Twenty Twenty Twenty-Four Hours to Go-o-o...

Twenty-four hours.  1,440 minutes.  One day.

There are 365 of them in a year; thousands in our lifetimes.  Hundreds are memorable, but only a select few, a handful at best, are legendary.  September 15th, 2012 was one of those days.

This weekend was a bit unusual in that I really didn't know what to expect.  I hadn't heard much from Scotty, due to his ridiculous work schedule.  All I knew was that I was going to be riding my bike (a lot) and that I needed to bring hamburgers and buns.

If you know anything about my brother, this is a bit strange.  Normally I receive a packing list that spans everything from clean changes of underwear to water bottles, from spare parts to food.  No matter though.  I was determined to show my big brother that I, too, could prepare a packing list.  And I succeeded!  In fact, I even packed a few things that we probably would need that Scotty never even thought of - like bike-cleaning supplies (you're welcome)!

When 2:50 hit on Friday afternoon, I scribbled Monday's assignments on the board, tidied up the classroom, and bolted out the door.  At home, I loaded my car with everything I thought I might need for the weekend:  camping gear, 14 changes of clothes (12 of them biking clothes), bike shorts, bike socks, bike jerseys, bike shoes, bike helmet, bike gloves, CamelBak, extra tubes, extra tires, batteries, headlamps, battery chargers, a ridiculous number of energy bars, Gu's, electrolyte mix, hotdogs, gourmet hamburgers... basically everything you might (or might not) need during a 48-hour trip.

The 'Ru was ready, and so was I.  I cranked the tunes, hit the gas, and enjoyed the open road.

An hour later, a phone call from Scotty.  He was going to be up around 9:00.  Something about traveling with a bunch of prima donnas who took too long to get ready... I dunno.  No big deal, though.  I had sunshine, I had tunes, and I had my bike in tow.

An hour later I roll into Grayling.  I hit The Ole Damn Party Store on 72 to pick up the necessities: ice, snacks, and Two-Hearted.  A quick glance across the road, and I decide to make a run for the Border, sampling all of the delicacies that the exotic Grayling Taco Bell has to offer.

With a belly full of tacos, I arrive at Hanson Hills.  The place was empty.  Empty except for the tractor-trailer-sized rig that sat anchored to the base of the mountain.  I paid little mind to the rig until a few guys, clad in biker gear emerged.  It was at that point, that I got a little nervous.

Thanks to my brother, I've been put through a few situations in which I knew I was more than a little out-classed: Mountain biking in Moab, LEARNING to ski at Copper Canyon, tearing apart the front-end of a car... the list goes on.  This, I assumed, was going to be another of those situations.

Inside that rig, I imagined, was running, HOT water, a sink, a bathroom, multiple beds, a kitchen, a hot tub, sauna, massage table (complete with hot stones and scented oils), and satellite HDTV.

I paid little mind, however.  Instead, I set about selecting the best camp-site available.  I hammered in a few stakes for a make-shift clothes line (to dry our sweaty gear), cleared a few sticks away, and began setting up my state-of-the-art, water-proof, all-season North Face tent (thanks Honey!).  I knew I'd be livin' large this weekend. I mean, not massage table, sauna, scented OILS large, but large, none-the-less.

After setting up camp, I snap a few photos (some of my amazing camp-site, some of the ridiculous rig parked 30 feet from my amazing campsite) and send them to my brother and his high-maintenance travel companions.  Scott replies with the following text message, referring to the rig (and I quote):

"We got one looks just like it! Well, not exactly, but close."

Flabbergasted, I read the text message again.  I stared at my tent, my make-shift fire pit, my Smokey Joe grill, and replied with an obstinate, "You jackass!  Thanks for telling me.  I'm sleeping in it (my tent) anyway!"

Thirty minutes later (and an hour-and-a-half before Scott's anticipated arrival time), Todd, Mark and Scott roll up in The Hearse.  I couldn't help but notice that they didn't have a fancy semi-trailer in tow.  As it turns out, my brother was just messing with me.  Little did he know that I was moments away from tearing down my tent in favor of a Hilton on Wheels.

Scott introduced me to the other half of our team: Todd Powers, our team captain, was first.  Todd wasn't much to look at to be honest.  But what Todd lacked in stature, his mouth more than made up for.  Witty, persuasive, hilarious.  His banter would help pass the long hours at race headquarters, while we waited for the rider-out to return.

The other guy, Marc Z... Zacchariah...Zellinocci, Z. Cavaricci.... whatever.  He was our fourth guy, and pretty much the polar opposite of the vociferous Powers.  Marc was harangued at the last minute into participating in this debacle, no doubt by the aforementioned sharp tongue of El Capitan.  He brought a sense of calm to the team.  He also brought the most delicious oatmeal cookies I have ever eaten.  They, like the witticisms of our fearless leader, would help the hours fly by.

As the boys set up their campsites, I fired up the Smokey Joe and started dinner: gourmet hamburgers, marinated for two days in special sauce (Thanks again, Honey!), accompanied by grilled beans, straight out of the can - or Cowboy Style, as my dad likes to call them - chips, beer, and of course, Marc's wife's oatmeal cookies.

Carb-loading may be embraced by 99% of athletes around the world, but not us.  Nope.  We're elite athletes.  We are the 1%.

But enough about that... Several beers, a few nips of cotton-candy moonshine, and a water to chase it all down, and I was ready for bed.

The morning came too quickly.

I awake to the smell of fried breakfast bratwurst (I have no idea; ask Todd), eggs, and freshly brewed (from the Marathon station) Big Buck Brew Coffee (not to be confused with its more famous and tasty cousin, Big Buck Brewery Beer).

Breakfast saw the gang subdued, whether the result of age combined with drink, or, more likely, intense mental focus.  We decided to let Todd take us out on the first lap.  Scotty would take the two-spot, followed by me in third position. Marc would take the rear guard.

The Captain brought home the first lap, not in the much-bragged-about sub-forty-minute loop, but in a more modest, yet still respectable, 46:09, or around 13 miles per hour.  We did not, however, let him forget his sub-forty promise.

Scotty was out and back before I knew it.  My turn.

I motored out of the gate, and immediately regretted it.  The taste of egg and breakfast brats began creeping up the back of my throat.  After the first excruciatingly long hill, I managed to keep my breakfast down, and settle into a respectable rhythm.  I was passed twice on my first lap, (an old-timer on Team Cannondale, and some wild animal pedaling a bike, sporting some orange and blue jersey).  I vowed not to let it happen again.  Not that it mattered.  Watching my brother's video, you'll see he passed more than his fair share.

Just after mile nine, I crossed a plank bridge and hit the wall.  Not the wall that I speak of during a marathon.  This was literally a wall of dirt, 3/4 of a mile long, and I had to climb it.  My lungs were screaming, my calves were mooing, and my hamstrings were oinking.  I gritted my teeth, stood on the pedals, and ground it out to the top.  A few dips, a jump to show off my mad aerial skills, and I was home.  Lap One in the books.  49:17.

Tag In:  Marc Z.  First lap out: 55 minutes.  Why so long, you ask?  Zaccardelli was quoted by an anonymous source as saying, "I'm pretty pleased with my time.  I mean, 55 minutes isn't bad, considering I had to repair a snapped chain mid-lap"  Animal.

Lap Two:  Eased into first mile, thanks to sagely advice from Captain Powers.  First hill hurt, but not so bad as the first time.  Kept looking over the shoulder for Team Cannondale, but either I was riding really well, or Big Brother spotted me enough of a lead to keep me ahead.  Finally, I stopped looking over my shoulder and decided to simply enjoy the ride.

Hit the big ring a lot more during lap two.  Thought I'd be WAY faster, but only ended up about a minute faster (48:33).  A little dismayed, but took solace knowing there were at least five more laps to redeem myself.  Ugh.  FIVE more???

Lap Three:  Smoothest lap overall.  Felt strong and fast.  Came across in 49 flat.  Body felt amazing.  Found a groove, hit the right lines, motored up the climbs, flew down the descents.  Now, for my reward...

Lunch consisted of the best-tasting brat ever - yep, my third bratwurst in less than 12 hours.  Team Sand Bag's nutritional credo: ride hard, eat hard.  Do we ride like Elite athletes?  Maybe.  Do we eat like them?  No way.

Shortly after lunch/dinner, I stretched out for a cat nap, and started to prepare myself for the first dark lap.

El Capitan, Todd Powers, decreed that we'd each ride one night lap, and then back-to-back night laps for each rider, allowing for a bit more of a rest for the guys who weren't riding.  The tactician spoke, and we, his faithful and humble servants, obeyed.

Nothing can prepare you for a ride in the dark on a mountain bike, in the middle of the woods, on a trail you've only ridden a handful of times.  A nice bike light helps.  Unfortunately, my "state-of-the-art" water-bottle-battery-pack halogen light did not fit the bill.  Thankfully I had a rockin' Black Diamond Storm Headlamp.  Thanks Adam @ Mr. Bike, Ski & Fitness in Escanaba - it saved my life (and my time).  Surprisingly, I can't say my brother has the same type of high-tech equipment.  He had to make do with a makeshift helmet light of his own...Yes, that's a flashlight; yes those are zip-ties.

First dark lap:  53:08.  Pleased.

After my fourth lap, heading into my 4-hour break, I slammed two chili dogs, complete with grilled beans (Cowboy-Style of course), chugged a Two-Hearted, and headed toward the lodge to take a super-secret hot-water shower.  That's right.  A shower.  After 40 miles of riding, and a little nosing around in the ski lodge, I took me a hot shower.

Returning to the campsite, smelling of Dial Soap, I unzipped my tent flap and crashed out.  Sleep, unfortunately, would be fleeting.  It may have had something to do with being so wound up from the ride...or it could have been the Death Metal that was cranking from the speakers at the Finish Line.  Either way, I headed to the line to await Scotty, bundling up next to a bonfire to try to stay warm.

As Scotty rolled in and tagged me, I braced myself for the 20-mile journey ahead.  Twenty miles.  A solid ride on a mountain bike.  A great ride on a mountain bike after 40 previous miles of riding.  Add the fact that I started my 20-mile trek at 3:30 in the morning?  Well, that just made it awesome.

Perhaps my memory is blurred by nostalgia (or lack of sleep), but those twenty miles were incredible.  I set out at a moderate effort, knowing that I had to pace myself or pay the consequences later.  The air was brisk, a mist had settled around the mountain, and the stars were out.  So were the other bikers' headlamps.

As I struggled up a hill, fellow riders could be seen somewhere off in the woods, their headlamps blazing through the darkness.  Dodging a phantom branch, another light catches my eye.  Knowing that there were other riders out there, other people experiencing the same pain, the same struggles, the same sense of peacefulness and awe was amazing.

The night laps passed uneventfully.  I rode 59:00- and 61:00-minute laps.  Respectable.  Each of us finished our last lap in full daylight, some of us lucky enough to ride while the sun peaked over the horizon.  And before we knew it, 24 Hours at Hanson Hills was over.

In one twenty-four hour period, riders - brothers, strangers, friends - came together to forge new bonds and strengthen existing ones.  We came to challenge our minds, our bodies, and our machines.  We came to make the unattainable, attainable.  And in twenty-four hours - just 1,440 minutes - we all stretched the capacities of our minds, our bodies, and our machines, to share in a moment that can only be described as, well, nearly unattainable.

Check out the video highlights compiled by Papa Bear, Scott Vermullen

MMM(mmmm) Mountains

Last weekend was the my first attempt at the Michigan Mountain Mayhem ride, a ride ranging anywhere from 50K to 200K, give or take 10 miles.  As with most of my cycling events, it was my brother that got me involved.

The forecast for Saturday's ride:  PERFECT!  High of 75.  Partly sunny.  Variable wind, SSW, 10-15 MPH.

The ACTUAL weather at 5:15 AM (reveille):  Slightly less than perfect... 55 degrees.  Rain.  A lot of rain.  In fact, it rained all night.  The roads were soaked.  Ordinarily, not a problem, but when you're banking on no rain, warm weather, and a slight breeze, one tends to pack a bit lighter.

In spite of Mother Nature's sour mood, we load the steeds and proceed to packet pickup.  Rain continues to fall, as do my spirits.  I REALLY was not looking forward to a 70 mile ride in the pouring rain.  I'd rather crawl back into bed and dream of passing Schleck near the summit of Alpe d'Huez...doesn't even have to be Andy Schleck.  I'm not greedy.  I'd settle for Frank.

We park the car, scramble through the rain, and grab our timing chips, t-shirts and jerseys.  Upon walking back to the car, I notice something I have never seen on my brother's face before...at least when it came to cycling: a look of consternation, of hesitation!  He looked as if he actually did not want to venture out in the pouring rain.  And, despite my best efforts to persuade him to ride on, he won out; we settled on an 11:00 AM rain-delayed start.  Back to the hotel where Schleck and the Alpe awaited!

Fast forward to 8:47 AM.  Scott bangs on the bedroom door.  "Kid!  We gotta go!  Move it!"  I scramble out of bed, throw on my gear, and am driving back to the start line before I really know what time it is.  Scott is intent on making the 9:00 AM start-time.  He's afraid they won't let us race if we don't cross the start line by 9:00 AM.  Not sure if he was right about that or not, but either way, we parked the Bonnie on top of a grassy knoll, mounted the steeds and slipped past the start line at 8:57 AM.  The up-side to my hasty wake-up:  Roads were dry!  Good call, brother.

What about a warm-up ride, you ask?  Nah.  We're hockey players.  We're mountain bikers.  We're marathon runners (well, one of us is).  We don't believe in that nonsense.  A right turn dropped us at the base of a 250-ft. "gentle riser."  Not much gentle about it, to be honest.

"The key..." Scotty puffed.  "The key is..."  Breathe in, breathe out.  "Levi said the key is to..."  Breathe in, breathe out.  "The key is to pace yourself...  Levi and Jens said if you're feeling great on a hill, don't...."  In, out.  "Don't attack it or...  or you'll pay for it on the next one."

"Don't attack.  Got it."  As if I could attack at that point.  Attack with what?  My Granny Gear?  By the time I crested the summit, my legs were on fire, and my gears were maxed out.  Even my arms hurt.  Great.  Really glad I signed up for this.

3K down.  110 to go.

Shortly before the first rest stop, The Jordan River Bridge, I experienced what we in the cycling world refer to as a "mechanical."  Thankfully, it was nothing that a little Vermullen engineering and a bungee cord couldn't fix.  See video (will be posted in future):

Apologies for the audio:

Video

Speaking of videos, apparently Scotty's Hero Cam is still somewhat of a novelty to the vast majority of the MMM cycling community.  Who am I kidding?  He might as well have had a newly-hatched dragon tied to his helmet for all the "Ooooooos" and "Ahhhhhhs" and "Oh my God!  How does that thing take pictures?!?" he got.  Incidentally, I wouldn't be surprised to see his YouTube channel subscriptions triple in the coming days.

Anyway, after a brief stop, we were back on our way.  The Manly Men split off for their 150 and 200K rides at the Kearney School House, and then the road became surprisingly less crowded.  We continued to struggle up massive hills, and zip down them, cracking 50 MPH on multiple occasions.  The quiet road afforded us time for some brotherly conversation.  The usual topics were covered:  Fixing cars and bikes (including reminiscing about my early mountain biking days when I would show up at the trailhead with three-week old dirt, scum, and grease clinging to my drivetrain), and discussing our next family adventure in Ludington, among other things.

Throughout this easy conversation, we also continued to pick off riders. 

After passing a particularly sinewy cyclist, on a particularly grueling climb, I turned to my brother and said, "Hey Scotty."

"You talk too much.  Whaddaya want?"

"We ride a lot.  Especially you.  How come our calves don't look like that guy's?"

His response:  "No clue, but I can guarantee that your @rse is bigger than his!"

Nice.

The solo stretch from the schoolhouse to Honey Hollow was probably one of my favorites.  Don't get me wrong.  It was still brutally hilly, but we seemed to roll over them like so many waves over the beaches of Lake Michigan.  How's THAT for waxing poetic?!  Whatever.  Back to more spoke-popping action.

The final rest-stop of the day was at Thurston Park, a beautiful lakeside park in East Jordan.  Try as I might, I couldn't get Scotty back on the bike.  He was content, instead, picking clovers, munching on watermelon, and soaking in the quiet beauty that was Lake Charlevoix.  Can't say that I blamed him.

The day had turned from dismal to, really, perfect.  The SSW wind had been pushing us for the last 10-12 miles, and promised to hold its course for the remainder of the ride.  Where we were headed, however, no wind could help.

An aside:  I don't share this goal with many people (and since I have all of 6 subscribers to this blog, I really don't have to worry about the secret getting out), but I've always wanted to complete a stage in the Tour de France.  Not, obviously, side-by-side with the super-human athletes (I don't have the calves for that kind of riding), but just to ride the same roads they ride, to share in that same spirit that gets inside of all cyclists.  To feel the pain of climbing any of the fabled peaks along the route, the triumph of cresting one of those summits, would be nothing short of exhilarating, spiritual even.

I believe "The Wall" may have put an indefinite "PAUSE" on that ambition.  I've included the description of "The Wall" from the MMM website:




"THE WALL" -->  a 3 mile climb that starts slow and gradually gets steeper.  The final stretch starts at 12% and shoots straight to 18%, what a way to end a 3 mile climb.  This is the hardest climb of the day and comes near the end.

For those of you who are not cyclists, permit me (another) brief aside:

An 18% grade...  what is that?  Grade is basically a glorified version of "Slope" from your algebra class.  Stay with me here, English Majors.  To calculate the grade of a hill, you simply divide the VERTICAL CHANGE of the hill (the "rise" or elevation) by the horizontal length of the hill (the "run").  So, let's say a 1 mile hill has an 18% grade.  That means over the course of one mile, we will have climbed (.18 X 5280) = 950 vertical feet.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, just click the link below, and you'll see what 12-18% grade looks like.

THE WALL

Back to the ride...

At the base of The Wall, someone posted this sign:




Now, I am no civil-engineer, nor have I ever been employed by the Road Commission.  However, I have always been under the impression that "Steep Hill" signs are placed at the TOP of the hills, to warn drivers (and cyclists) that there is a steep DESCENT ahead.  Never, in all of my years of driving and riding, had I ever seen a "Steep Hill" sign at the BASE of an ASCENT.  Bad omen?  Oh hell yes it was.

We begin the climb easily enough.  A decent climb, but no worse than anything else we had faced that day.  And then we hit the 12%.  No problem.  Just went to my old standby, Granny, and continued to hammer.  As the pain began to mount and the legs began to fail, panic set in. 

Once the hill bucked to 18%, a single thought entered my hill-weary brain:  I may not be able to make it.  I may be one of those suckers whose picture is on the MMM website WALKING his bike up the hill.  I may actually...  No.  Not today.  Today, I will win.  Today, my bike, my steed will not let me down.  Today, my legs, my noodley, mushy, lactic acid-laden legs will carry me to the top.

Out of the saddle I shot:  Standing.  Dancing.  Breathing.  Dripping.  Hoping...

Cadence.  Push.  Focus.  Push.  Rhythm.  Push.  Breathe.  Push.  Dance.  Push.  Breathe.  Push.

I glance at my brother at this point.  His face, Armstong-esque, began to show signs of fatigue.

I grunt a "C'mon, Scotty!"

He grunts his signature line from Predator: "Gonna have me some fun," which sounds to me like "Guh-ham-me-suh-fuh!"

Cadence.  Push.  Focus.  Push.  Rhythm.  Push.  Breathe.  Push.  Dance.  Push... CAMERA!?!  Oh hell yes!!

Gritting my teeth, I reach down to some untapped resource that most athletes possess in some form or another (some have more than others), and grind out the last hundred feet of "The Wall."  I manage a weak smile and fistpump for the camera, and then begin to spin out the lactic acid.

On the back-side descent, my brother confesses that there was a brief moment where he didn't think he was going to make it.

"Really?" I ask.  "How long?"

"Zero point six eight seconds..."

I almost fell off of my bike I laughed so hard.  If you're a Star Trek fan, think Data and the Borg woman.  If you're not a Star Trek fan, disregard my brother's asinine comment and read on!

After conquering The Wall, little remained of the course.  A few speedy descents, a few grueling ascents, then the end...  or so I thought.

After one particularly exhilarating and harrowing descent over a busted-up, sun-speckled, shadow-strewn road, a rider (a "pure climber" Scotty later called him), clad in red, shot between Scotty and me, and proceeded to bust up the hill.  I glanced at Scotty, a puzzled look on my face, and decided that the lad needed to learn some manners.

A few clicks of the shifter later, I'm out of the saddle and charging up the hill after this guy, this "pure climber."  The gloves, as they say, are off.

Halfway up the hill, he glances over his shoulder, Armstrong-to-Ullrich style, and reaches for another gear.  But it's too late.  We're on him, and we're not letting go.  We streak down the next hill, and begin a third grueling climb.  I'm nearly out of gas.  Scotty takes his wheel, and I struggle to hold his.  This time, my legs betray me.  I feel him slipping away.

As I reach the top of the hill, only a moment or two behind the Red Rider - but miles behind him in stamina - Scotty waves him on, humbly conceding our (well, really MY) inferiority.  Crest-fallen, I spin, desperately trying to regain my strength on the downhill.  As I shake the lactic acid from my shredded muscles, hoping desperately for some untapped source of strength, two blue streaks (one can only assume the Schleck brothers) shoot past me, their sights set on the Red Rider.

To my brother's (and my own!) surprise I stand on the pedals.  I stand and dance.  I grind and pull.  I'm close.  I'm almost to the Blue Streak, can almost feel their slipstream.  A few more pedal-strokes... I tuck in behind them, grateful for the rest that their draft provides.

Together, the four of us catch the Red Rider.  To be honest, we BLOW past him on the final climb of the day.  He doesn't know what hits him, and before he knows it, he's 10 feet off my back wheel, and fading fast.  Only with a colossal effort on his part (at least for the purposes of dramatic effect was it colossal), does he finally close the gap, just before the final descent to the finish line.

The five of us coast to the finish line, congratulating each other on an epic finish to an epic day.  A day that saw brothers ride with brothers.  A day that saw pros ride with amateurs.  A day that saw all riders share in the pain, the joy, the frustration, and the camaraderie that our sport provides.

Would it Be Ridiculous to Run Today?

There are a few advantages to not having a White Christmas.

First, I haven't had to pick up a shovel since last April. While my body appreciates this, the strength and tone of my arms, legs, and back are definitely lacking. By this time last year, I had lifted somewhere in the area of 2,500 pounds of flaky white deliciousness, shoveling the driveway about 29 times (uphill, both ways...).

Another advantage of not having snow is that the biking (and dry-top running) season has been significantly lengthened in comparison to previous years. No ice on the roads means road biking in the middle of December. No hard-packed snow means no slips, twisted knees or banged-up fannies during a run.

A snow-less Christmas does, however, make one thing more difficult: coming up with excuses NOT to run... you know, in case the gluttonous holiday feasts and alcohol weren't reasons enough!

Allow me, for a moment, to spin a back-story...

In 2007, my brother - an avid and superior cyclist (see previous posts) - decided to come along on a run with me. It was, at the time, an olive branch of sorts. We had had a friendly holiday spat about one thing or another, and he was determined to make sure that there was no bad blood between us (always the peace-maker, that one).

After the heated debate, I was ready to burn up my lungs with a little crisp, winter air. So I suited up in my cold-weather running gear: tights, several layers of moisture-wicking shirts, a sporty headband, and lightweight, fancy-shmancy gloves. As I was strapping on the final piece of my ensemble, a pair of YakTrax, my brother surprised me by meeting me in the entryway, clad in ski pants, and toque, a heavy cotton sweatshirt, and some old snowmobile mitts.

"Mind if I come with?"

I almost laughed out loud at the thought: my brother, Old Glass-Knees, the cycler-superior of the family, was offering an olive branch by putting himself through an unreasonable and certainly unbearable amount of pain, just to make sure that things between us were copacetic.

I stammered a shocked, "uh... really? I... I mean... sure! Hell yea!"

And thus began a Christmas tradition: The Vermullen 5k.

Back to the snow-less Christmas.

Now, before I continue, let me say that in no way was I ever thinking about breaking tradition. However, just moments after both of my nieces were put down for their naps, I plopped down in my Dad's comfortable recliner, ready to enjoy a chapter or two of my current novel, my brother skips into the living room, full of P & V.

"You think it would be ridiculous to run today?"

This time, much like in 2007, I did little to conceal my surprise.

"Um, yea, Scotty. It would."

"Wanna go anyway?"

To put my brother's question and follow-up question into perspective, please see the weather forecast for Escanaba for Tuesday, December 27, 2011:

Temp: 25°F
Feels Like: 11°F

...not that big of a deal, given my high-tech, fancy-schmancy running gear

Wind: From the North at 25mph; gusting to 40mph

... a big deal, since the first mile or so of our annual 5k heads straight into the teeth of the gale.

I set my book down, in utter amazement and disgust - though at this point, I don't know why I was amazed by my brother's proposition (again, see previous posts). I stormed - quietly, my nieces were still asleep - out of the living room to grab my gear. I suited up in the bedroom, sulking, cursing under my breath. "Make me run in a hurricane... Can't wait ONE day 'til the wind's not blowing 50 miles an hour... Christmas 5k: BAH HUMBUG!"

By the time my shoes were on, however, my rancor had ebbed a bit. Scott was eagerly awaiting me, clad - once again - in snowpants, a toque, and the same, heavy cotton sweatshirt from 2007 (you should see his t-shirt collection).

We stepped outside, and it was cold. Really cold. After a brief westward stint, we headed directly into the wind. The breath was ripped from our lungs before the blood could grab enough oxygen. We leaned into the maelstrom, steadily digging northward, as it tried to stand us upright and blow us over. I could feel knives ripping through the multiple layers of high-tech running gear. But for some reason, I wasn't cold. I wasn't whining. I wasn't angry.

It was Christmas. It was our annual 5k. It was with my brother.

Happy Holidays, Bro! Thanks for the push.

Ramblers, Let's Get Ramblin'!

There's nothing like spinning off a leisurely 20 miles on the bike through the softly rolling terrain of northeast GR. Or taking a casual ride with the brother on the weekend. You know, just enough to get the legs moving and the heart rate up a bit...

Then there's the Blue Water Ramble, a ride of varying distances (30, 45, 55, 65, or 100 miles) put on by the Clinton River Riders (http://www.lmb.org/crr/) this past weekend. Don't let the name fool you. There's nothing Rambling - or even Ambling - on this ride. At least not with the company my brother chooses to keep.

Big brother is fully aware that I'm in taper mode for the Chicago marathon. I had told him previously that I was pretty tentative about the ride because it was just one week before the marathon. After deciding to take it easy in Chicago, however, I signed up, and committed to the 45-mile "ramble."

As the weekend approaches, my brother begins putting out the feelers, so to speak.

Email #1: So, we're still on for the Ramble, right? We'll get a nice early start on Sunday, ride 45 miles and be home before noon.

Response #1: Sounds great, Scotty! Lookin' forward to it!

Email #2: I was looking into the routes, and it looks like if we don't ride into Canada, we could actually do a 55-mile ride in less time than it would take us to do the 45-mile ride because we wouldn't have to take the ferry into Canada and back.

Response #2: Yea. I'd be fine with 55 miles, as long as we're not killing ourselves to do it.

Email #3: I've been talking to some of the guys I ride with, and it looks like they're going to get a group together to leave at 8:00 from the high school. They're awesome guys and pretty good riders (his exact words), so you can rest in the slipstream most of the way, without getting too tired.

Response #3: Sounds like a plan.

Sunday morning arrives, and as we roll into the parking lot, Scott begins to talk about some of these "pretty good" cyclists that we'll be riding with today.

Rider #1 - think Jens Voigt and his "big diesel engine." He's 6'4", has legs like sequoias, and rides a bike that looks like something out of a Tour-de-France-meets-James-Bond movie. You know... a "pretty good" cyclist.

Rider #2 - Levi incarnate. A tiny fella, sporting all-black, research-sponsored gear.

Rider #3 - A tall drink of water aboard a tri-bike. His water bottles? Iron Man Kona.

Rider #4 - A heftier lad, riding what appears, on first inspection, to be some sort of sci-fi rocket ship. Sleek black carbon with tapers, angles, and curves that you'd expect to see on a super model, not a fricken bike! Seriously?

Rider #5 - Also a little guy who happens to compete in (and WIN) cycling races all over the state. His machine? Think Silver Surfer meets The Dark Knight (or the surfboard meets the Batmobile). Impressive.

Riders 6 - 8 are variations of above riders, all of whom have abilities and machines far superior to what I'm riding, and how I ride it.

Oh, and let's not forget...

Rider #9 - My brother. Yep. The guy who completed the Ore-to-Shore 50-mile mountain bike race while pedaling a TANDEM, by HIMSELF (his wife was thrown over his shoulder, sack-of-'taters style - sorry sis!). My brother, the cyclist who entered three races in Ohio... and only won two of them. The reason he didn't go three for three? After his first race, Scotty was quoted as saying, "I thought I was supposed to lead from start to finish." Really Scotty? Ever seen a little bike race known as Le Tour?

But I digress...

The ride began easily enough with casual chatter as we rolled out of town. Soon, we hit the open road, and the pace ticked up. The sun was bursting through the clouds, scattering purples, oranges, reds, and yellows across the sky, putting on quite a light show for us. In addition to the sunrise, nature had a second surprise for us: wind.

As seems to be the case with every ride Scotty and I sign up for, the wind decided that she was going to make our day a little more interesting.

As miles 8-10 ticked off, I felt pretty good. I put in a decent pull at the front of the pack, pulling for a half-mile or so at a respectable 23 MPH. Spent, spitting, frothing, aching, and grinning, I slipped to the back of the pack to enjoy the slipstream of nine "pretty good" cyclists.

The first half of the ride seemed to fly by, and we were at our first rest stop before the legs even knew we were riding. 22.4 MPH average speed. Not bad. The legs were feeling good, and I was happy for the hot chocolate, bananas, and Gatorade that were waiting for us, along with some helpful, welcoming volunteers.

Side note: Volunteers at races and rides are amazing. Thank you for all you do.

It wasn't until we remounted that trouble began. The aforementioned wind had been somewhat tame to this point. A few gusts here and there, but nothing that a string of 9 riders couldn't overcome. As we headed out for the second half of the ride, the wind began to shift (to a cross/headwind, of course), and the ride became tougher. Well, tougher for me, anyway.

Before the second, post-break mile, the pack had already lifted the pace to around 23 MPH again. My legs protested vehemently, as did my heart, lungs, chest, fingers, and eyeballs. The wind was cutting across the group of riders, and there was little shelter to be found. I was two riders from the front of the group, wondering how the hell I was going to possibly put in some time at the front when I couldn't even maintain this speed within the confines of the group. Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about that.

The other more seasoned (and better-conditioned) riders sensed my weakness and rallied around me, allowing me a respite at the back of the pack. I was consoled with "Good jobs" and "Atta boys" as I slipped off the front toward the back. But as I mentioned, the back provided little relief from the howling wind.

Within a few minutes, our efficient machine composed of nine individual parts was splintered and scattered all over the road. The front four riders maintained their impossible pace, as the rest of us struggled to keep the number 20 on our speedometers. Among them: Jens, Rider Number 6, Levi Incarnate, and brother Scott.

Thankfully, I was able to match pace with "Kona" and we took short stints at the front, pacing each other back to a respectable 20-21 MPH. Shortly after that, we were joined by rider #5, and together, the three of us "rambled" along, ticking off the miles until the next rest stop. We were to get a fourth rider before that rest stop.

As we approached a convenience store, the three of us feeling the burn of Beard's Hills, a rider - with bike slung over his shoulder - sprinted out of the undergrowth, mounted the steed and matched our accelerations all in one lithe movement. Finally, after 9 miles, Scott realized that his sibling was absent from the lead pack. Nice brotherly instincts, brother.

With four of us working together, and the wind shifting in our favor, we actually began to close the gap and were able, to my amazement, to see the pack of lead riders. Apparently, they were nothing without the raw power, cycling instincts, and what I like to affectionately call "idiocy" of my brother - he just doesn't know when he's outmatched, so he just keeps going until his lips fall off and his eyes bleed.

With the pack in sight, we had renewed vigor, and Mother Nature was smiling upon us. The wind was now at our backs, but the group ahead was still pulling away. Scotty, however, wasn't about to let them go gently into that good night. Please see above comment about "idiocy."

Rather than following his own advice of "working together" and "taking short shifts at the front," Scott decided to take matters into his own hands. I heard - rather I felt - him dig for a deeper gear, and mutter something like, "tuck in tight and stay there" to me. He revved the RPMs up well over 90 and began doing something that not many cyclists can do on a day such as this: he began catching the wind.

It sounds impossible, but allow me to explain. See, when you're riding in a vacuum, there's no resistance, no wind to hold you back. When a headwind is pushing against you, you can only go so fast, because the wind pushes back. But with a tailwind, you can use that to your advantage to go as fast as your legs will carry you... that is, unless your legs can carry you 3 MPH faster than the 25 MPH tailwind that is pushing you. So, my brother, with a 25 MPH wind pushing at our backs, managed to create a slight headwind (really?), and carried us to within a minute or two of the leaders into the second and final rest stop.

The final eight miles of our ride was no easier, except that the end was finally in sight (just like this blog entry). With about four miles remaining, and a giant overpass looming, I finally cracked and fell permanently off the back of the pack. I struggled over the next mile, before a lead rider fell off, and escorted me safely to the finish line. We shared the load, but without his help, the last miles would have been a lot harder and a lot more lonesome.

Who was that rider that came back for me you ask? The rider that took pity on me, and could relate to the anguish that my body was feeling? My brother Scott? Seems like a logical guess. I mean, what brother wouldn't come back for his suffering and exhausted brethren. Wouldn't that be a fitting end to this story? Sorry gang. No fairy-tale endings this time.

Those of you who know Scott know that there is no way he'd let another rider beat him, even if it meant leaving his brother in the pain-gutter on the side of the road. Nope. Scott was at the front of the pack, loving every moment of his idiocy, relishing every pedal-stroke, every snot-rocket, every eyeball popping, vein-screaming minute of this ride, this Sunday morning Ramble. Ride on, brother. Ride on!

Check out the route at: http://www.gmap-pedometer.com/?r=5122736

dv

Old Friend

Another painful weekend on the bike.

Before I get to that, however, allow me to explain my extended absence. I had been battling a serious achilles injury for about two months. And while the blogger gods (my sister and Megan A.), suggested I document my journey through a serious injury, I couldn't really bring myself to do it. I was too bummed out.

Allow me to summarize: Hurt my achilles playing dodgeball (of all things), adhered to my injury philosophy for two months (if it's hurt, REST IT!), and emerged on the other side, ready to begin training for the Chicago marathon in October. So, I took a two month hiatus from running, and almost beat up every person I know because I was so crabby. On a brighter note, however, I did rediscover my love for cycling.

Love might be too strong a word.

This past weekend, when my brother asked me to go along on a 30-mile ride with him, I asked myself, "How hard can it be?" What my vacation-idled brain failed to take into consideration, was that my brother, who is already a superior cyclist, had just finished working 21, 13+ hour days in a row. *

After a night of moderate imbibery, 8:00 AM arrived far too quickly. I happily suited up - shorts, jersey, gloves, helmet, glasses - oblivious to the pain that lurked just beyond the driveway. I filled my bottles, packed a Gu, and stepped out into the morning sun. My brother, already bristling, was clipped in and ready to ride. Another warning sign that my brain completely overlooked.

"North by Northwest wind today, 8-12 MPH. Wanna ride north first?"

"Sound great!" I chirped. And off we rode.

The ride started easily enough. We wound our way through town, dodging angry motorists and manhole covers, until we reached our uninterrupted ribbon of open road. Big brother took the first pull on the front, and within about thirty seconds, I glanced down, with furtive brow, at my speedometer. 22.4, 22.8, 23.2, 23.6, 24.0...

"Hey!" I shouted. "No warm up?"

"Already did that," Scott replied, with an edge to his voice that rang with a touch of masochism.

"Right." I spun up to about 110 RPMs, and settled in.

By "settled in" the reader may get the impression that I was at peace, body and mind, with this pace. After all, I was sitting comfortably in my brother's slip-stream. How hard could it be? Allow me to elaborate.

After the first half mile, my heart rate was pushing the high side of 170, my quads, hamstrings, calves, hip flexors, and any other muscle or tendon associated with propelling a bike were screaming their protests. My hands began to shake. My breathing quickened, and it felt like my eyes might pop clean out of my skull at any moment.

Not letting my body get in the way of my pride, I stoically, stupidly, (bravely??) downshifted, and took a turn at the front. As I came around, I felt the force of the "gentle" 8-12 MPH wind. It felt more like 15-20 MPH at this speed. Fulfilling my duties as team captain, however, I took a turn at the front.

I dropped the pace to a casual 22 MPH, and noticed something odd. My heart rate actually went down. The screaming protestations from my legs quieted to a mere whimper. I actually felt better. My body must be warming up, I thought to myself. And pressed on, encouraged by this fallacy.

The miles ticked past, faster than I was accustomed to. We alternated turns at the front, taking about a half mile at a time, pushing the wind, allowing the other to "rest" in the slipstream.

We proceeded in this manner, Scott pushing 24-25 MPH when he lead, and me, a modest 21-22. Then, something finally dawned on me, something which my aching legs and lungs had been trying to tell me all along. I was actually working HARDER while sitting in my brother's slip-stream, traveling 25 MPH than I was while pushing into a 10 MPH headwind, at the front!

I decided to tuck this golden kernel of knowledge away until after we turned back and were able to use the north wind to our advantage.

Mercifully, the turning point arrived, and we spun down a bit, to allow our (mostly MY) legs to rest a bit and recover. While rolling through a state park, I mentioned the paradox to my riding partner.

"So... you wanna know why I was so eager to take my turn at the front?" I asked.

"Figured you were finally tired of riding my coattails for the last ten years."

"Right. Good one," I replied.

"Actually, it's the only way I could get a break!" I shouted. "You were putting a thorough beat-down on me with that ridiculous pace you were pushing, so taking the lead and dialing the pace back a few MPH was the only way I could actually get a rest, ya jack@ss!"

Big brother only replied with a small chuckle, a mischievous grin, and a, "Well, ya ready?"

The remainder of the ride, with the wind at our backs, passed rather quickly. We arrived back in the driveway where I was struck by three thoughts:

1. I remembered just how much cycling, my old friend, means to me. Despite the years of neglect, it was still there for me when I needed it. For two months, it offered an outlet for my frustrations when my body was simply unable to run due to injury. Without it, I surely would have gone crazy.

2. No matter the pain that our body endures, there is always room for just a little more. Let your mind tell your body what to do, and nine times out of ten, your body will surprise you and respond.

and

3. My brother (my other old friend) is intent on making sure I don't see my 32nd birthday.


* Blogger's Note: If you're reading this blog, chances are, you know my brother, and what kind of pent-up aggression he was harboring after such a hellacious three weeks on the job. Somehow, I forgot this.

Breaking Through

The sun is scarce, the wind blustery and cold, and the rain. UGH! The RAIN! I've found my spirits, lately, are beginning to fall in line with this abysmal Spring season. This week has been particularly difficult. I hadn't run in at least 6 days, coming up with an excuse to stay in, each time even the slightest hint of motivation would strike. It's too cold. It's raining. I've been on my feet for 12 hours. My nagging achiles pain. No excuse was too small.

After school today, I came home and crashed out for a good two hours. It was the first nap I had taken in about three weeks or so (pretty good for a siesta-lover like myself). After shaking off the after-effects of a two-hour nap, I actually felt worse than I had before! Cranky, tired, hungry, achy (stupid dodge ball league). Finally, my body (and mind) had had enough.

Without much thought or effort, I found myself geared up and in the saddle, heading out for a ride. "Just a short one," I told myself. I was amazed at the natural reaction of my body. It just knew that it was time to get out and shred some long-dormant muscle tissue, and add a healthy dose of burning to my lungs and heart.

Mile one was tough, but soon I settled in and enjoyed (as much as one CAN enjoy) the hilly country roads of GR Township. Approaching the turn off for a my 15 mile route, the legs felt great, the heart beat strongly, smiling, urging me on. I motored past the turn-off, and decided to go for 17.

Yet again, at the turn, my body wanted more. More air, more burning, more activity, more release. I cruised on past my cut-off, stretching into a full sprint for about a hundred yards or so. A smile crept across my frothing, spit-blowing lips, and I eased back into a comfortable pace, my legs still screaming from the effort.

Mile after mile clicked past. Then, finally, as I neared the home stretch, I couldn't help but look down in appreciation at my willing and perfectly able steed. How patiently she hung in the garage, biding her time, whispering, waiting. As I coasted into the driveway, I broke into a song, ("Someday, I'll be livin' in a big ol' city...") my head clearer, my heart lighter, my mood lifted.

I dismounted and hoisted my ride up to the rafters, carefully hooking each wheel on the attic mounts. I smiled. Thanks for the break-through, ol' girl! "I'll see ya soon. I'll see ya real soon."

One Tough Bird and an Open Window

So this weekend was a bit hectic, to say the least. I drove over to PH to hang out with my brother and family to help him get his house ready for their new arrival. CONGRATS GUYS! On the agenda: scraping, painting, patching, mending, cutting, plastering, sanding, vacuuming, and of course, eating and drinking.

The weekend was great. We put in some serious hours. By the time Dad and I finished the upstairs, it was around quittin' time on Saturday evening. We ate dinner, and mumbled through some conversation before everyone plodded off to bed. Scotty and I passed the evening with some male bonding time (watching The Evil Dead), and drinking a few brews.

When I awoke bright and early Sunday morning, little Carys was staring at me from the hallway, calling, "Hoon! Hoooon!" That's her nickname for her uncle. After breakfast we got back to work, and Scotty planted the bug of going for a ride if the weather broke. It had snowed, rained, sleeted and even hailed a bit, all in the past 36 hours. April in Michigan, I guess. I didn't let on to Scotty that I wanted nothing to do with a "Winter" ride, but I was keeping my fingers crossed that the weather would continue to be lousy, mostly because I knew, whether it was raining or shining, that 30 MPH wind wasn't going anywhere.

As I sanded down Scotty's fireplace patch job in the living room, I noticed a Mumma robin hanging out in the front yard. She was standing there, lookin' all pregnant, just staring into the window. Sleet was pelting her, snow was blowing around her, and the wind was whipping leaves past her face. I swear she looked at me and shook her head, as if to say one of two things:

1. Really? It's fricken APRIL! Enough already!!

or

2. Get your candy-@ss out here. It's ain't that bad!!

Regardless of what she was trying to tell me, the weather broke, our window of opportunity had opened, and despite my half-hearted protests, we geared up, and hit the steeds. We got outside and the weather was beautiful... well, beautiful except for that damnable W-SW wind that clocked in at a cool 25-30 MPH. Nice.

We pedaled out to the Southbound turn, and my heart sank; the wind hit us both square in the nose. Scotty, his usual stoic self, took the lead for the first short leg of our trip. As my legs began to heat up, I noticed that I was feeling pretty good. I zipped ahead of Scotty and took a respectable turn at the front, pulling us through the wind, allowing Scotty to take a quick breather in my slipstream.

Turn after turn, we battled the angry winds. It was such a strong crosswind at times, that we were almost riding side-by-each, in order to find the pocket which afforded us the much-needed rest. At one point, the wind gusted so fiercely, that it blew Scotty sideways, nearly causing him to crash into me. If it weren't for his ninja-like speed and reflexes, coupled with his superior cycling abilities, we might have ended up a heap of twisted metal and tangled body parts on the side of the road.

When we finally arrived in St. Clair, the legs still felt pretty strong. We pushed, according to Scotty's expertise, a respectable 17-18 MPH into a pretty nasty headwind. "Great teamwork," he said to me at one point. This was quite a compliment, since I'm used to Scotty pulling about 65-70% of the time, and me giving him a rest the other 30-35% of the time, though most days he never really needed it.

"Looks like we'll be fighting a crosswind on the way back again," he said.

"I dunno, brother... seems that the winds of fate have shifted!" We set out for our return trip.

We settled into a comfortable rhythm, our feet stamping out a rapid pace on the pedals. Scott noted that we were pushing around 26-27 MPH. I grinned, pleased with the efforts that my wickets were churning out today...with the help of a hefty tailwind, of course.

Mile after mile ticked off, until at last, we were near our cool-down zone.

"Race ya to the white LeBaron," Scotty taunted.

Foolishly, I took the bait. I clicked twice and stood on the pedals to rev up my RPMs. Scott, I noticed, settled quietly into my slipstream. I settled into the saddle now, realizing, almost immediately, my mistake. The car was over 200 yards away at the start of our little race, and I had already spent the majority of my energy.

I could hear Scotty downshift, and begin to move past me. I stood on the pedals, pushing down and yanking up as furiously as my legs would allow. But to no avail. He breezed past me, settling back into his saddle, passing the makeshift finish line five to six bike lengths in front of me. He looked back and grinned. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Shame we didn't have the Speedos with us. I bet we hit around 36 or 37 on that last sprint!"

I grumbled an inaudible, "Thanks." Thankful, at least, that he didn't whip out the Contador pistols as he flew past me.

But I was grinning, in spite of myself. I couldn't help but bask in the cold Port Huron sunshine, my legs and lungs burning, my face flush from the cold. What a great ride today. And then, as if on cue, the snow began to fly. Mother Nature had closed our riding window, but Scotty and I seized the opportunity and filled it with another great memory.