speed a quick squeeze of the brake lever was like throwing an anchor once the 5 inches of tire tread grabbed the soil.  I actually started to question the need for any other bike.

 

The singletrack ended and we dumped out into a strange sand dune that felt oddly out of place.  The soft sand slowed the pace considerably but was very ridable even with the 20 MPH headwind that only seemed to be on this section of the course.

 

 

After the sand dunes there was one more section of singletrack with some awesome high banked turns that carried you down a narrow valley.  With less than a quarter mile of trail left we were all bone dry with clean bikes.  That was soon to change.  The final few hundred yards of doubletrack down the hill was a slimy, mud bog. Your only choice was to attack it by pedaling hard and find the best way though. Wrapping up the course was a short stretch of snow at the base of the ski slope. The snow was more like trying to ride through a giant slushy.  After a few attempts everyone decided it was best to dismount and hike on through to the start/finish. 

 

I ended up with 8 laps, about 24 miles in 2 hours and 45 minutes.  I felt like I rode well, but only ended up 21^st out of about 34 racers in a hard core field.  Kelly and Larry rode 9 laps and were 17^th in their field of 37.  They take fat biking seriously inMichigan.

 

We held our CAMBA Race Team wrap up meeting that evening at Founders Brewery in downtownGrand Rapidsthat evening for some of the best beer I’ve ever had.  Not a bad weekend.

 

Check out a great video of the race at XXC Magazine here.  http://xxcmag.com/archives/9571 There’s a quick shot of me around the 44 second mark.

     Five years ago I dove into the brave new world of fat bikes with the then cutting edge Surly Pugsley.  I fell in love with the amazing capability of the big footprint and the joy it provided in the ugly Cleveland Winters.  This year I traded in the Pug for the baddest fat bike on the planet.  The Surly Moonlander.

 

     What is a Moonlander and why is it better than a Pugsley?  It’s all about the wheels.  The Pug rolled with Large Marge rims at 65mm wide and Endomorph tires weighing in at 3.7”.  The Moonlander is equipped with the new Clown Shoe rims at a full 100mm wide and Big Fat Larry tires which live up to their name at 4.7” wide.  The combination of a wider rim and lager tires increases the surface area dramatically. If you recall any high school physics, remember that the same weight spread over a larger surface area means you’ll float on stuff instead of sinking. And if that’s not enough, the clown shoe rims have clever holes cut into them to lighten them up.  In fact, the wheels on the Moonlander are actually lighter than my old Pug wheels.  We all know that light wheels means bike goes fast. 

 

           Yet another improvement is the tires themselves.  The Endomorph tires can best be described geometrically as square.  They’re great for creating traction with a big surface area while travelling in a straight line, but things get weird when you decide to turn.  Since turning is inevitable, the Big Fat Larry’s have a nice round shape with some more typical mountain bike tread for front tire handling.  This makes the Moonlander handle like a good old mountain bike when throw a little extra air in the tires. 

 

      But wait, there’s more!  Another benefit I found while plowing though the fresh snow early yesterday morning was that I could use more air pressure while still having the traction necessary for the soft white stuff.  My Pug would ride most terrain if the pressure was dropped low enough, say 5 psi.  While this provided traction, the tire tended to collapse occasionally when off loaded.  I was able to keep enough air in the Moonlander tire to ride though soft, fresh snow while keeping the shape of the tire for consistent handling.

 

      The capabilities of the Moonlander will make you giggle like a school girl as you’re riding over ridiculous terrain.  I’ve crawled through deep, soft Outer Banks sand and up steep climbs covered in inches of fresh snow.  Your legs will give up way before the bike will.  I’m pretty sure I can ride it over the foam pit at Ray’s.

 

      The rest of the Moonlander’s frame and components were designed with advanced mathematics to handle the massive wheels and still allow a 9 speed cassette and two chain rings.  Yes, you want lots of gears.

 

      So what fat bike is right for you?  The options are growing faster than that Rainforest tracker ticks at the CMP Zoo.  I recommend anything with an 80mm rim and up.  The 80mm rim seems to be the standard at the moment for the majority of fat bikes from Salsa, Fatback etc.  Popular opinion is that it’s the happy medium between weight and capability.  My time on the Moonlander has me squarely in the 100 mm rim corner. I only see advantages for the larger wheel for the minimal weight gain.  I may feel differently after the Farmers Fat Bike Race in a couple weeks.  We’ll see. 

 

      If a used Pugsley with Large Marge rims is the only thing your budget will allow, then you’ll still have a blast and be able to ride almost anything.  But, the Moonlander is very much like Ferris Bueller’s Dad’s Ferrari, “If you have the means, I highly recommend one.  It’s so choice.”

CAMBA Racers battled the elements in the Michigan mega race, the Iceman Cometh this past Saturday.  Nancy Desmond finished an impressive 10th place in her age group.  Great Job all!

Mike Kline and Rusty Brown graced the podium fnishing 2nd and 3rd respectively at the Knob’s Oktoberfest race this weekend.  Great Job!

Thanks again to Eddy’s, Bistro on Main, Kenda and Crankbrothers!

Rusty Brown and Wayne Bowers both took 3rd in their Sport groups and Mike Kline finished 7th shaving 30 minutes from his spring Mohican race.  Great Job!