Public service message for hipsters

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/5684963/

This video of hipsters talking about cyclocross is all over my facebook page. (I am cool because I am on Facebook.)

Mud Madness at Marilla

(The above photos courtesy of JR Petsko)

It happened, despite my best attempts to sabotage it, ignore it, or rationalize my way out of it. My cross bike was in pieces and dysfunctional on the garage floor as it had been for the better part of the month. I had successfully completed a rigorous 8 week anti-training regemin. My lungs were reduced to two glad sandwich bags. I looked to be about 5 month's pregnant. My legs looked as they had been turned and smoothed on the lathe too long, now mere spindles. I had assured everyone I met that I wasn't going to do it. Yet, there I was before the crack of dawn, fixing brake arms that wouldn't spring back, changing tires and casettes. Cleaning and lubing and aligning. I rode the old Colnago up and down the hill beside the house, testing it in pajama bottoms and a mussed up coiffe. I convinced the kids that they wanted to do it. And then I did it. I "raced" The Race of the Dead at Marilla Park in Morgantown WV. I mean, I guess I had to- after all, The Grimpeurs were sponsoring the race. The people had to have their king, didn't they? Call it a bad case of "Mud Madness."

It was raining and the course was seriously sloppy and super slick. These were conditions on which I had never ridden a cross bike before. The learning curve was steep. On the second downhill off camber hill my bike left me. I hurdled the handle bars like Edwin Moses and scampered for a first down but kept my feet. When I retrieved the blue Colnago cross the right shifter was twisted. Maybe I had found my out! No such luck; she shifted like a dream. I came to the screaming downhill approach to the hill of death, sure I would meet my doom there. It was like riding across a field of Crisco. Using the brakes was like hitting the button on the ejector seat. My only hope was to unclip and hold on. My legs spread out like the balance pole of a tight rope walker. The bike bucked and slid every which way. My ample abdomen pushed hard against the red polka dot jersey barely restraining it. My red cape with white leopard trim whipped in the wind and my quidditch goggles rendered me blind. What a sight it must have been to behold, pure poetry.

Despite my cyclic ineptitude, I made it to the hill of death on two wheels. I didn't even try to ride that throbbing wall of muck. It was so bad that they carved earthen steps up the side so we could, perhaps, finish the race. I plodded up the steps and stopped at the top to acknowlege my adoring subjects. "Candy for all!" I yelled and tossed handfuls of manna from my jersey pockets. If you are going to make a fool of yourself, might as well do it up right.

I wrecked a couple more times on the first lap and took the first of several wrong turns and back tracks. Even so, I was still not in last place- but, I could hear the grit grinding in the chains of the rear guard. By the time I hit the new race feature this year, a mini spiral of death, I had gotten my mud legs. Going round and round was like trying to claw to the center of a hot buttered merry-go-round. It was sketchy and slow but I made it through without sliding out or running, although for a short time I was essentially spinning a stationary bike.

On the second lap we were locked in a heated battle for last place. That all changed when a rouge family sauntered across the course in joyous oblivion. I yelled "look out" and swerved around them. Suddenly I was alone. It wasn't until later that I realized that I had cut back to part of the course we had already done. Nothing like an extra half lap for stupidity. Ah well, last place was inevitable eventually anyway. It was what I had anti-trained so hard for. I gotta say, though, the absolutely heinous course conditions really made it an adventure. Great course and great time. Thanks guys.

Below you will find video footage of the best race of the day. At least from my point of view. If any other pics or vids come across the web, I'll post them here. Note: I didn't pick the music; it picked me. I don't feel like fixing it.

Ghost Rider and The Phantom

Pain and suffering, isn’t there some kind of monetary penalty for inflicting that stuff upon someone? Too bad there were no lawyers on last week’s Grimp, I would have filed a claim. Well, I suppose I’ll have to settle for a bit of whining.

We discovered two things last week. First, E.R. docs outride chiropractors 3 to1. Of course, the sample size on that may have been a bit limited (3 vs. 1). Second, I really suck. Here’s how it went down.

We had a great showing with eight riders clicking in at the bottom of Mud Pike. Birdman, Legs, Brahma Mama, Fat Cat, Aerobinator and Phallose were joined by two new riders, Ryan and—damnit, the name just slipped my mind. Someone can fill it in if I don’t remember by the end. I’ll just go ahead and grant the Noms de Grimpeur right here. They are, Ghost Rider and The Phantom. I heard that they were out there on the roads that day, but I am a see it to believe it kinda guy. I didn’t see more than a brief shot of what may have been the backside of a cyclist so I put them in the category of The Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot— legends.

Brahma and Legs took off up the hill first and Phallose joined them. They said they’d wait at the spring. That left me with all the muscle. I sweated for several minutes until I could bear it no longer Rules of the Grimp be damned; I left them at the bottom.

I put my best pace on with the intent of beating the muscle to the spring. I would raise my arms, torso resplendent in polka-dots, and pretend to have bested the best to the merriment of Brahma et al. Well, the best laid plans oft gag a glee. The skinny fast guys tore right by me, my refrain of, “you guys suck,” probably incomprehensibly stretched out with Doppler. When I got to the spring—nobody was there. Faux glory had withered into shame. Birdman did slow down a little further up and nursed me along, again. To compound the indignity, the balance of the group, most of which started after me, came back down to meet us and then speed back up.

So, it’s gonna be okay now that there are some riders more at my level here at the top…right? Think again loser lungs! Brahma went right back down the mountain and Legs turned back a few miles later, both citing time constraints. That left little old me, The Fat Cat, woefully over-matched. All I can tell you from here is that I was breathing very hard for an hour and a half and only saw people when direction was needed. It was something like if a turtle was sent out to lead a herd of gazelle across the uncharted desert. Kinda comical if you think about it.

I tried one more time to make a showing on the last low rollers at the foot of the mountain. I stayed out for about a mile until the train tore by. Again, they shimmered briefly, like an apparition, and then disappeared into the firmament. Birdman dropped off, pulling me along valiantly at a good clip for several miles. But, in the final mile, I gave out—or “blew up” as Birdman would say.

I have to admit, I was a terrible host. The hammer will do that to ya. I was apparently so surly, that all declined the post ride recovery drink and left me as George Thorogood.
All apologies. I know it didn’t seem like it, but I do like that kind of ride, and all the tactics were well within the Grimpeur charter. Also, I suppose I NEED that kind of ride. Thanks to all who came out. Looking forward to seeing you again. Hope I didn’t scare anyone away with my fantastic riding and stellar people skills.

Happy is the Road

The tirephoid fever epidemic spreads.

Boyscout's troubles give FatCat his triumph. It's the power of the polka-dots.

Great day over Morgantown, West Virginia.

Even the road has a smile this time of year.

Never Marry a Mountain

The mountain, she gets a little jealous sometimes. Just a little warning.

Last Thursday Fat Cat was joined by Birdman and Goldfish and Brahma Mamma. It was just another day in cycling paradise. What more can I say that already hasn’t been said about the weather this year?

Everybody took off up the Pike together and there were tubes a plenty in case Goldfish continued with his tire woes. The CDC is looking into this, but it is a pretty sure bet that Goldfish caught the tirephoid fever from The Fat Cat on a grimp earlier in the year. Witness the two bikes in close contact, open wounds exposed.


The Grimpeurs made a leisurely summit and decided to go right, towards the Bruceton, Lake-o-the-Woods loop. This little decision would soon have unintended consequences (I hate those) for two Grimpeurs.

The first victim of the right turn was Phallose. Actually, he was first a victim of his own hazy mind. Despite several warnings and a personal e-mail, his brain developed a little hiccup that refused to see 11:00 in its true form. It, instead, insisted on 11:30. The Fat Cat suspected this to be the case, but the no one left behind rule only extends to those actually in the parking lot. Still, the group waited until about 15 after to depart. It was agreed that Phallose would see our cars and race up the mountain to make the catch with ease. However, he says he was feeling the weight of the world, not to mention his gut, and was not as fast as usual. Nevertheless, who would have thought that, offered the chance between the left and the right, he would take the left—inconceivable! (Movie reference alert.)


The second victim was none other than Brahma Mamma. There is nothing like the flush of new love…it’s the same for the mountain as for any young lovers. When the two first connect, even the thought of someone else can beget irrational rage. Before you know it, someone lashes out— Call it topographic abuse. The Laurels could sense it, the betrayal to come. Soon Brahma would be cavorting with statuesque Italian beauties with names like Stelvio, Bormio, Ghisalla and Gavia. Poor Mud Pike, poor Wymp’s, how could they compete. It was inevitable really, that Wymp’s gap would hand out a little bitch slap on that last hairpin. Brahma found herself sliding on some pea gravel and off the apex. No real harm done though, just a scratch or two. Brahma took it in stride, nary a whimper. I think she and the mountain will make up just fine when she gets back from her fling. You could see the spark when they met and it’s sure those exotic peaks are no match for our homespun beauties.

Anyway, that brings us to the end of this rambling post. Good luck to Brahma, Birdman and Legs, who are representing the Grimpeurs at The Worlds in Mendrisio. They are authorized to act as patrons of the order and as such can confer battlefield ordinations in foreign theaters of operation as well as bestow appropriate noms de velo.

Addendum:
Al Gore's world wide interweb denied me timely access so the above piece is now old news. There was a brand new grimp yesterday. It was a hard one. Phallose and Lord MonkeyButt showed up for a romp through Preston county. It was hot and humid and the climbing never stopped. I don't know what kind of masochistic fool was leading that ride, but he deserves a stern reprimand from a tall and shapely German girl. The Fat Cat was trying to keep up with Phallose over the hill from the bike path to Greenbag and then over to the bottom of hill from Aaron's Creek to Summer School. MonkeyButt was off the back but would soon have his revenge. After 1 mile of climbing The Fat Cat was feeling light headed and had the cold sweats. By the time he got up to Nicholson Loop, far in arrears of all, He was literally screaming, DAMMIT, I FEEL LIKE SHIT. If nothing else, it was a serious workout. The group was able to muster a little collective pace once the calvalcade of climbs was all but over and Phallose and Fat Cat raced down Snake Hill. I big shout out goes to the bee that flew down Phalose's shirt. Kudos to MonkeyButt for climbing well.

The Fat Cat Graciously supplied some post ride recovery lager while his mother pushed home-made soup. I think everyone was feeling that ride, even Phallose- just a little bit.

To Grimp and Not to Grimp

Here is your delayed report for the Grimps since the last post. Two Thursdays ago we had a nice showing with a couple more new riders. Brahma Mamma brought along Sandbag’s wife Robin. Also in attendance was Jay, all the way from Greensburg. A month ago he was almost a Grimpeur but missed the official ride by a few minutes and had to ride around with Phallose. I actually would have paid money to see those two together, one pushing hard from the left and the other checking from the right. I’m surprised they both came out of the mountains alive. The group was rounded out by Lord MonkeyButt himself and me, The Flanders Fat Cat.

The ladies started up the mountain a couple a few ticks early while the guys fussed about with their bikes at the bottom. I wanted to go with them, but the new Goldfish/ no one left behind rule kept me behind. Damn those rules and their unintended consequences. The Fat Cat is unaccustomed to the role of ascent bridge man. Hanger on and dropper off are more the job description. Nonetheless, by the spring turn, the catch was made. MonkeyButt and Jay, who is hereby bestowed the name “Greenie” for both obvious and ironic reasons, took off ahead and I stayed back with the ladies. Hey, as King Grimpeur, The Fat Cat is obligated to evaluate the form of new supplicants to the order. I could have taken the summit—really, I swear.

According to Brahma Mamma, Robin doesn’t do much bicycling. She is mostly a runner and helps coach cross country. Usually that sort of stuff doesn’t really translate and these runners are broken to bits by the bike. However, Robin broke the mold and did just fine, never really looking in distress. I’m sure her razor thin build didn’t hurt on the hills. I swear to you, some day we are going to have a “weighted” ride. Every one of you lean machines is gonna hafta tote around 50 or 60 lb weights to match up with The Fat Cat. Where will you be the, huh! Probably still in front of me. Excuse me a minute while I wash this donut down. Ahem, ok, that’s better. Now, as to a name for Robin—Bhrama suggested “steady spaghetti” but I can’t spell spaghetti consistently( shoulda thoughta that before I chose Brahma) and it’s “basghetti down my way, anyway. I think I’ll go with “Runnin’ Razor” or “Razor” for short.

Once we got to the mountain top, we meandered over to Bruceton on Skyline Drive, took Hileman back over to Lake-o-the-Woods (were we sniggered as we passed Sandbag working on a patio) plunged down Wymps Gap and shot across 857 back to Haydentown. Thanks to all the new riders. Y’all come back now, ya hear.

Last Thursday The Birdman showed up. We had an epic ride—to Ruby and Ketchy’s restaurant in our automobiles. Seems Birdman forget his cycling shoes. Oh well, You know the new rule. I couldn’t leave him behind. It was best that I did my Clydesdale training, anyway. Gotta keep that weight up.

Grimpin’ Days Are Here Again

Late summer and early fall- these are indeed the best of times to be on a bicycle. The air is soft and sweet. The year has mellowed with age and the Sun looks on with smiling eyes, not yet weary with age. The days are no longer unpredictable youths, tempestuous one moment and benign the next, nor are the days yet chilly and indifferent with snaps of cold brutality. These are the days when the surging legs and the furnace in our core are at equilibrium with nature. The porridge is just right and we all feel unnaturally strong. The ride is not a fight, it is a dance. ( Can you tell I’ve been reading Somerset Maugham.)

And so it was on Thursday last. The Grimpeurs took off under cloudless skies. The temperatures were such that sweat need bead up only at the extremes of effort. Even then, a gentle breeze quelled any rising fires. The lot under the bell-tower in Haydentown was full of the area’s finest, eager to take on the mountains in perfect conditions. Boyscout was there, so were Legs and Birdman. Phallose the black-sheep was missed but he was otherwise engaged in internet battle. Good old Sandbag came down from atop Wymps Gap to join in the fun (and probably to steer us away from raiding his house for refreshment). Goldfish was in the lot, all 140 lbs of him, tending to some mechanical issues when the Fat Cat arrived. But, most importantly, a new member petitioned for acceptance into the order. Fran is well known in the local cycling circles for her good nature, her even style and her tenacity. As expected, she acquitted herself well and is dubbed, Brahma mamma. (Not to be confused with Bahama Mamma, whom I knew in college.)

Notice: The Charter of the grand and ancient Order of the Grimpeurs is hereby amended to include the following amendment. No Gimpeur shall be left at the mountains foot, no matter his fearsome skills.

Some of the Grimpeurs took advantage of Goldfish’s tire fiddling Thursday to get a head start. All the way up Mud Pike, The Fat Cat assured everyone that Goldfish was sure to come flying past at any moment and make the summit first, despite his late start. When events were not as foretold and after some time waiting at the top, the group decided to go back down and see what was the matter. It was just then that BoyScout, who had, of course, stayed behind with Goldfish, came huffing and puffing up the hill. It seems that the tire fiddling was not simply pumping up the old rubbers. A nasty hole was the culprit. Repeated attempts at a patch were to no avail and all the extra tubes were strapped below seats and heading up the mountain. Sadly, Goldfish was forced to go home and Boyscout was left to time trial himself dizzy to catch up. All apologies to you Goldie.

The Grimpeurs took Skyline North. Several times, when the pace got spirited, the host looked back to check on the newest Grimpeur. Seeing no sign of her, he rode up to the front to reign in the horses only to find Brahma mamma in amongst the frontrunners. She’s a sly one, she is. Legs had “the draft taken right out of his mouth” when his suggestion to stop at the Summit Inn was voted down. We had to think of the kids, after all. The Fat Cat hit a good 55 mph down the smooth and winding Jummonville descent. The rest were right behind. The group made good time down Hopwood-Fairchance road and made it back in plenty of time to pick up Kids from school. Legs even got that draft that had been so rudely taken from him in the highlands.
Thanks to all who showed for a little lunchtime fitness and fun. Legs, have fun cycling the Alps and watching Worlds. We’ll leave the light on for you.