When I got back from NY last week, here's what I had waiting for me:

Oh, that's a terrible picture, isn't it? I really need to get a real camera, or at least a phone with a good camera. OK, let's go to a product shot from the site, then:

Yes, that's right. I am currently reviewing an Ibis Silk Carbon SL for CyclingNews. After this review, I plan to keep this bike. Here's why:

• It's beautiful. Dark, stealthy, serious-looking carbon everywhere. With a shiny, shiny laminate. And the build spec on the SL is not exactly slouchy: Easton Ascent II Wheelset & EC90 SL Fork, Shimano Dura-Ace 10 Drivetrain, Easton components. Sassy.
• Cool Ibis headbadge:

• Descends beautifully.  So stable. So fast. I hit 56mph coming into work today.
• Climbs insanely well. But you'd expect that from a bike that weighs 15.47 pounds, wouldn't you?
• I'm the first kid on the block to own one.

I'll be writing the review after riding this bike at Lotoja, and will be including an interview with Scot Nichol, founder of Ibis. Scot's an incredibly funny guy who just happens to have a deep knowledge of all things bike-related; the interview should be interesting reading.

I have three theories for why I am timid and incompetent when mountain biking on technical terrain.

• Theory 1: About twelve years ago, I started mountain biking. My friends, however, started mountain biking three years earlier than that. By the time I bought a bike and started riding in earnest, they had learned the basics and got their legs, so that I rarely--if ever--actually saw them during the ride. They'd drop me at the beginning of the climb. We'd regroup at the top and begin the descent, at which point they would immediately drop me again. As a result, I am pretty much a self-taught rider.
• Theory 2: I never approach people with technical skills and asked them to teach me.
• Theory 3: I am a clumsy oaf with no natural grace, coupled with a very vivid imagination; I am very good at picturing how I could be injured by the impending obstacle.

Needless to say (and yet, I am saying it), these theories are not mutually exclusive.

There's not much I can do about my biking history, and there's not much I can do about my lack of natural grace, but--as of yesterday afternoon--I am getting some instruction on basic technical skills.

My mentor? One of the frequent commenters on this blog. Yes, I am taking mountain bike lessons from a guy who calls himself "BotchedExperiment."

If that's not confidence-inspiring, well, I don't know what is.

Here's what I learned yesterday.

Lesson 1: My Saddle is Too High
Ever since I started riding, I've kept my saddle height adjusted according to a formula that works really well for road riding. I get good power with this height, and can ride all day without my knees getting sore.

So the first thing Botched did was drop the saddle about four inches. Now when I'm riding I feel like singing "Lowrider." I assume this tendency will fade over time.

The point, says Mr. Experiment, is to make it easier for me to get way back off the saddle, to hang my butt over the rear wheel and rest my chest on the saddle. When I am in that position, says Botched, it is virtually impossible to endo.

He then had me practice riding around this way, getting comfortable with speed, with turning, with wheelie-ing, with riding down short flights of stairs. 

Lesson 2: Tripod
Next, Botched had me learn to stop. Skid the rear tire out, turn pivoting around your strong foot. Put the foot down, and now you're a tripod. Most kids learn to do this in first grade. I just learned how last night.

Oh, and it turns out I'm goofy-footed.

Lesson 3: Wheelie and Lunge
Botched can do massive wheelie-to-bunnyhops that allow him to clear practically any obstacle. Last night, he had me work on the wheelie first (imagine, he says, you're hoisting a bucket of water onto a high shelf), and then the accompany lunge upward and forward.

This is where my natural awkwardness really became manifest.

I can do a simple wheelie. I can even do a simple lunge. But chaining them together into a bunnyhop was...erm...problematic.

You know what, though? At least now I know what the motions are. I figure if I do them often enough, they'll eventually seep into my subconscious and--eventually--it'll become a natural motion.

Next Up: Shin, Knee, Elbow and Arm Guards
At one point yesterday--as I was practicing wheelie-lunging onto a flagpole platform at an elementary school--I turfed pretty well. Today I'm sore in a number of places, and my left wrist is all swollen.

Botched says I need to buy some courage, in the form of body armor.

Do I think I'll ever be a technical wizard on the mountain bike? No. Will I be as good as my riding friends? No. But do I expect, eventually, to appear less the buffoon on mountain bike moves and technical descents?

Why, yes. Yes I do.

I just got back from a week in New York City, which--strangely--is located in New York State. During the week I spent in this unimaginatively-named city, I did not ride a bike at all.

I also did not exercise, except for walking around the city.

I did, however, eat an enormous quantity of food, at a variety of restaurants, bakeries, and streetside vendors.

See, what a lot of people don't understand is, it's impolite to turn down food when offered it by coworkers, business associates or airline stewards/esses. So when my coworker and I sailed through the surprisingly short security line at the beginning of the trip and found ourselves with an hour and a half to kill and he suggested we go get ourselves a "real breakfast," what was I to do?

Have a breakfast burrito, that's what. But I only ate half of the piece of ham that came with it, because it wasn't really all that good anyway.

And you know how you always get hungry while riding on a plane? Well, I do, anyway. So when the airline stewardess offered me a complimentary snackbox, of course I took it. Oh, and the Sunchips, too. I also took those.

And when my Brooklyn-based sister recommended we go to a famous bakery to get the best cupcakes in the world (they actually were), what was I to do? I mean, she's skinnier than I am by a mile, and she was eating the cupcakes, so they can't be that fattening, right?

Right?

And then there's this Greek food street vendor by my hotel; it always had a line a half block long. I asked someone in the line why they were all lined up when there was another identical vendor just around the corner and she said that this vendor was known for making the best giros in the whole world. Everyone around her nodded, yes, this is true. Best in the world. So of course I got in line. How often do you get a chance to have the best of anything in the world?

Yes, it was the best giro in the world.

I could go on. And in fact, I did go on. I repeatedly demonstrated one of my three disturbing talents--the ability to eat much more than you'd think I could--the whole trip. For your information, my other two disturbing talents are:

• I can make my face turn bright purple at will, although this gives me a headache.
• I can pull out ten eyelashes at once.

And now, for some reason, I weigh six pounds more today than I did last Monday. I'm sure that's all water weight from the salty food, right? Because I can't have possibly gained six pounds in a week, right?

Right?

And That's Not the Only Strange Thing
So last Friday, Rick Sunderlage (not his real name) invited me to join him and a few friends for a Saturday AM ride. Since I've been able to beat Rick every time we've ridden together this year, of course I agreed.

Rick, along with most of the other guys who came on the ride, rode away from me as soon as the ride turned upward. He clobbered me by several minutes.

I don't know if he was even really trying. I hope he was.

All because I was off the bike for one measly week?

Sheesh.

PS: Please take a moment to give Dug words of encouragement and advice. Dug crashed today. He was sprinting against Rick Sunderlage (not his real name) when his chain snapped. Dug fell forward into his handlebars, which turned, so his bike bodyslammed him right into the pavement, hard enough to break Dug's helmet and a couple ribs, as well as turn his right knee and elbow into hamburger.

Please take a few moments to leave a comment telling Dug how he could have avoided this accident by maintaining his bike better, how he could have prevented injury by remembering to tuck and roll, or any other valuable advice you may care to leave.

If you must, you may also leave words of sympathy. I think this sort of kindness will be wasted on Dug, however.

Around mile 41 or so of the Leadville 100 (for those of you who don't know: Leadville, Colorado is a tiny town, above Vail, at an altitude of about 10,000 feet) this year, something occurred to me: I had not yet checked for a single trail marker. I was riding the course from memory.

That, I suppose, is a good indicator I've been doing this race for a while.

Why have I done the Leadville 100 ten times? Why will I do it an eleventh? Well, the reasons keep changing, but anymore most of the reasons revolve around people, traditions, and memories.

Here are a few photos and standout memories from this year's race.

The Ride Before the Ride
Every year, the day before the race, a group of us go out and ride some flat, fun singletrack along the shore of Turquoise Lake for about an hour. It's a chance to talk with people about the race, get a sense for what they really hope to accomplish, and--usually--to see at least one person screw up his bike because he thought he could climb a flight of stairs on his bike, but really couldn't.

This year, we had a lot of people in the group. Some of us were there looking for a personal best: Racer, Bry and I all wanted sub-nine buckles; Lisa Rollins wanted to best her previous time of 11:55. Some of us were trying to win: Kenny wanted to win the singlespeed class, Mark and Serena were protecting their four-year winning streak on the tandem, Jilene wanted to win the women's category, Chuck wanted to win the whole enchilada). And some people wanted to get across the line: Nick Abbott (the guy I rode with more than anyone else back in Washington), Rocky, and Rich Rollins, my former neighbor all fit into this category.

During this ride, I ran into Mike, a Fat Cyclist reader and first-time Leadville 100 rider. I guess he recognized the Reeses Peanut Butter Cup jersey. Or maybe it was the George Hincapie glasses. Or maybe it was the Weapon of Choice. Regardless, he snapped and emailed me this photo:

 
Mike, by the way, would eventually finish in 11:19. Nice work, Mike!

This would not be the only time I was recognized as "Fatty" during the event. I also met JSun, his wife, and their three-week old infant. JSun would be racing the Leadville 100, but being a new dad doesn't mix really well with racing. And I met lots of other people who I have never met who would embarassedly call me "Fatty," then let me know that I'm not really all that fat. To those people, I promise that when Winter comes, I will once again be plenty fat. It's my way.

Strangely, my mom (who was crewing for me) started introducing herself as "Fatty's Mom." I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with that.

The Start
I was nervous for the start of this year's Leadville 100, and for more than the usual reasons. As always, I was nervous about the effort, but I was also worried about my bike setup. I had broken a rule I've always been pretty firm on: no monkeying around with equipment just before a race. But practically everything on my bike was new, and the rigid fork was only three rides old.

More than that, though, I was nervous about whether I had lost enough weight to fit back into my old "Racers Cycle Service" Jersey, so I could ride in the same colors as my friends. It was a close call, but I went with it.
 
Here I am, nervous and serious, lined up about three rows from the front, as if I were a fast guy or something. Mark (of the Mark/Serena Warner Tandem Dynasty) is on the far left in the same jersey. Also, I would like to call attention to my rather awesome quads and my almost-trivial paunch.

Just for fun while at the starting line (and because I'm a fidgety person and needed something to do), I set my handlebar-mounted Forerunner 301 GPS to count backwards from 8:55 minutes, and from 105 miles. I wanted to think in terms of how far I had to go, and how long I had to get there.

More importantly, I also set it to chime every half hour, as a signal for me to eat. And I made a hard and fast rule: when the chime went off on the hour, I would eat a packet of Shot Bloks. When it went off on the half hour, I would have a Gu. The only allowable exceptions would be when I was in the middle of a technical climb or descent and needed both hands on the handlebars (in which case I would eat as soon as possible), or was in an aid station and was eating something else. I told myself that my opinion on whether I felt like eating was irrelevant. The chime was the law.

The gun went off at 6:30 am. Most years, the escort vehicle heads out at 25-30mph, letting the field of 700 (or so) riders string out. This year, though, the escort vehicle stayed under 20 the whole way, keeping us bunched up and nervous until we hit the dirt five downhill miles later.
 

First Inkling
I started the race planning on finishing in under nine hours. By the time I finished the race, ten hours had elapsed. So at what point did I begin to understand that my sub-9 finish was in jeapordy?

Before I had even completed the first big climb -- seven miles into the race.

Yes, that soon.

Here's how I could tell: In years when I have come close to finishing in under nine hours, I have had to restrain myself on that first climb; I had to force myself to drop out of the middle ring and not blow by everyone, because I had so much power.

This year, in contrast, the small ring felt just right. Oh, sure, I could've gone to the middle ring, but it wasn't a big temptation.

In short, I had power, but I was not a powerhouse.

At least the weather was good, though.

First Descent
Before long, the St. Kevins climb ended, I dropped down the paved road for four miles, and then climbed up Hagerman's pass. I caught up with Mark and Serena during this climb, and was feeling good about myself for doing so, when Serena said, "Man, we're just not having a good day. I guess we're just gonna ride it, cuz we sure ain't racing it." I'd explain the implications of what this meant, but I don't think that's really necessary.

After the Hagerman's Pass climb, I began rocketing down the Powerline descent -- five miles of technical downhill. I was passing people all over the place, setting the course on fire.

No, I'm just kidding. I didn't pass anyone. In fact, I noticed that there was almost always the sound of breathing and braking behind me, and when there was a good opening, half a dozen people lined up behind me would shoot around.

You know what's cooler than being the slowest downhiller around? Pretty much everything, that's what.

But I didn't flat, like a bunch of people (I'd guess I saw five people on the side of the trail coming down Powerline), and I didn't completely taco my front wheel like one guy I saw with his bike shouldered as he jogged down the course. I wonder if he was hoping to salvage his race by bumming a new wheel off someone? Hat tip to him if so, because he had about seven miles to jog before he got to the next aid station.

When the Powerline bottoms out, it intersects pavement, and groups form to motor along in a paceline. Here, as I have probably three times in ten years, I ran into my LT100 friend Dean Cahow. I'm not sure why we always intersect on this pavement, but we do. We hopped onto a paceline, which was way too fast, let it go, and then worked together until we got to the first aid station, 27 miles into the race.

I looked at my computer -- 2:11 had elapsed. I was already eleven minutes too slow. I wasn't out of contention yet, but this wasn't a promising sign; I'm generally much stronger in the first half of a race than in the second, and need to give myself some cushion for the likelihood that I would fade.

I powered through the first aid station; I had plenty of food and water. The next aid station would be in only thirteen miles.

Hanging Out With Friends
As I went through the first aid station, a couple of strange things happened.

1. At least two groups yelled, "Go Fatty!" or something like that. Neither of these groups were with me (I had sent my crew on ahead to the second aid station). This gave me a huge morale boost.
2. I thought a huge crowd was cheering for me, but it turned out that they were actually yelling for Jilene Mecham, who was overtaking me. I had recently taught Jilene the Ze Frank song, "How Do You Spank a Giant Baby?" and she sang it as she passed me. Then I grabbed her wheel and asked how she got the crowd so riled up. "You work 'em," she said, and then showed me. Pumping a fist into the air, she yelled, "Yeah!" The crowd on both sides of us immediately responded by cheering for her. Jilene then rode away from me, but I promised myself I'd catch her as soon as the course turned up. I knew I was a stronger climber than she.

The thirteen miles between the first and second aid stations are the flattest of the day, and probably the least painful of the course. It was here that I met Joe Jensen, a local Utah rider. He introduced himseelf by saying, "I don't care what Dug says, you're an OK guy." I replied with, "Well I'm here racing, and you're here racing, and Dug's in Chicago going to fancy restaraunts. So out of the three of us, who do you think is a pansy?" Joe (who would eventually finish with a 10:40) and I agreed we should ride together sometime under less painful conditions. I look forward to it.

Next, I caught up with Ricky, one of the guys who's done the Leadville 100 since the first edition. He and I had ridden up the Columbine Climb together the previous year, and he had been great company. Hoping that he'd have a sense of whether we were making good time or not, I asked, "Do you feel fast this year?"

"Nah," said Ricky. "I'm just cruising along."

That's not the answer I was hoping for.

I kicked it up a notch, trying to not lose sight of Jilene.

Pit Stop
I pulled into the second aid station--meaning I had gone 40 miles--after 3:03 of racing. My Mom was there, with all the stuff I needed.

Just look at us. We're the very model of efficiency. Here, I"m tossing off my Camelbak, to be replaced by another one, already filled and ready to go.

Okay, now it looks like I'm doing the hokey pokey, but I'm actually swapping out the empty wrappers from the Shot Bloks (I keep them tucked under the elastic at the bottom of my shorts) for new ones, which my Mom has already torn open and folded to spec (kudos to Al Maviva, by the way, for the practical advice on the right way to open and fold a packet of Shot Bloks.).

After sucking on a camelbak tube to drink all day, it's nice to get a couple of big gulps of water just by tipping the jug back. Note that my Mom's ready with the soup. Please note that I no longer have much of a gut (at least, not when I'm wearing bib shorts). Also, please note the ominous dark clouds. Those will factor into the story soonish.

And two minutes later, I'm on my way again. Note that Mark and Serena's tandem is laying on the ground here; they were only a minute behind me at the time I pulled into the aid station. Also, please note that I wisely kept on my arm warmers.

Even as I pulled away, I knew that I was no longer racing for a sub-9 time. I was already 18 minutes off the pace, and the hard work hadn't even begun yet.

Time to Climb
When I think about the Leadville 100 race course, I think about two things: The Columbine Mine climb and the Powerline climb. I was now at the Columbine Mine climb: eight miles of climbing, with 3600 feet of vertical gain. You start at 9000 feet and reach the turnaround point at 12,600.

People suffer here.

I knew, though, that this was where my main strength is: grinding away on long climbs. I put my head down, turned off my brain to whatever degree I could, and spun.

Before long I saw Jilene. She was leading a paceline of about three guys. Of course, at 5mph, there's no aero advantage to a paceline, but there's still a psychological one, and these guys were hanging on as best as they could.

I rode by, and loudly said to the guy directly behind Jilene, "Dude, are you staring at her butt?" (He was.) He was very embarassed. It was a good moment.

The first five miles of the Columbine climb are not at all technical. I found another Fat Cyclist reader on this climb; he told me he blogs too. I told him there's no way I'd remember his name because I had turned off all higher brain functions for the day, but if he'd email me, I'd link to him. Once you've ridden Columbine with someone, you're no longer strangers. You're family. I rode away, feeling strong and hoping that this feeling wouldn't suddenly disappear (it's happened before).

Somewhere along this road, I saw Racer riding down. His knee had been re-injured; his race was over. Next year, Racer.

The 29" wheels and rigid fork were working great for me; I was climbing lots of stuff others were walking. One of the great things about Leadville is how considerate other racers are. When someone behind sees that you're riding a part others are having to push, they'll yell out, "Make way for the rider!" so others ahead of you will move aside, letting you conserve your breath for the climb. By riding a lot of what I've always walked before, this gnarly section of the course seemed much shorter to me than it ever had before.

About a mile and a half from the top, I came across my friend Bry, who I thought for sure would be going sub-9.

He was standing still.

"What are you doing waiting for me?" I asked, irritated. "I don't want you to wait for me."

"I'm not waiting for you," Bry said, morosely. "I'm dying."

"Oh. Sorry." Not much else to say, really. If he really couldn't go on, he'd turn around. If he could go on, he would.

I kept going.

I hit the turnaround point at 4:53. It was now as good as official: my sub-9 dreams were gone. The Leadville rule of thumb is that your best-case finish time is double your turnaround time.

Which meant I was in serious danger of finishing in ten hours, not nine.

Slow
The most common thing I heard as I descended back down Columbine Mine was, "On your right." The second most common thing was, "On your left."

The cool thing was, though, I got to see that my friends who were still working on the climb. Nick was riding strong and looking happy. Lisa was up much further than I expected her. Rocky was smiling. All good news.

And then Jilene passed me, singing, "How Do You Spank a Giant Baby?"

I wished I had never taught her that song.

Jilene would eventually finish with a 9:47. Not what she wanted, but 20 minutes faster than me. I'm pretty sure that 20 minutes is exactly how much time I lost on downhills during the race.

Rest
Pulling into the second aid station for the second time, I was no longer in quite as much of a hurry as before. Let me illustrate:

I'll tell you what: after riding for 5:37, sitting for three minutes (or was it five?) in a camp chair is a little slice of heaven. My Mom clearly thinks this is funny.

Next, my Mom gave me a little grief over not drinking enough water, as she notes that the camelbak I had just handed her was not yet empty.

What can I say? It was a cold day and I wasn't sweating that much. Note that the piece of foam rubber (with adhesive) that Nick had stuck to the top of my helmet the day prior is still in place.

Reluctantly, I got on the bike and took off.

In case you were wondering: yes, I did clean that steep, loose little bump right there. So I still had a little bit of juice in me.

Interesting Observation, Embarassing Moment
As I rode along the rolling thirteen miles that connects the second aid station to the very hardest part of the Leadville 100--the Powerline Climb--the guy who I passed on the Columbine Mine caught me. "I didn't think I'd see you again," he said. I pretended to be glad that we had hooked up again, which meant ignoring the obvious likelihood that he was about to drop me. He stuck around for a moment, though, telling me that the previous year he had DNF'd and was hoping that wouldn't happen again this year.

"Oh, you're in no danger of that," I let him know. He was riding a sub-10 pace, for sure. One of those strong-second-half guys I envy so much.

And then he was gone.

I had a moment to think while riding along, and I had two epiphanies in rapid succession:

1. I felt fine. By this time of the day in a big ride, I usually have all kinds of stomach pain and gas. Today, using my rigorous eat-every-half-hour rule and sticking with Wonderful, Magical Shot Bloks, I had no stomach pain or gas at all.
2. I definitely would not do the E-100 in two weeks. It was a stupid idea to even consider it. In fact, mountain biking is a stupid idea in general.

And then it was time to do two quick hike-a-bikes up some steep hills. I felt good, though, and rode up a big chunk of the first one. I was very pleased with myself.

For the second one, though, I got off and started marching almost from the bottom. Someone called out to me, "Make way for the rider!" I couldn't believe it. I figured whoever it was deserved an extra little push. So I moved aside and started my push.

Except it didn't work out that way. The rider stopped riding right as I began my push.

You know what? It's a little bit awkward to find yourself standing on a hill with your hand on a stranger's butt. Probably even more awkward if you're a 40-year-old man, and the stranger is a 20-something (I'm guessing) woman.

"Um, sorry about that," I said, then put my head down and pushed on, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Up We Go
I always have mixed feelings coming into the final aid station. I'm glad to be done with the section between the Twin Lakes Dam and the Fish Hatchery, but am dreading the final 27 miles of the race, because it's made up of two big climbs (including the Powerline Climb, which is the toughest climb of the race), two rough descents, and a final grunt of a climb.

And chances are you won't be at your best right then.

Still, I felt OK--still no stomach issues, and my legs were still responding. And, once again, in the same place I had seen him 50 miles earlier, was Dean Cahow. So we rode together again, but this time in the other direction. Before long, Dean would ride away from me, finishing ten minutes before I did. Nice work, Dean!

The worst part of the Powerline Climb comes right at the beginning. You've got to slowly march your bike up the sandy, steep hill. Riding isn't even an option for most of us.

Near the top, though, there was the nicest guy in the world. He was pouring Coke into paper cups and handing it to riders, telling us to just toss the cup when we were done; he'd pick them up.

That was the best drink I have ever had.

I had managed to catch up with Mark and Serena again, and we were trudging along together when it started sprinkling.

"This is a nice change of pace," said Mark.

Then the water started coming down in bucketfuls.

"This is a less-nice change of pace," said Mark.

Yeah.

Before long, the rain and mud had completely obscured my glasses. I had uncontrollable shakes, and no jacket. My own stupid fault.

And then the descending began, through running water, with my blurry vision, my blurry glasses, my shaky arms, and my rigid fork.

I was not exactly a speed demon.

In fact, in spite of my tiredness, I was glad when the course turned uphill again, just so I could warm up.

Meanwhile, the Warners, in spite of the fact that they were riding a fully rigid tandem, rode away from me, finishing in 9:57 and winning the Tandem category for the fifth year in a row. According to the Rules of Armstrong, aren't they required to keep going until they've won seven straight years?

Big Finish
After the paved climb, I descended St. Kevins--the last climb of the day--gingerly and slowly, getting passed by everyone who was not blind. I started churning along the dirt road, looking forward to the finish line that was now only about five miles away.

And that's when Bry caught up with me. I was surprised, having figured that from the way he had looked on Columbine, he would have abandoned long ago.

But here he was, and he agreed with me that we should finish the race together.

As we rode the final three mile dirt road stretch, an idea occurred to me: since we weren't going to finish with a good time, why don't we finish with a little panache? I brought the idea up to Bry, and he agreed completely.

So we spent the rest of the climb planning and plotting. What would we do at the finish line? It had to be easy (we were tired) and there had to be little chance that we would crash (we were really, really tired).

So, as we approached the finish line--me on the right, Bry on the left--Bry yelled "Break!"

Then, in perfect (?) synchronization, we pulled U-turns in opposite directions, crossed paths, and came back to the finish line holding each others' arms aloft. Here I am, halfway through our maneuver:

The crowd went wild. Natch. And here's Bry and me, looking spry as can be after crossing the line with a race time of 10:06:

OK, so we weren't that spry.

Afterward
Lisa Rollins demolished her previous time of 11:55 with an 11:10. More to the point, she finished happy, lucid, and strong:
 
Rich (whose back of the head is showing above) wouldn't admit it to himself, but he had a good day too, doing the first 60 miles of the race. That's a lot more than he could have done a year ago. Plus, now that he's seen the whole course, he'll be ready to finish the race next year.

As time wore on, I became worried my friend Nick wouldn't make the 12-hour cutoff. At 11:55, though, he barreled across the finish line, muddy as can be and with a huge smile.

Kenny took second in Single Speed class, which is just astounding. I mean, it's astounding anyone is faster on a single speed than he is. Still, he got a nice trophy and the required shot of him standing with the race organizers, Ken and Merilee:

If you ask me, with that shiner, Merilee maybe should have avoided being photographed with the bottle of booze.

Chuck finished in 8:06. I tell you, I can't even imagine that kind of speed. Here he is at the finish line:

As for me, I got to show off the cool blanket my Mom's made for me out of all those "Finisher" sweatshirts I never wear:

Oh, and one more thing (6" x 4.5", in case you're wondering):

A Super-Duper-Extra-Special Note from Fatty: A while back, I posted an entry saying that someone I know was considering doing a race he had secretly signed up for, but just didn’t know if he should.

At his (yes, a male) request, I was careful about not revealing who this person was, because I’ve talked about him before.

Yes, it’s Rocky, the Karmic Black Hole.

Here’s his story of racing the Leadville 100, in two parts. The first part is what he wrote before the race; the second part is what he wrote afterward.

Tomorrow I’ll post my own story; I’m still working on it.

Part I: Pre-Race Ruminations
Fatty spins a good tale. Fatty embellishes some, too.

You may have noticed.

But then, if you don’t know Fatty personally, you may not know that he embellishes. I am a brother-in-law (strike one), a friend (if you see how Fatty and his maladjusted friends carry on, you realize that this is strike two), and I have known him in all of his life phases (see his August 2 blog entry) in one form or another for nearly 30 years—that’s a lot to overcome—which makes me a bit of an embellishment target. Strike three. I provide plenty of ammo for Fatty’s embellishment indulgences all by myself, but then a strike four is moot as I’m already out with the first three.

So in an attempt to avoid becoming embellishment material for the insatiable blog, I did the stealth Leadville thing this year. No one knew about it—not even the spousal unit, and that by design. I have found that if those around me know, there are the incessant questions about feeling ready, about training, about being afraid. I opted out of the questioning, and it was working out so well. It was the perfect plan.

Or at least it was the perfect plan until Fatty, knowing that I have a lovely Gary Fisher Paragon 29er sitting in my garage with nothing to do on August 12, contacted me about using it. His friend Nick needed a bike for Leadville, and so with our 30 years of history, and the brother-in-law thing firmly in place, Fatty figured I wouldn’t mind loaning my bike to Nick.

Oops.

Now I had a dilemma: I either had to tell Fatty I was going to Leadville, or that Nick could not use my otherwise idle bike, proving to him once and for all that I am a total jerk. I chose the first, and though I trust Fatty, I also know where I fall on his list of friend loyalties. A brother-in-law that is also a friend is always trumped by anyone that is a friend with no asterisks. I am certain that those that I did not want to know about my Leadville escapade now would have full disclosure.

The truth is, I am not great at endurance stuff. I accept that fact, and I choose to endure my shame solitarily. Had Fatty’s pal not needed a bike, I would have pulled this off without anyone knowing about it.

Ever.

Unless, of course, it goes really well.

It won’t. This I know.

Round 1
When Fatty called about the bike, I was inclined to let Nick have it. It would have been the perfect excuse. “A more skilled rider needed a mount to complete a race—I took the higher road and enabled him to succeed.” What nobler way to bow out of a ride I don’t really care for, anyways. I have not trained for the Leadville at all. Really. Unless copious amounts of ice cream, fast food, large blocks of cheese and summer sausage, and soda pop are a part of some secret training regimen that Joe Friel/Chris Carmichael missed out on. If that is the case, then I have trained.

I told Fatty I had to get back to him about the bike in a couple of days. That allowed me time to go on a long mountain bike ride I used to use as a training ride when I actually attempted to train. It was 40 miles and it is made up of technically tougher terrain with climbing comparable to that of Leadville (just not the elevation) in over 100-degree heat. I have not ridden anywhere near 40 miles all year, so I thought that I might just spontaneously combust on such a ride. Trouble is, the ride is really remote—it’s a do or die.

I didn’t die.

I was still convinced that I wasn’t going to ride in Leadville though. However, when I apprised Fatty of my conundrum, he offered the following wisdom that pushed me over the edge.

Here's what I'm thinking: come do part of the race. You paid for it, why not come do part of it? Like, just do the first 60 miles of it and call it good. That will give you good experience for next year.

And if by some chance you're still feeling good at 60 miles, ride to the next aid station, and call it good there. And then if you're good, finish it. In other words, start planning on finishing at 60 miles, and evaluate as you go.

Since you live close and you've spent the money, you may as well, right?

This is a direct cut and paste from Fatty’s actual email. I have submitted copies of them to my attorney in case there is litigation necessary upon my demise. The moment that I made the decision to ride in Leadville, the bad things started happening. Literally. Fatty, et al branded me “The Karmic Black Hole” about a year ago. This is how it works for a guy with such a label:

1. Incurable virus—the doc says there is nothing to do but wait
2. Testosterone/EPO injection—the doc says no way—“Crap.”
3. Strep—resulting from the incurable virus hanging around for days
4. Antibiotics—resulting from the strep, which resulted from the incurable virus
5. No riding for the last week, due to incurable virus
6. Weight loss—seven lbs. in seven days, due to incurable virus and its sundry and unmentionable symptoms and side effects
7. Rash—in unmentionable but critical location(s) due to antibiotics
8. Sunny outlook for a Leadville completion

Part II: Post-Race Post Mortem
Okay, now the race is over. Now comes the post-race perspective. Here’s what I think.

1. Fatty should be an odds-maker—he said “60 miles.” That’s where I landed.
   
2. I’m too stupid to have bailed before climbing the eight miles to the highest point of the race.
3. Fatty’s friend Nick (he gutted out an 11:55 finish and went home in a lovely rust-colored sweatshirt replete with his name and time, and with a shiny new belt buckle, too) is a “right good fellow” (Nick’s from Sydney—insert accent here for the full effect). He can use my bike anytime.
   
4. Fatty’s Utah friends are all really nice people with crazy fast legs. What do they feed those people?
5. I understand my body’s limitations better than I ever have. I know why it is limited, too.
6. My math skills where finishing under 12 hours at Leadville are concerned, are advanced (hence the bail at mile 60).
7. I am SO MUCH SSSLOWWWERRR than I was the last time I rode in Leadville—even on the descents, but especially where it really counts—Leadville is a climber’s affair. For example: The last time I was in Leadville, I broke my handlebar after completing 86 miles. Yes, I was pissed. No, a stick as a replacement would not have helped—the aluminum wasn’t strong enough—do you really think that a ¾ inch piece of dry wood would have been? No, I could not have run the rest of the race. Yes, I am still pissed and a smidge bitter. Can you tell I have answered all the dumb questions one might have come up with—like 1,000 times? I digress. When my handlebar broke in 1999, I was at 7:36 in the race. I had completed the hardest part of the day. All of the really hard climbing was over. I had about two hours of work left to do—one long steady pavement climb and the Boulevard—three miles of moderate incline dirt into town. On Saturday last, I was at 7:30 at mile 60. SSSllloowwww.
8. Putting a ton of mental pressure on myself (or anyone else doing the same) takes away a lot of energy that could otherwise be used as fuel for the ride. I did not do so, and had fun.
9. I extracted all that my aging body was able to offer on that day. It has been through a lot since I last raced in Leadville (none of which includes intensive training—I haven’t been on a ride longer than 50 miles since then), and I wasn’t altogether unhappy with the result, given the input.
10. I enjoyed myself in Leadville. My wife crewed for me for the first time ever, my two youngest daughters were there to support me, and got to see me for the true weenie that I am (and they still like me), and I made a few new friends along the way—lots of Fatty’s friends from Utah, people from Omaha, Minneapolis, Sydney, the Netherlands, Kansas, New York and even a guy from right here in lovely Grand Junction.
    
11. Yes, I am ofer. In baseball terminology, that means that I am zero hits for three attempts: 0 for 3 (o-fer-three). Yes, ofer sucks.
12. Yes. I will do it again.
       

• XTR Cassette
• SRAM XO Rear derailleur
• A yard of duct tape wrapped around the seatpost
• Oh, and one other very, very important thing:

Click for larger image

What It All Means
Racer has built me the lightest, climbiest 29"-wheeled bike I could ever hope for: 22.5lbs. I took it out for a four-hour shakedown ride last Saturday, and it's a climber's dream. Then I took it out this morning on Hog's Hollow and got a little more comfortable with downhilling on a fully rigid bike.

This bike has the potential to either deliver me the best time at Leadville I've ever had, or to rattle my brains out by mile 60.

I can hardly wait to find out which happens.

A week from Saturday, I’ll be racing the Leadville 100 for the tenth year in a row. Which means I’ve been biking for about twelve years. Which brings up the question: what did I do for exercise before that?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Age 10 – 14: Pole Vault
Watching the 1976 Olympics, I—like most kids, I think—idolized Bruce Jenner. Specifically, I loved watching the pole vault.

Unlike most ten-year-old kids, though, I had a mom who Got Things Done. When I said I wanted to be a pole vaulter, she immediately got to work arranging for me to train with the Junior High track team.

I remember it was a couple months before I became good enough to clear the bar even when it was set at the lowest rung, but I loved it.

Two years later, when I entered seventh grade and was therefore allowed to start competing, I had much more experience than any other vaulters in my age group. I walked away with first place in pretty much every competition.

I was a short, light kid though, and stayed that way, which meant that by the time I was in ninth grade, other kids were able to get some spring out of the pole, while I could not.

I stopped winning. I stopped placing.

So in tenth grade, I dropped out of track altogether and did not do anything athletic for the next ten years.

Age 22-25: Raquetball
I don’t remember why I started playing racquetball, but it probably had to do with Robert Raleigh, a guy I worked with at WordPerfect. Once a week or so, we’d reserve a court at lunch and see if we could give each other nasty welts on the back.

We could.

There were several things I loved about playing racquetball:

• The Serve: Having a lethal serve is a very satisfying feeling. I’d sometimes reserve a court on my own and just work on my serve for an hour. I had a nice little serve that hit the front wall, the right wall, the floor, then the back-left corner, where it just kind of rolled out. Done properly, it was pretty much an automatic point.
• The Kill Shot: Raquetball is an interesting sport because there are so few variables. The playing area is small, the ball moves predictably, and the player positions are finite. So, when a ball comes to you in just such a way, you can almost always hit it so it just rolls off the front wall.
• The Slam: When the ball comes to you at knee level, about two feet away from you on your forehand side, you can hit it with such force you’d think the ball would explode. This serves no strategic purpose in the game, but it feels great and makes an immensely satisfying sound.

Why did I stop playing racquetball? You know, I’m not sure. I moved to Indiana and didn’t have any playing partners there, and I’ve just never picked the game up again. I wouldn’t mind, though, especially during the winter.

Age 23-28: Rollerblade
This exercise-via-commute thing I’m doing on my bike is not new to me. For about five years, I commuted to work—8 miles, each way—by rollerblade. I developed Eric Heiden-esque quads, which have never exactly disappeared, and I got to the lowest weight I’ve been in my adult life: 148 pounds.

The thing is, I never even considered learning to do tricks on my Rollerblades. I was strictly a distance guy, focusing on as powerful and efficient style as I could develop. I never learned to skate backward, but I frequently passed bicycles on hillclimbs.

I also had one of the most painful injuries of my adult life while rollerblading. I was going downhill, tucked to be as fast as possible, when I came to a curb I needed to hop. I hopped, but not quite high enough. A wheel or toe caught the edge of the curb and I went down on my stomach, hands and arms, the road cheese-grating my skin off until I came to a stop.

I have never been such a bloody, skinned up mess, and that includes a lot of falls on my bike. At least when I fall from my bike, I tend to roll a bit, so I don’t take the full slide on any one part of my body.

And I still had five miles to go. That was a slow five miles.

Age 28+: Bike
Once I started biking, pretty much every other sport has fallen by the wayside. I’m a one-trick pony (two tricks if you want to be generous and consider road and mountain biking as separate sports). I’m not at all well-rounded.

On the other hand, since I’ve started riding, nothing else has come close to catching my heart and mind the way the bike has.

At endurance races, I often see guys in their 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s, still riding strong. The way things are going, I expect it’s only a matter of time until I’m one of those guys.

I sure hope I will be, anyway.

PS: The hypothetical guy who was trying to decide whether to race, has in fact decided to race. He has told me he will be happy to reveal his identity and how the race goes once it is over.