A couple weeks ago, I had a “clever” (by which I mean, “not clever”) idea: what if I tried riding the toughest stage in the upcoming Larry H. Miller Tour of Utah?

You know, just for fun?

So I called Travis, the marketing guy for the Tour of Utah (he’s the one who’s helped arrange the bike giveaway contest you should make sure you enter). “Sure, that sounds like fun,” Travis said. “Mind if I email a few other people who might be interested and see if they might want to join you?”

And that’s how, at 6:00am last Saturday, I found myself in a parking lot in Deer Valley with a few friends—Dug, BotchedExperiment, and Rick Sunderlage (not his real name)—and a half dozen other guys, all of us wondering what we were getting ourselves into.

 

This Isn’t So Hard…Hey, Where’d Everyone Go?

I had only a foggy notion of how the route worked, so was very pleased when Scott, one of the Tour of Utah guys—was there to act as our tour guide.

Scott, I noticed, was riding a brand-new Cervelo Soloist Team. Yup, exactly like the bike we’re giving away. It was the first time I’ve seen that bike up close, and it is beautiful. Whoever wins that is going to be digging it.

Anyway, in keeping with the intention to ride the course just like the pros will be, we did a parade lap around Deer Valley (yes, we really did), and then headed down toward Sundance.

It was all either downhill or flat.

It was easy.

And then everyone ditched me.

While at a quick pee stop, Kenny called, asking when we’d be getting to the base of the Alpine Loop climb; he was planning on joining us. While I talked, everyone else finished their business and left.

By the time I got off the phone, meanwhile, I still had business to take care of. And by the time I finished that, nobody was visible any longer. So I made my own way, following the signs and figuring things out as best as I could.

Eventually, as I came down Heber’s main street, I saw the group, waiting for me at an intersection. The fact that they were facing a different way than I was is a testament to my absolute and complete lack of navigation skills.

You know why race courses are usually marked way more than you need them to be? Because of people like me, that’s why. Sorry.

 

Wherein I Suffer and Nearly Get Spat Out the Back

As we got closer to the first big climb of the day—the Alpine Loop, which is about eight miles long, with 3000 feet of climbing—some of the fast guys in team kit started upping the pace. I started hurting.

Then a 16-year-old kid put the hammer down and it was all I could do to hang on. And we hadn’t even started climbing.

I knew I was in big trouble.

Somehow, though, I managed to hang on. After the ride, though, I asked Dug: “Can you believe the pace we were riding from Deer Creek to the base of the Alpine Loop climb? I thought I was going to die!”

“I didn’t have a problem with it,” said Dug, nonchalantly.

Hmph.

 

Wherein I Suffer Some More, But With Better Results

As soon as we turned right, starting the climb to the summit of the Alpine Loop, it became very clear who was doing this ride to prove something, and who was there just to get it done.

A guy in a yellow jersey shot off the front at warp speed, clearly hoping to demoralize us. It worked on me.

Then the guys in team kit and the 16-year-old organized and gave chase. Within moments, I couldn’t see them anymore.

Dug dropped off the back; he just wanted to listen to his Black Eyed Peas (?!) in peace (Dug sometimes forgets he’s 40). So Rick Sunderlage (not his real name) and I rode together, testing each other, trying to see whether the other guy could hang.

We both could hang.

I pushed first, shifting up one gear while holding my cadence. I gapped Rick.

Then Rick attacked, but with much more gusto than I did. He stood up and spun wildly, passing and putting thirty feet between us.

I did not react. I just kept spinning in second gear, even though I really wanted to go granny.

Before long I was back with Rick. I held his wheel for ten seconds, then rode by.

He grabbed my wheel until he was ready for another surge, and then he shot ahead again.

It went on like this for a while.

After the second or third exchange like this, though, I noticed something about Rick’s attacks: he hadn’t learned a simple—but vital—climbing trick: if you’re going to stand up, shift up two gears. Why? You can’t turn as high or smooth a cadence when you’re standing; all you’ve got now is the additional force gravity loans you. So use that force by pushing a bigger gear.

As a result, anytime Rick was ahead of me, I’d just watch for when he stood; I’d automatically close 10-15 feet of gap.

At the last hard climb of the Loop (about 3 miles from the summit), I stood up at a hairpin, upshifted twice, and pedaled by Rick, chanting, “I am Ullrich!” over and over.

“What? You’re all Rick?” he responded, confused.

But I was building too big a gap to explain.

 

Do Not Wear Yellow

With Rick dispatched, I started looking for another carrot. And there he was: the guy wearing the yellow jersey. Now, here’s a question: why would anyone ever wear a yellow jersey? It makes you a target. Even if you’re just trundling along on a mellow recreational ride, you can bet that anyone who passes you is thinking, “I just passed a guy wearing a yellow jersey.”

Catching the guy in the yellow was not easy. But I did. And as I passed him, I said out loud my chant: “I Am Ullrich!”

“Good to meet you Al,” he said.

Is something wrong with my diction?

 

Home Sweet Home

The nice thing about being one of the first guys to the top (how do you like the way I worked that in there?) is it gives you plenty of time to eat, refill your bottles and so forth, so that you really are rested by the time the group is back together.

I ate lots of Clif Shot Bloks. They’re like strawberry jam. Yum.

I had figured we were pretty much on our own support-wise, but the Tour of Utah guys proved otherwise. Waiting for us at the top of the Alpine Loop was food, water and Gatorade-a-plenty.

The Tour of Utah guys are cool.

While here, Kenny and Chucky rode up, joining us for the rest of the ride. Oh, good: more people to make me feel slow.

Next up, the descent down the American Fork side of the Alpine Loop, and then the climb up Suncrest.

Descending, I’m afraid, was not fun for me. Ever since that downtube incident, I have been incredibly timid on road descents. So I dropped toward the back of the pack. And then I dropped behind the back of the pack.

Oh well.

Climbing up Suncrest, though, was great: since I do this climb most weekdays as part of my commute to work, I knew exactly where the climbing’s difficult, and where it eases off. Home court advantage, big time. Before too long, Kenny, Scott and I were ahead of the group, riding a good fast cadence.

And I had to wonder: why wasn’t I tired? Why wasn’t I bonking? Is it actually possible I’ve ridden myself into shape?

That would be nice.

 

Last Big Effort

A quick (or in my case, not very quick) descent down the North side of Suncrest, then a few miles along Wasatch Boulevard brought us to the base of the Snowbird climb, the only one I hadn’t ever done before.

People say that it’s approximately the same length and profile as L’Alpe d’Huez.

I don’t think they say this to be encouraging.

As Scott’s wife handed out fresh water bottles to anyone who wanted one, Rick (not his real name) and Dug caught up, and announced they would not be finishing the ride. They had their reasons, all of which I’m sure sounded very convincing. To themselves.

At this point, I no longer had any idea where BotchedExperiment was.

I started the climb with Kenny and Chucky, but I am just not in their league. They gapped me before long and I rode on my own.

This is when I planned to spend a little time in my own little private hell.

But I didn’t. I felt good. I was bumping up my maximum effort, but I wasn’t redlining, and I wasn’t cracking. I wasn’t passing anybody, but I also wasn’t being passed.

Six miles later, I reached Snowbird.

And that’s when I realized I hadn’t really checked to find out where we were all going to regroup.

 

Marco! Polo!

Figuring that the Tour of Utah guys were not the type who would let the stage end at the lowest entrance to the resort, I rode past the first entrance. And the second and third. I pulled into the fourth entrance, because if I didn’t do that, I would have been on my way to Alta.

Luckily, Kenny called. He gave me some directions on how to find him.

I rode down and around, trying to find anyone who looked really tired and had a bike.

I called Kenny back, and got some more instructions.

Eventually, I found him and Chucky, sitting on a patio and finishing a meal they had bought. From the looks of them, they had been there for some time.  

I got a big Diet Pepsi (Diet Coke is Dug’s hangup; I’m fine with any diet cola at all), and we headed down.

Half a mile down the road, we saw BotchedExperiment, working his way up.

I signaled for him to turn around. He shook his head “no.”

So I turned around and we finished the climb to Snowbird.

 

BotchedExperiment is Tenacious

It’s his story to tell (and I hope he does), but BotchedExperiment apparently doesn’t have the “give up” gene in him. He had bonked completely and utterly—unable to even turn the cranks—part way up the Snowbird climb. He was sitting in the dirt when the Tour of Utah sag wagon got him some food and water. Before too long, he felt well enough to ride again, and finished what is widely regarded as the toughest sustained climb in the area.

Props to Botched.

 

Final Thoughts

I felt better than I had any right to feel for the entirety of the ride. I had one of those rare, perfect days where you have more strength and stamina than you really believe possible. That said, I was still completely cooked by the time I got to the top of Snowbird, even though I had taken several breaks.

I have no idea how pros do the whole thing under race conditions, and frankly don’t want to find out.

 

(100 feet of 1.25" PVC pipe and 50 T-connectors)

 

 

 

(Ryobi Table Saw)

 

 

 

 

 

 

(PVC Bike Rack: Roomy Parking for Eight Bikes!)

 

 

PS: Yes, I read about Floyd's A-sample testing positive. But I'd rather talk about my cool new bike rack, pictured here in a blurry photo actually holding bikes:

 

 

A Very Special Note From Fatty to Readers Who Are Kinda New to this Whole Fat Cyclist Thing and Maybe Didn't Follow the Tour de France: Sometimes I write fake news. In this case, I'm writing a fake news story about Floyd Landis' heroic Stage 17 ride in the Tour de France, which pretty much everyone agrees was the most dramatic and exciting stage in several years (some say ever). Basically, after a humiliating defeat the previous day, Landis shot off the front at the beginning of this very difficult day in the mountains and reclaimed almost all of his lost time, an unheard-of accomplishment. And now everyone in the world who loves cycling dreams of having a Floyd Landis moment.

 

Seattle, July 26 (Fat Cyclist Fake News Service) – Representing more than 2500 enthusiast cyclists, attorney Al Maviva, Esq., today announced that he would be suing Floyd Landis for irresponsible behavior that enticed his clients to imitate his “miracle stage” in the 2006 Tour de France.

“On Thursday, July 20, 2006, Mr. Landis, fully aware that cameras were trained on him, engaged in any number of dangerous, ill-considered activities that can be categorically called “attractive nuisances,” said Maviva.

“As a causal result of imitating Landis during the week following his so-called ‘miracle stage,’” continued Maviva, “My clients have suffered physical and emotional trauma, and in one case: death.  Landis must pay for the harm he has done.”

 

Grievances Enumerated

According to the suit filed by Maviva, the following damages have been (allegedly) caused by Landis’ (allegedly) heroic ride:

• Strategic Blunders: Since Landis’ audacious Stage 17 attack, early, ill-considered attacks have reached epidemic proportions, appearing in nearly every race and usually by multiple people. The suit mentions one race in particular where at the beginning of the 200 mile race all 450 entrants left the start line at a sprint, all believing—apparently—that they were Floyd Landis. Maviva notes that 448 of the race participants had collapsed within two miles, and that the remaining two racers coasted to a stop during the next mile. “Clearly, these people suffered physical, emotional, and financial harm,” notes Maviva. “If Landis had shown the courtesy to at least put a disclaimer on the screen that he was doing something that nobody else in the world could do, perhaps we wouldn’t be seeing this rash of crazy attacks in club races.”
• Crashes: Hospitals across Europe, Australia, and America have shown a steep rise in cycling-related accidents since Landis’s dramatic Stage 17 ride. “Evidently, riders are trying to emulate Landis’s time-trial-on-a-road-bike pose,” notes Dr. Mike Young. “They rest their elbows on their handlebars and clasp their hands together, laying their backs as low to the ground as possible.” Dr. Young then concluded, “And then of course, they inevitably fall off their bikes, usually landing on their chins because their still-clasped hands are trapped in their brake cables.”
• Death: Noting that Floyd Landis was almost constantly dousing himself with water during his massive solo attack, racers across America have taken to doing the same. Unfortunately, taking the American “more is better” philosophy a little too far, one enterprising Cat 5 racer got his wife to drive a pace car he had specially equipped with a compressor, a complex network of hoses and nozzles and 250 gallons of water. His plan to be constantly misted as he biked went horribly wrong as the compressor ran amok, giving the rider the dubious distinction of being the first person to ever drown while riding on a bike on dry pavement.
• Lots and Lots of Embarrassment: “The most prevalent and common harm caused by Mr. Landis,” notes Mr. Maviva in the suit, “is that everyone now both wants to be Landis, and recognizes the folly in others as they try to emulate him. Upon seeing a friend crack, it is almost universal to hear another rider say, ‘Yeah, you’re Floyd Landis all right. Too bad you’re the Stage 16 version.”

Expert Analysis

Dr. Dan Richardson notes that there is precedent for this virus-like mass mimicry among cyclists. “For years,” says Richardson, “Cyclists have been suffering from Lance Armstrong Syndrome.” Dr. Richardson continues: “However, the symptoms of Lance Armstrong were much more benign—a tendency to try to hold a fast cadence, a propensity to give rivals the stink-eye as you attack, that kind of thing.”

“The Landis version of this disease,” concludes Richardson, “is a little bit terrifying.”

 

Landis Contrite, Expresses Concerns for Future Mimics

For his part, Floyd Landis has expressed regret that he has not to this point adequately explained that he is superhuman, and did not give a “Don’t Try This At Home” warning. “I’ll try to be a little more clear about that in the future,” said the Tour de France champion. “I’ve already lost some sleep worrying about what other hip replacement patients are going to go try to do when they see me destroy the field again next year.”

 

PS: Don't forget to enter the drawing for a free Cervelo Soloist Team road bike ($2200 value), courtesy of the Larry H. Miller Tour of Utah.

 

PPS: Today, in Random Reviewer, Dug reviews Lance Armstrong's opening monologue at the ESPYs. Dug's review is worth a read, and Lance's monologue is worth a watch.

First off, welcome to those of you who found me via MSN’s “What’s Your Story?” page. It’s nice to have you here.

Now, whether you’re here for the first time or are one of the people who regularly contribute to what everyone knows is the best part my blog—the comments—you’ve picked a good day to come to this site. Because today I’m announcing the Larry H. Miller Tour of Utah / Fat Cyclist Cervélo Soloist Giveaway.

Yes, that’s right. The Larry H. Miller Tour of Utah has given me a dream bike (pictured below) to give away on my blog.

Excuse me while I hyperventilate into a bag for a few minutes.

OK, I’m better now.

 

Why Am I So Excited About Giving Away This Bike?

Those of you who are bike geeks already know what a big deal it is for me to be giving away a Soloist. It’s a dream bike. For the rest of you, let me do my best to explain, while hopefully not sounding like some hoity-toity elitist bike snob.

It all comes down to this: most people in the world never find out how great riding a bike can be. That’s because most bikes in the world are heavy, steer poorly, shift erratically, and brake unconvincingly.

It’s like everyone’s basing their impression of what driving a car is like based on having ridden in a Yugo, even though if they stretched just a little, they could be driving a brand new Lexus.

What I’m getting at is this: If you’ve never had a great road ride, the bike I’m giving away will change the way you see bicycles. It is light, fast, and sexy as all get-out.

Check me out: I’m Mr. Hyperbole today.

 

So How Do You Win The Bike?

Just click here and fill out the form. At the end of the Larry H. Miller Tour of Utah (August 12), we’ll pick an entry at random. That’s all there is to it. Specifically:

• You don’t have to give up the names and addresses of your friends for us to spam.
• You don’t have to embark on a pyramid scheme where you must get your friends to buy bushel after bushel of concentrated detergent, and you must also buy lots of that same detergent, and I get very rich from everyone having more soap than they can use in three lifetimes.
• You don’t have to buy anything. In fact, there’s nothing to buy even if you want. Although if you really want to buy something, let me know and I’ll sell you an open container of Apple-Flavored Cytomax I don’t think I’ll ever make my way through. That stuff’s gross.

And What Will the Tour of Utah Guys Do With Your Name and Contact Info?

They’ll probably email you next year about the Tour of Utah. Pretty nefarious, eh? Go enter, already.

Sheesh.

 

PS: I’m just kidding about selling the Cytomax. I don’t have any to sell. I wasn’t kidding about it being gross, though.

When the Tour of Utah folks asked me if I’d like to give away a trip to see this mind-bendingly difficult stage race, of course I wanted to. And in true bone-headed fashion, I made it an essay contest. Which means I had to had the distinct pleasure of reading ten gazillion essays on how much it was going to hurt to do that brutal sixth stage.

Several essays stuck out as great, but here’s my favorite:

One. More. Rotation.

One. More. Rotation.

Water.

One. More. Rotation.

Almost at the top. I can rest a bit on the downhill.

One. More. Rotation.

Food.

Water.

I hope the next climb isn't as bad.

One. More. Rotation.... 

Massive congratulations go out to Mark Colburn, the winner of the “Win a Trip to the Tour of Utah” (hey, what a catchy name!) contest. You’re going to dig this race, Mark. I know I’m sure looking forward to it. (Ooooh, it’s so exciting to give away a major award!)

 

Didn’t Win? Stick Around For Something You Will Not Believe

As if giving away a trip to come see a top-notch stage race weren’t enough, the Tour of Utah folks have another giveaway they’re working on for Fat Cyclist readers.

Something awesome.

Something I would really like to keep myself, if I could figure out how to game the system.

And you won’t have to write an essay (I’ve read enough of those for one lifetime, thanks) to win, either.

I’ll announce the giveaway tomorrow. If you love cycling—or even if you think you might like cycling—you will not want to miss this.

 

Now for the Part Wherein I Present Thoughts that Occurred to Me During the 50-Mile Mountain Bike Race I Did Last Saturday, In Roughly the Order they Occurred to Me

Have you ever committed to doing something without really thinking it through? Something big? Something that you will soon realize will require a lot of you—quite likely more than you’d really like to give? Something that, once you get right down to it, you realize is going to hurt a lot and you probably shouldn’t have agreed to do, but you did, and now you’re stuck?

Yeah. Doing a 50-Mile mountain bike race in Park City, UT last Saturday was kinda like that for me.

Early last week, Kenny emailed me, saying something as simple as “Hey, I’m doing this race Saturday. So is Brad. You should come, too.” I am now convinced Kenny embedded an email-based hypnosis virus in that message, because without considering the consequences, I signed up.

And that’s how, Saturday morning at around 6:00, I found myself on a 50-mile mountain bike race course I knew next to nothing about. Just that it was really, really hard.

Here are some of my recollections from that day.

 

A Sense of Urgency

I’m sorry to start off with a kind of tacky thought, but I’m trying to be real here, and reality is not pretty. Anyway. Up until three minutes before the race started, I felt fine. Calm. Composed. And then when the race organizer got on the bullhorn and said, “Three minutes to start” I suddenly needed to use the bathroom. And not just to pee. I wasted ten precious seconds considering what I ought to do, then dropped my bike and bolted for the bathroom Some things cannot be put off. I was tearing off my Camelback, helmet and jersey (I was wearing bib shorts, alas) as I ran to the bathroom, took care of my business in record time (I didn’t take the time to read anything), and threw it all back on  as I made it back to the starting line. The result? I was back in place and throwing a leg over the bike with a whopping five seconds to spare.

 

Riding with Darth Vader

The first mile or two of the race are all climbing on graded dirt road, which is a good place to pass a few people. Then you’re on tight singletrack for miles and miles and you pretty much can count on being with the group you’re with for a while.

I, as near as I could tell, was riding directly in front of Darth Vader.

I didn’t dare look back to tell if he was wearing the mask and black cape, because I figured he’d stick a light saber in my spokes or something, but I knew it was Darth Vader from the loud breathing. Kkkkrrreeehhhh….kkkkrrooohhh. Kkkkrrreeehhhh….kkkkrrooohhh. Regular as clockwork.

“Good day for a bike ride this is,” I said, in my best Yoda voice.

Darth Vader didn’t get it.

 

Why is it easier to go up a hairpin?

At the beginning of the race, I asked a few people what it was like. Everyone who had done it had essentially the same point of view: it’s a brutal, endless day of climbing. Estimates ranged from 9000 feet of climbing to 12,000. Either way, that’s a lot. And it’s almost all singletrack climbing. Lots of it is technical.

They were right.

The whole day seemed like climb after climb, punctuated with short stretches of technical, no-rest-for-the-weary downhill.

I had lots of time to ponder something: Whether you’re on a mountain bike riding singletrack or on a roadbike doing a hard climb, switchbacks tend to give you a little bit of a climbing boost—you swing around and gain eight feet in altitude without spending a ton more effort. Why is that?

I asked a few people that question while I was riding. Nobody had a good answer, though some agreed that it did seem like switchbacks give you a magical boost.

Anyone else notice that? Anyone got an (interesting) answer for why?

 

Shot Bloks

As a blogging shill, I have my rules: I do not endorse a product unless I’m being given that product for free.

I shall now break that rule.

I ate Clif Shot Bloks a lot during this ride, and I really like them. A package gives you 200 calories, they taste better than energy gels, don’t have the gross texture, and didn’t upset my stomach at all.

I need a better way to eat Shot Bloks on the fly, though. It’s easy enough to open the package while riding, but getting them out of the package into my mouth while pedaling and steering the bike wasn’t easy; I had to look for spots where there was going to be either a flat or a sustained non-technical climb before I could eat.

Here’s what I’m thinking I might try: I’ll get a little sandwich bag, spray some Pam (Butter Flavor, perhaps?) into it, and then put the Shot Bloks in there. They should just slide right out.

Yes, I’m really considering doing that. I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

How Far Have I Gone?

One of the games I always play when doing an endurance ride is calculating the math of the ride. How far have I ridden? How far do I have left to go? What percentage of the ride have I ridden in terms of effort, not distance?

But Saturday, I didn’t have an odometer on my bike. I hadn’t really studied at a topo map or elevation profile of the course (and those never help me anyway). I was just riding, staying at my all-day pace, figuring I’d stop when I hit the finish line.

It was kind of a nice change.

 

My Right Arm is Lousy

My right arm is getting worse. Any time I ride for more than just a few minutes, my right hand goes numb, and then the numbness spreads upward. I’m pretty sure this has something to do with the umpteen times I’ve dislocated it.

Still, it’s a weird sensation to discover—as you turn downhill—that you cannot operate the rear brake because you have no sensation whatsoever in your index and middle finger.

 

My Teeth Are Gross

You know what happens when you eat sticky, sweet food for a couple hours, while doing most of your breathing through your mouth, all while riding your mountain bike on a dusty course behind a lot of people kicking up dust?

Your teeth stay perfectly clean and white, without getting caked by a layer of grit that can only be removed with battery acid.

 

Why Do Slow People Race?

Saturday, I was one of the slow people. Which means I had time to think long and hard about why people who have no chance of winning or even finishing in the top half, race at all. Are we trying to build character? Are we amassing stories to tell our grandchildren? Is it because we feel the need to be punished?

All of those are partially correct, but the main answer is: slow people race hoping that this day we will magically turn into fast people.

But we don’t.

 

I Wish I Had My iPod With Me

About 45 minutes into the race, I had settled into my race equilibrium: I had passed most of the people I would pass during the day, and most of the people who would pass me had done so.

Which meant I could look forward to riding alone for the next six hours or so.

And that’s when I started fantasizing about my iPod, which was sitting safely in my car. During the entire day, I would think things like, “If I had brought my iPod, right now I’d put on Social Distortion, and have it play their entire catalog.

Other playlists that occurred to me during the day include:

• Johnny Cash, American Recordings selections (I have all the American Recordings albums, but have made a playlist of my favorites from each).
• Rush, Moving Pictures. I don’t know why this occurred to me. It’s been years since I’ve listened to this album.
• Devo, Greatest Hits. It’s now generally acknowledged that these guys are geniuses, right?
• Oingo Boingo, Complete catalog. No better mountain biking music in the world, as far as I’m concerned.
• Duran Duran, Greatest Hits. So sue me.

My Hairy Legs Really Collect Dirt

As I rode, I noticed: those of us with shaved legs had cleaner legs than those of us with unshaved legs. Really hairy dudes like myself looked downright nasty.

 

A Meditation on Oxygen At High Altitude

Most of this race is at above 8000 feet, but there are trees and undergrowth everywhere. I started thinking, “You know, I’ll bet that with all these trees and plants I’m riding around, there’s actually more oxygen here than at sea level!”

Which, ironically, goes to show how oxygen-deprived I was.

 

Post-Race Nausea

You know what’s the worst thing about an endurance race? What happens to your stomach about twenty minutes after the race. You’ve been beating yourself up the whole day, suffering in the legs but otherwise feeling fine.

Then you stop riding, and twenty minutes later you’re curled up in a ball, wishing you were dead. It is during this period that I vow, after each and every race, to never race again.

Eventually, the post-race nausea subsides, supplanted by an all-consuming hunger. Even as you eat everything that might possibly be edible, you forget the nausea, figuring out how you’ll do better next time.

 

My Time

I finished the race in 6:32. Does that mean anything to anyone?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note From Fatty: This fake news piece is also running in CyclingNews today. By the way of totally kissing CyclingNews' collective butt, let me recommend CyclingNews for all your non-fake TdF reading as well. Thank you.

 

Paris, July 14 (Fat Cyclist Fake News Service) – Following a closed-doors meeting with Tour de France Officials, Team Gerolsteiner held a press conference today, wherein team Leader—and former GC contender—Levi Leipheimer made the following announcement:

“Based on the fact that until yesterday everyone—especially me—has been having a totally sucky tour, I have requested that we call “Mulligan” on this year’s Tour de France to this point, start over with the prologue tomorrow, and try to get it right this time.”

“I hold in my hand an Official Do-Over Petition, which has been signed by a clear and wide majority of riders, race directors, journalists, and cycling fans.”

“Let’s just say that everything up until stage 11 (where Leipheimer took second after a long, brutal day in the mountain) was kind of like a dress rehearsal. I mean, you can see that our hearts just weren’t in it for the first week. Let’s take it from the top and do it for real this time.”

 

Christian Prudhomme Reacts

Tour de France Prudhomme, also on hand for the press conference, noted that there is indeed a Mulligan clause in the Tour de France rules. Says Prudhomme, “It’s an obscure rule, but Article 7.9.867-5309 does clearly indicate that ‘In the event that a majority of race contenders are ejected from the Tour before the beginning of the race, and in the further event that the people left in the race tend to lurch around haphazardly from stage to stage as if they were drug addicts who had suddenly gone cold turkey, and in the final event that by the time the second half of the race begins only a single serious contender remains in actual race contention, the metaphorical reset button shall be pushed and the Tour shall commence again.’”

“Well,” concluded Prudhomme. “I think this year’s Tour pretty much satisfies those conditions.”

 

Racers React

George Hincapie, mistakenly treated as Discovery team leader for the first 11 stages of this year’s Tour, had this to say: “Can we all please just accept that the climbing stage I won last year was just a fluke, and that the yellow jersey I wore last week just goes to show what a freaky Tour this has been? If we could start over and all get behind Popovych or Savoldelli, maybe we could get someone on the podium.

So yeah, I guess I’d be OK with starting the Tour over.”

Hincapie then hesitated for a moment and said, “But can I still keep that yellow jersey?”

Iban Mayo, who completely self-destructed without warning or reason as soon as the roads turned uphill this year, concurs. “Yes, a do-over would be an excellent idea,” the Euskaltel-Euskadi rider said. “If given another chance, I will ride with honor and will win stage after stage.”

“Or, I suppose,” finished Mayo, “it’s possible I may just blow up again. That’s kind of my trademark.”

Bobby Julich concurred that it would be an outstanding idea to restart the tour, providing he gets six weeks for his wrist to heal (and, presumably, to reconnoiter the course).

 

Liggett, Sherwen React

Well-known commentators Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen were enthusiastic about the idea of restarting the Tour. “You know, I am sick to death of talking about nothing but what an unusual Tour this has been,” remarked Liggett. “Because everyone knows that when I say ‘unusual,’ what I really mean is ‘ridiculous.’ We commentators don’t look too good when we talk about what a strong time trial Leipheimer is going to put in and then he gets passed by a recreational cyclist, you know.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Sherwen. “Let’s erase the tape of the Tour thus far, reach into our suitcase of courage, and start from scratch. From the way these guys have been riding, they can’t be too tired yet.”

 

Floyd Landis Reacts

“You know, most people would probably expect that I wouldn’t want to restart the Tour, since I’m winning it and everything,” said race leader Floyd Landis. “But that’s not the case. I’d love to start over. This time, though, I’ll hire a better mechanic and maybe someone to watch the clock for me, so I ought to be in yellow by the end of stage one. That should be cool.”

 

OLN Scrambles

American broadcaster has had to react quickly, adjusting its schedule and making name changes to the program names.

“Considering that this race has been anything but Cyclismic, we are going to go with something a little more subdued for the series title. We’re thinking “Cyclezzzzz” has a nice ring to it.”

 

PS: Have you sent in your entry to win a trip to the Tour of Utah yet? If you haven't, click here to do it now.

You have no idea how excited I am to announce that the biggest Fat Cyclist contest ever is now live. I've got a banner up on my site, but for those of you who prefer to do your reading RSS-style, here's the link for you to go enter:

 

 

Entering is really easy: just describe what's going to be going through racers' heads as they race Stage 6, the most gruelling stage of an incredibly gruelling race.

 

There's nothing to buy, no registration to complete. It's easy.

 

A huge "thanks" to Travis and everyone at the Tour of Utah for putting up with me, doing a cool, highly-unusual contest, and for putting on a really awesome race. I can hardly wait for it to start.

 

Now go enter!

I haven’t been talking much about my weight or fitness lately. Here’s a quick assessment, for those who care: my weight is way too high and I’m having motivation difficulties with dropping that weight, mostly due to a profusion of really good taco stands within walking distance of my office.

My fitness, though, is doing pretty well. This morning, for example, I climbed the Tibble Trail. This is not an easy climb, and most people would have to push most of it.

I, however, cleaned the first mile of this climb today. Meaning I didn’t put a foot down during the most intense mile of an extremely intense climb.

And I kept going.

I cleaned the second big pitch, too. That’s saying something, because the second pitch is even steeper than the first mile, and goes for about a quarter mile.

In other words, my legs are strong, and I’m climbing well.

So I thought, “Well, let’s see if I can clean this whole thing” (I planned to give myself a free pass with regards to the crux move, which is more of a miracle move than a real move right now).

And I kept climbing.

I cleaned the hard, loose pitch at the end of the first meadow. I cleaned everything leading up to the Mill Creek intersection.

And I kept climbing.

The section between the Mill Creek sign and the third meadow is very steep, rooted, and otherwise technical. Cleaning it is never likely, but I was doing well.

That’s when I saw a group of cyclists, descending toward me.

“They’ll yield,” I thought. “They’ll know the rule.”

They got closer.

“They’ll pull over,” I prayed. Surely they could see that I was climbing in a difficult spot and should be given the right of way.

And then the first guy in the group rolled by me, forcing me off the trail and off the bike.

I guess he didn’t know the rule.

 

The Rule

So, for anyone who mountain bikes but perhaps doesn’t intuitively know the rule of who yields to whom, here it is:

 

The climber has the right of way.

 

It’s obvious, really. Who has an easier restart? The guy going downhill. Who’s fighting harder to keep his momentum? The guy going uphill.

Yield to the climber. No exceptions. Any questions?

I did not intend to write today. After all, I wrote entries both for this blog and for Random Reviewer yesterday.

But something happened this morning, and it just can’t wait.

 

I Briefly Consider Myself an Accomplished Downhiller

I’ve started attacking the climb on my commute each morning. It’s about four miles, 1500 feet of climbing. I’m trying to re-learn to ride at threshold. It’s a painful skill, but incredibly valuable if you’re going to race.

Today, the climb went well. I suffered the whole way up, but did not crack. I was pleased; how could I not be?

Feeling good, I hit the downhill hard and fast, and it wasn’t long ‘til I was spun out. I looked at my speedometer: 52.2mph. Considering that I was wearing a bike messenger bag and was not in any kind of tuck, that’s pretty danged fast.

I said to myself, “I should write a blog entry about how I’ve learned to be a fast, fearless descender on the road. I’ll find a self-deprecating angle, but will nevertheless make it clear that I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

 

All Hell Breaks Loose

That’s when the bike started shaking side to side. No, not shimmying. Not wobbling. Shaking. Shaking hard.

I went for the brakes and slowed the bike down a bit.

The shaking continued. In fact, it got worse.

I kept braking. The bike was now shaking so hard that both the water bottles were flung from their cages.

I remember very clearly saying aloud, “I’m going down.”

But I didn’t. I managed to bring the bike to a stop. Even at slow speed, though, the bike kept shaking.

I sat on the guardrail, adrenaline making me completely unfit to ride.

I looked over at my bike. This is what I saw:

 

 

OK. Well, that explains things.

A wave of nausea hit me as I realized exactly how close to dying I had just come: My downtube had snapped at 50mph.

Wait a second, I think I need to emphasize that a little more strongly:

My downtube snapped at 50mph.

 

How to Ride a Bike with a Broken Downtube

I went and collected my waterbottles, sat down on the guardrail, and thought for a moment. I was eight miles into a twenty mile commute. I had a broken downtube. What should I do?

Gingerly, I climbed back onto the bike. To my pleasure and relief, it held my weight. May as well finish that ride into work.

Here are some observations I have about riding a road bike with a broken downtube:

• When you’re off the bike, the break in the downtube merely looks like a crack. When you’re on the bike, there’s a gap of about 3/4 inch.
• A road bike with a broken downtube steers very much like a boat.
• A road bike with a broken downtube is very vertically compliant. Really absorbs the road vibration, bumps, everything. It feels just like a full-suspension mountain bike, really.
• Looking down at a big jagged gap in your downtube is not confidence-inspiring. I rode the rest of the commute at about 10mph. This affected my average speed significantly.

 

Goodbye, Old Friend

I’ve had that Ibis Ti Road for nine years. I planned to keep it forever. I still might, but more in a hanging-in-the-garage way than in a ride-it-til-I’m-old-and-gray way.

On the positive side, I now have the best possible reason to buy a new road bike. The shopping has already begun. Suggestions are welcome.

 

PS: Note to road bike manufacturers: There has never been a better time to step forward and get actively involved with the Fat Cyclist blog.

I love big rides. Even when I am suffering monumentally, bonked and sick and barely able to turn the cranks at all, there’s a kernel of my brain that knows I’ll be back. Because every once in a while, an epic ride will go perfectly and you’ll feel like you’ve seen half the world in a day.

That’s how last Saturday was.

BotchedExperiment and I met at the Grove Canyon trailhead at 6:00am (others were invited, no others came). Over the next six hours we’d do a thirty mile loop, at the end of which I would effuse, “This was the best ride of the year.”

Somehow, everything that could go right, did. And everything that could go wrong, didn’t.

I was having such a great time, I found myself making a list of what was great about this ride. I doubt that I remember all of them, but here are a few, in semi-random order: 

• Terrain changes: The ride we did starts by making you climb steeply on dangerously exposed, loose shale for a few miles. Then you cross a bridge to the other side of the canyon and you’re on forested singletrack. That turns to tall grass and ferns, then to high mountain desert. Then you’re in an alpine forest, then in a giant grassy meadow. Then a boulder-strewn, hair-raising descent. Then twisty, buff singletrack. All within in 25 miles.
• Feeling cold in July: We were in the shadow of the mountain until about 10:00am, which—coincidentally—was about how long it took for us to do the bulk of the climbing for the day. I had expected to be uncomfortably hot for most of the ride, so to be cool—and to have my wet feet (from the dew on the plants and from the occasional stream crossing) be cold on the first day of July—was a great surprise.
• Telling complete strangers about the ride you’ve done so far, knowing there’s almost no way they’re doing something as awesome as you: As Botched and I rolled into the Timpooneke parking lot—about 2/3 of the way into our ride—a guy in biking clothes asked us what our ride plan for the day was. I was so happy to say, “Well, actually we started at Grove Canyon, rode up until we caught the Great Western, then took that up to the summit of Timpooneke and rode that to here. Next, we’re going to head toward Pine Hollow, connect up to the Ridge Trail, take that to Mud Springs, and then follow Tibble down to the reservoir. From there, we’ll just take the road back to the Grove trailhead. What’s your plan?”
• Botched’s hairpin: In a completely non-show-off-y manner, Botched pulled off the most elegant downhill hairpin maneuver I have ever seen. Instead of approaching the hairpin (a tight U-turn) slowly and then trying to stay upright as you squeeze your bike through a turn with a smaller diameter than the length of your bike, Botched did this: He rode smoothly to it until his front tire was at the inside apex of the turn. He then locked his front brake and did a nose-wheelie, pivoted the rear-wheel in the air 160 degrees, set the rear wheel down and continued riding. It was a thing of beauty, I tell you.
• 25 miles of singletrack, 5-6000 feet of climbing: Neither Botched nor I had an altimeter, so I really don’t know how much climbing we did, but I think 5000 feet is a conservative guess. 7000 is probably the outside limit. But we spent the whole day on singletrack, and the trailhead was no more than five miles from either of our houses. Oh, and that 25 miles of singletrack only scratched the surface of what was available to us. Utah is, in fact, a pretty great state.
• Running across two groups of cyclists and a couple of hikers in 25 miles of singletrack: During the big six-hour ride we did, on a holiday weekend, we saw a couple hikers on the trail, one tent (at Indian Springs, where there is always someone camping), and a couple hikers. Otherwise, we had the trail to ourselves.
• The Apex Trail Moment: In Utah, a given trail is going to be perfect twice in a year: Once in the Spring or Summer when it dries out but before it gets dusty, and again in the Autumn when the rain packs down the dust. Botched and I hit this trail at its absolute best.
• Small groups: It’s a well-known fact that a large group is difficult to get moving, and just as difficult to keep it moving. When you’ve got a small group—up to four people, say—you can cover a lot of ground, even if you’re fat and slow. I don’t think Botched and I stopped for more than five minutes at any point.
• Similar abilities: It’s bad form to apologize for your lack of cycling ability—it puts the people you’re riding with in the awkward position of either having to tell you, “no, you’re a super rider” or forgiving you for aforementioned poor riding ability. But while Botched is clearly much more technical than I am, we climbed at similar speeds. Meaning we didn’t have to wait for each other every ten minutes.
• Outrageous view, earned by outrageous amounts of climbing: It’s always great to look down from the top of a mountain. It’s even better to look down from the top of a mountain when you realize that three hours ago, you were at the bottom of that mountain, and have climbed the whole thing on your bike.
• Showing someone new trail: Botched hadn’t been on parts of the ride we went on last Saturday. I love showing incredible trail to someone who appreciates it.
• Julie Andrews Meadow: Julie Andrews Meadow is right in the middle of the Timpooneke trail. It’s the most appropriately-named meadow in the world. Big, beautiful meadow. Giant vistas all the way around. It makes me want to spin around and sing “The Hills are Alive.” Luckily for Botched, I decided not to.
• The term “choclatiest:” Unable to resist playing the part of the tour guide, I was constantly telling Botched what was coming up next. As we neared one particularly sweet piece of buff, packed, banked and otherwise delicious singletrack, I told Botched that this was the “choclatiest” section of the whole ride. “The what?” Botched asked, not unreasonably. “Choclatiest—the superlative form of choclatey,” I replied. It’s a good, descriptive term for high-quality dirt, and I stand by it.
• Climbing first, descending later: If at all possible, I will arrange my rides so that I do all my climbing first, and finish with a downhill. The ride Botched and I did has that characteristic in spades. I’d guess we did nothing but climb for three hours, then alternately climbed and descended. We finished, though, with a massive descent down Mud Springs and Tibble. And nothing’s better than that.
• Finishing a ride tired, but not bonked: After six hours of riding, Botched and I were both fairly cooked, but neither of us were bonked. I tell you, I love that exhausted, happy, been-on-a-big-adventure feeling an epic ride gives you.

I tell you what: I love biking.

Saturday, BotchedExperiment and I went on a big ol’ mountain bike ride. Tomorrow, I’ll write all about it – and there’s plenty to write about; it was one of the best mountain bike rides I’ve been on all year.

Today, though, I want to talk a little bit about pain. The worst, most sustained pain I have ever lived with. So bad that I had forgotten all about it—my subconscious mind’s way of allowing me to go outdoors again—until reminded of it last Saturday.

 

A Little Nettle

In the shade of the mountain, vegetation grows thick and lush in Grove Canyon. At a certain point, the plants grow so tall and close in to the trail that there’s no way you can avoid having them brush against you as you ride. Since we were riding early in the morning, this meant our shoes, legs, and gloves got soaked from the dew on the plants.

It also meant that we each got a good dosing of stinging nettle.

Now, stinging nettle is not a big deal for me. It mostly just causes amusement-level pain that I notice when it first hits me, then fades quickly.

Saturday, though, I must’ve hit a batch just right, though, because my entire left shin lit up bright red for about twenty minutes.

And that’s when I remembered.

 

Evil Portents

About four years ago, Kenny and I rode up Squaw Peak road on our mountain bikes. Like we had dozens of times before, the plan was to ride up at top speed, then bomb down the narrow, very steep singletrack from Hope Campground back to Provo Canyon. It combined a great climbing workout with an adrenaline rush payoff.

The standing tradition was that the first to the top got the honor of leading out on the descent. As usual, that meant Kenny went first. I gave him the ten second headstart (gives dust time to settle, and reduces the likelihood of a one-person crash turning into a two-person pileup), and then took off.

The thing about the Hope descent is that once it starts, it never levels off or slows down. You just fly, the whole time, grinning even as you know that you could turf it—and turf it badly—at any moment.

About a quarter of the way down, I felt something flicking against the underside of my right thigh and the back of my calf. I knew what it was instantly: a weed had got caught in my cassette and was whipping against my leg with each rotation of the wheel. No big deal, no reason to stop.

 

Discovery

I continued to the bottom, the “thwish-thwish-thwish” sound and feeling following me the whole way down.

At the bottom, I pulled up by Kenny, laughing—as usual—from the adrenaline that accompanies a white-knuckle descent. I leaned over and started picking the weed out of my cassette.

“Dude,” said Kenny. “That’s poison oak.”

 

Please, Just Cut Off My Leg

Twenty minutes later, the back of my right leg—starting right below where the shorts ended and going to about halfway down my right calf—was red and itchy.

Within two hours, it was unbearable. Blistered and burning. I was unable to stop myself from clawing at it, even as I knew that I was just making it worse.

And from there, it just got worse.

The burning and itching on the back of my leg became the center of my universe. I could not wear pants. I had to sit on the very edge of chairs. I slept on my stomach (and I never sleep on my stomach.

If I’d had a chainsaw or even one of those guillotine-style paper cutters, I’m reasonably convinced I’d have taken matters into my own hands.

That feeling did not go away for about twenty days.