TUESDAY GRIMPEUR

A Great Surprise

2012-01-23T11:15:00.000-05:00

And, the first Grimpeur of the Month for the new year is...(Fanfare should be sounding in your head.)...

We tried to let Fat Cat's triumph slip away unheralded but his fellow Grimpeurs would not allow it. A heartfelt thank you to Big Daddy Birdman for coming up with the trophy for this month; Well done!

Fat Cat may have won the month with neutral rides when he was off and superior equipment when he was on but his fellow Grimpeurs did not protest, at least not within earshot of the media. He greatly appreciates the opportunity to ride with some of the finest cyclists in West Virginia and to have a little friendly/ grandiosely delusional competition. It may not be the tour, but it just may be better.

Now on to official Grimpeur business. The imperious leader has deemed that there will be a winter and a summer season. Therefore, the current points series will end on the vernal equinox. Mark your calenders for Tuesday March 20th at 9:30. We will award the Grimpeur cup and thousands of spectators are anticipated. Negotiations with U2 as the event's entertainment are currently in progress. the only sticking point at present is whether or not Bono can wear the polka-dot jersey.

The Grand Imperial Pooh-Bah of Grimpeurs has noticed that The Grimpeurs are in need of a rest period. So, in order to have a spectacular end of the winter season flourish and a strong spring start, the next 2-4 weeks will consist of neutral "base mile" rides. So come on out and enjoy the winter finery without punishing yourself for 30 minutes in between. (Remember, even on "race"days punishing yourself is always optional.)

Polka-Dots in the Mist

2012-01-13T14:35:00.001-05:00

Four Grimpeurs made the Mud Pike double points ride in wet, misty conditions. Sandbag, Birdman and Diesel unloaded various incarnations of cross-bikes to tackle the testy mountain. Fat Cat, still recovering from a fun-loving little virus, pulled out all the stops (as one should) to defend the polka-dot jersey. He knew he couldn't match up in an even fight so he left the Colnago Cross on the roof and slipped his secret weapon out of the back seat. It was a desperate ploy, but Kean's time machine was the only hope.

The Cat upped the pace on the false flats and got a little separation. Alas, a Shimano man and SRAM shifters make for strange bedfellows. The r3 refused to disengage from the big ring. Despite the bike's insistence, the grades ahead precluded any big ring heroics from The Fat Cat. He stopped to fix the problem, allowing his fellow grimpeurs to catch up. Diesel passed and got a sizeble lead before The Cat got back in action. The other Grimpeurs stayed with the Cat until he got going.

Near the spring, Sandbag powered on past Diesel and up into the clouds. Soon after, Birdman caught up to Diesel and marked the season leader's pace. Fat Cat, despite skinny tires, was unhinged and dangling the red lantern. Through the doldrums, Birdman halfwheeled Diesel- just letting him know he was there and ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Fat Cat fought his usual urges to quit and kept a steady, threshold pace. Between the jersey on his back and the bike beneath him, he had little choice. There was only one point between he and Diesel for Grimpeur of the Month honors and Diesel was not in a giving mood. The gap between third and forth slowly closed by the time the Grimp hit the two thirds mark. Fat Cat finally fought his way back onto the tail. Thus, three Grimpeurs were all back together and Sandbag was still off in the mist.

As soon as the others were aware of polka-dots lurking, the Fat Cat knifed between them and crested first near the pull off. He plunged into the one and only short descent and up into the Three Bears with the others hot on his tail. At the top of Baby Bear, the battle for second glimpsed Sandbag through a break in the clouds. He was nearer than they thought but too far away to catch. Then, like a ghost he vanished back into the ether.

Coming into the final ass-kicker, Birdman accelerated to close the gap carved out by the polka-dot jersey. Fat Cat heard him coming and gave it all he had, which wasn't much more. Birdman edged up to the Cat's front wheel. During the last 20+ percent grade, The Fat Cat's chest was on the handlebars and he was abusing his bike. The combatants for second were even as the grade became humane. Fat Cat gasped out an offer and Big Daddy accepted a temporary truce. The two slowed and caught their breath before crossing the line. Birdman was feeling generous and did not contest Fat Cat's anemic surge to the finish. Diesel, the last winner on Mud Pike, brought up the Lantern with honor.

Congratulations to Kean's bikes. The Motobecane took first and the day's Jersey. The Cervelo pulled an overmatched rider into second and secured him the GC win for the month.

A big congratulations to Sandbag for his first turn in the Polka-dot Jersey. After consistent podium finishes he finally climbed the final step on the big stage of Mud Pike.

After the day's festivities, the Grimp continued on across Skyline in an envelope of white. The group fell off the east side of the ridge at rt 40 and down along Big Sandy on Wharton Furnace Road. Down and down they went and finally bottomed out at the base of Kirby Climb. Cranks turned slowly and at something less than race pace for the three miles or so of unrelenting grade back up to Skyline. From there it was a surprisingly comfortable plunge back down Mud Pike and into Haydentown.

In the overall Diesel continues his stranglehold on first although the rest of the day's Grimpeurs edged a little bit closer.
1) Diesel- 99
2) Fat Cat- 86
3) Birdman- 64
4) legs- 56
5) Boyscout- 47
6) Sandbag- 53
7)Mama- 45
8) Tallboy- 18
9) Fixie- 14
9) Trip- 14
11) Razor- 9
12) Highlander- 6
13 Knickers- 5
13) Chunks- 5

The Sick and the Silly

2012-01-05T17:16:00.002-05:00

Three Grimpeurs made it out of this morning. Fatcat was feeling under the weather but showed up anyway with his bike on top of his car in case anyone else was silly enough to make it out in the cold and snow. Of course, Birdman and Diesel rolled on in. Fatcat took himself and his sickness out of the decision-making and handed the gavel over to his fellow grimpeurs. Always merciful, they decided on a neutral ride.

The ride went up Snake Hill with a finish line in Masontown. Maybe there were some second thoughts on the podium. After a little bit of Benny Hill fighting, they divided up the points evenly, three each . After the silliness on top of the hill, the three decided to take the rail trail down and avoid any frost bite.

Don't forget, next week is the big Mud Pike double points Grimp.

The "I Can't Make It" Grimp.

2011-12-29T12:46:00.000-05:00

Diesel said he might not make it to the last Grimp of the year. So did Birdman. Fat Cat said several times, in writing, that he could not get out. Yet somehow, the thrill of the hill was too much for them to resist.

A tiny window opened up for Flanders just at departure time. He scrambled onto the still decorated blue Cervelo and called, "I'm coming!" through the ethereal bands. The other Grimpeurs left The Botanical Gardens and met him at Snake Hill. So, there they were in the icy cold at the bottom of The Snake: The current Grimpeur of the Month, the prior Grimpeur of the month...and Fat Cat.

The "race" was to Mayfield again. The pace up to the Wildlife Management sign was laid back. Heavy breathing and grunts were replaced with full sentences. Birdman and Fat Cat rode side by side with Diesel lurking on the wheels. The Fat Cat soft pedaled when the pace upped a bit. Birdman matched him while Diesel was kept in his box. All through the course, opportunities to make a break, to dole out some pain, were let pass. Who would jump first?

Finally, on the last rise, with the finish in sight, Diesel could take it no longer. He shot out from behind and the others took up the chase for an all out uphill sprint. The tiny pelton rotated and somehow The Fat Cat got boxed in behind Diesel on the right who was fighting it out with Birdman. Not being able to push through the right side due to ice, The Fat Cat had to go back around to the left. Diesel was punishing his bike but it looked like Birdman might make it. Fat Cat desperately wanted to quit and watch, like always, but he let the pain flow.

Birdman sat up 20 or 30 yards before the finish. He would later say that he was content to cross together and that he just didn't want to hurt that bad this time of year. All noble and intelligent thoughts.

Fat Cat and Diesel knew nothing of nobility nor intelligence. They had become mindless brutes. Diesel was giving no quarter and had the line in his sights. Fat Cat issued sad and painful whines with each stroke. Miraculously, he slowly drew alongside Diesel ( I use slowly as a relative term. It seemed like an eternity down there in the pain cave but mere seconds actually passed.) At the line ( which is always amorphous and in dispute) it was a photo finish. Although arguable, the judges had the Fat Cat of Flanders back in pokka-dots by the width of a tire.

As a consolation prize, the runner up felt "pretty good" in the post race while Flanders was unable to lift his leg to dismount. His head throbbed on the handle bars and he breathed ominously. He finally got to the ground and lay in the snow, writhed about a bit, and then eventually made a snow angel to comfort the onlookers. (Lest you think this all hyperbole, Birdman later called Fat Cat at home to make sure he was okay.)

Back at the bottom of the hill, Fat Cat, cold, tired and with things to do, took his three points plus one for the weather and went home. Diesel and Birdman rode over and knocked off the Beulah climb before they made their own ways home.

Here are the overall standings. The Jingle Grimp participants last week all got winners points which were five. Diesel still holds a commanding 17 point lead, but it has been ever so slightly chipped away the last couple of weeks. Legs is still only 4 points off the podium and still in it if only he could overcome his aversion to the cold. Mama has steadily moved up and is only 2 points away from former jersey holder, Boyscout.
1) Diesel- 97
2) Fat Cat- 80
3) Birdman- 60
4) legs- 56
5) Boyscout- 47
6) Mama- 45
7) Sandbag- 45
8) Tallboy- 18
9) Fixie- 14
9) Trip- 14
11) Razor- 9
12) Highlander- 6
13 Knickers- 5
13) Chunks- 5

Happy New Year from The Grimp and happy riding in 2012!

Jingle Grimp

2011-12-24T10:38:00.000-05:00

T'Was the grimp before Christmas and all through the hills, Grimpeurs were riding -getting their thrills.

The bikes were all decorated and spun with great care, in hopes that King of the Mountain would soon be theirs.

The Grimpeurs were all nestled snug in Gortex , visions of toe warmers were better than sex.

And Mamma took second with Trip in at third, Jack took the jersey as the crowd gasped," my word."

Birdman won the month, on a cross bike that clattered. One tiny point was the crux of the matter.

Just like Steve Jobs and flash, Blogspot and Grimp videos-they always crash. But an end-around through Youtube fixed up the clash.
So there it is, the holiday champions were celebrated with pride. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good ride!

It IS about the bike

2011-12-15T20:51:00.000-05:00

No offense to Lance, but he don't know squat. Five Grimpeurs made it out in the wind and rain Thursday. It was a day for bike changes. Mama showed up at The Botanical Gardens on her man's red Cannondale. Fat Cat blew in on Kean's time machine.

Fatty didn't intend to ride the lightning. This was a machine unaccustomed to losing. The stalwart blue soloist was the rain bike of choice. However, 10:00 snuck up and the soloist's chain hung broken from her cogs. Apparently, a quick link is anything but in the wrong hands. The R3 screamed "Pick me!" while the Colnago cross lay in the corner, fat and unenthusiastic.

Well, there must have been some magic in that carbon bike he found. For when he placed it on the hill it began to dance around. The R3 launched up Snake Hill and never looked back. wheezing and grunts could be heard from behind but only clear road was ahead.

Of course, Fat Cat was sure he would be swallowed up by the chase. Kean's bike would have none of it. They crested the usual finish in the lead with Big Daddy a few lengths behind. Fat Cat raised his hands, happy having won the first battle in the war for Mayfield and the new finish line. The R3 had just begun.

The next climb came. The Cat remembered Kean's advice to rip it off like a band-aid and hit it in the big ring. The bike reverberated with the echos of past glories and jumped ahead. The Cat's legs caught fire and his finger twitched on the down shifter. The digit was stayed by a voice from the past, "Stay in the big ring!"

The pace left an over-dressed Diesel over heated and cooked. Big Daddy Birdman gave it all he had but his cross bike was no match for the sublime power of the Kean's time machine. The Flanders Fat Cat reached the Mayfield finish line and a first time in the polka-dots 31 seconds ahead of Birdman. Diesel crossed the line a minute thirty after that. In another surprise, Razor took the women's division. Mama brought up the lantern with pride.

The overall shakes out like this:

1) Diesel- 89
2) Fat Cat- 71
3) Birdman- 58
4) Legs- 56
5) Boyscout- 47
6) Sandbag- 45
7)Mama- 40
8) Tallboy- 18
9) Razor- 9
9) Fixie- 9
9) Trip- 9
12) Highlander- 6
13) Knickers- 5
13) Chunks- 5

Afterwards all ambled about together and made their way around to the Zion climb. From there it was back down the Snake and back to the Gardens.

Thanks to all that came out in the rain and had some fun. A big thanks to my lovely wife who actually encouraged me to get out and ride Thursday. What a woman. And don't forget kiddies, magic does happen at Christmas time. Thanks Kean.

That's what I'm talkin' 'bout.

2011-12-09T08:12:00.001-05:00

It no longer comes as a surprise to find 7 riders waiting in sub freezing temperatures and several inches of snow to ride up into colder, snowier weather. It's just the way of the grimpeur.

One of the more interesting aspects of this sort of adventure is equipment choice. The roads are clear in the lowlands but what about the mountains? Four riders chose slower but gripier cross bikes, One chose an older road bike with as big tires as could fit and two chose light bikes with fancy paint-jobs and skinny tires. What kind of clothes would be the best to balance cold protection and overheating avoidance? The choices ranged from knickers to long, heavy, black jackets.

The initial pace on the false flats of Mud Pike was benign. As the pavement rose up, so did the pace. Gradual gaps began to form all along the frosty slopes. By the three quarter mark, first and fourth were essentially decided. Diesel steadily powered off the front to take a convincing win. Fat Cat said he wasn't feeling it and kept drifting into daydreams. Far from throwing up at the line, he puttered across having broken the Grimpeur code and seeing no chasers. Legs missed a golden opportunity to gain a point or two. Instead he loosed his grip on second in the overall, now trailing by nine. His grip on third is tenuous at best with Big Daddy Birdman only one point down.

Sandbag had a fair gap on Birdman early but the always-game Big Daddy made a strong move and was able to close. Knobby cross tires carved tell-tale gashes across the icy spine of Papa Bear's back. The podium combatants really dug into the pedals. At the finish, Sandbag had pulled away for second and Birdman followed for third. All of the top finishers rode cross bikes.

Brahma Mama came across in fifth and well ahead of her chasers. She rode a Lemond with the biggest tires that would fit. She had been chasing Fat Cat for a while but also lost concentration and drifted into snowy daydreams.

Congratulations to "Knickers" on his grimping debut. He picked a great day to really experience what The Grimp is all about. Unfortunately, he choose wrong with the light bike and the skinny tires.

You'll learn, young Jedi. You'll learn.

Highlander brought up the red lantern. He had it tucked in some sort of longshoreman's North Sea jacket. He made sure to dismount his summer-time stead so as not to damage the lantern rouge in a fall. It surely had nothing to do with fatigue or severe overheating.(A video is supposed to be here but it has been uploading forever. Videos are problematic in this corner of cyberspace.)

As usual, Mud Pike day was moving day in the overall. Double points were awarded plus one for the snow.
1) Diesel- 86
2) The Fat Cat of Flanders- 65
3) Legs- 56
4) Birdman- 54
5) Boyscout-47
6) Sandbag- 45
7) Mama- 39
8) Tallboy- 18
9) Fixie- 9
9) Trip- 9
11) Razor- 7
12) Highlander- 6
13) Knickers- 5
13) Chunks- 5

After all due pomp and circumstance, some riders continued across the ridge on Skyline drive. The route was free and clear of hazardous conditions. They enjoyed a brakeless descent down a sparkling clean RT 40 and then came back to the beginning via Fairchance Road and 857. The rest chose to get back to the comfort of their cars asap by going back down Mud Pike. We are still awaiting reports but we trust they were able to slip and slide back down safely.

Thanks to all the stout hearted souls who braved the elements for a real taste of the Grimp. See you all next week back in West Virginia.

Victors and Vanquished

2011-12-02T07:21:00.001-05:00

The victors,

and the vanquished.

The first thing you notice in these photos is that there is none of the normal raised hands or other exuberant expressions. There was no energy left for that. This stuff was hard.

Well, maybe not for Diesel. The ride featured a return of his super light carbon fiber pal from a broken derailleur. He looked in control the whole race and was spry for the after-ride. Still, he finished just 30 seconds ahead of the second place finisher, the amazing Birdman. But, we are getting ahead of ourselves.

Seven Grimpeurs took off from The Botanical Gardens. A Snake Hill route had been planned but events interceded. Fixie forgot his helmet and had to go all the way back to Morgantown to retrieve it. Fat Cat, being the ever benevolent dictator, decreed that the Grimpeurs would meet their number 8 at the DMV. Birdman proposed an alternate race course. It turned out to be a real killer. Never trust Big Daddy.

The group kept a brisk pace up the rail trail towards Little Falls to try and ward off the cold. By the time they got to the start, everyone was warmed up and ready to run. The group stayed together up the steepest parts of little falls and across the varied grades of the rest of the road. The pace was high. Riders took probing forays to the front but none could break away.

A quick jog to the left on 73 took the competition to Goshen Road, about 2 miles from the start. That was where the fireworks started. Through most of the nasty grade of Goshen climb one, the leaders stayed together. But, near the top, Legs, and then Fat Cat became unhooked.

No worries, thought the Fat Cat, he would catch them down the other side. After-all, that is the advantage of being fat, downhill momentum. The three leaders went balls out down the hill. Fat Cat went into full tuck, his crotch on the top tube and under the seat. Unfamiliarity with the route took its first bit of flesh. The Cat got going too fast and a curve jumped up. He tried to hop back into the seat. A jacket he had tied around his waist hooked on the nose of his Sella Italia. He was left to take the corner riding the top tube and scrubing speed. He wobbled through but made it, just a little shaken. Unfortunately, he didn't make time on the leaders.

The next climb was steeper than the last. All went at it hard and status quo held. It leveled off a bit and the three leaders were still in sight but had gained a bit. The Fat Cat, looked back and did not see a chaser. Believing he must be near the end and suffering badly, he decided to accept an easy fourth place. I know, I know- let your jeers rain down. But, he thought the race was too near its end to warrant any more pain or for anyone to catch him. He was wrong.

The road turned up the volume again. Soon enough, there was Legs, impossibly, latching onto The Cat's tail. Fat Cat turned up the revolutions, thinking they were near the end, and got a nice gap right off. But the hill kept hitting.

Seeing all that uphill road around the corner with no end in sight touched off The Cat's first surrender. He literally turned around and went down hill until Legs caught up. Legs kept going with no regard for his comrade's acute distress.

The Cat was pissed at himself and motored back up to Legs. Legs was stone faced. The Cat feigned running him off the road and pushed him in a guise of playfulness. Surely Legs would take the chance at an amicable amble to the finish. He would not pass up the chance to turn down the legs and turn up the gab. Despite the desperate ploy, Legs remained masked in determination. The Cat quit again.

Legs rode on ahead leaving the Cat and his side stitches behind. The Cat swore at himself. Several times, what looked like the end of the race came and went with Legs gaining and the Cat giving in to the fact that he couldn't catch Legs before each demoralizing faux finish.

Not far ahead of the battle for fourth, Big Daddy Birdman was on the razor's edge and couldn't repeat his finishing flourish of last week where he pipped Sandbag for the victory. Diesel powered across the finish 30 seconds ahead of Birdman, who said it was the hardest ride this season. Sandbag, couldn't close the gap but did fend off his pursuers for the final podium spot.

Legs looked back and saw no sign of The Fat One. He struggled towards the finish, having given the full measure and having fended off The Cat's challenge to his overall standing. He felt an exhausted euphoria just yards from the cheering fans on the summit.

The Fat Cat rounded the corner. The true finish came into view 100 yards uphill. Legs was a good 50 or 60 yards ahead of The Cat. The Fat Cat had already lost to Legs what seemed like 100 times at each side road and false summit that pretended to be the finish over the past 2 miles. The urge to quit welled up again. He remembered an article he read in Bicycling Magazine just the night before. "If you don't sprint, you can't win." it said. A 100 yard sprint uphill, inconceivable!

Legs heard the crowd yelling in excitement, he thought it was a joke- He had left The Foul Cat far behind. That small part of The Cat's brain that still received oxygen wanted them to shut up, lest they alert Legs of the sneak attack. The finish came up fast and it was The Flanders Fat Cat by a wheel! He promptly fell over into the grass and watched the sky spin and wobble about above him while his friends took pictures of his distress.

Brahma Mama crossed a very strong sixth, not far behind the melee for fourth. She was so strong that she later took on Breakiron all alone, because no one else had it left to join her. Razor finished seventh and good ole fixie brought in the lantern.

In the overall standings Diesel consolidated his lead by gaining 3 points on his nearest competitor for a 15 point stranglehold on first. Fat Cat clawed into a tie with Legs for second. Boyscout remained in fourth despite his absence but Birdman moved right behind him. Time to get back in the race, Boyscout. Fixie continues to move up the overall through fortitude and stick-to-it-ivness. The entire standings are as follows:

1) Diesel-71

2) Fat Cat-56

2) Legs-56

4) Boyscout-47

5) Birdman-43

6) Brahma Mama-32

6) Sandbag-32

8) Tallboy-18

9) Fixie-9

9) Trip-9

11) Razor-7

12) Chunks-5

13) Highlander-3

The rest of the ride limped through the countryside, up and down Cobun road, down Aaron's creek, up Aaron's creek, down Summer School and Poole Hill and down to Beulah. Mama couldn't entice anyone up Breakiron (because it was crazy) so she went up alone. The balance of the Grimpeurs spun up Tyrone and back to the gardens.

Don't forget, next week is the big Mud Pike double points extravaganza!

The Edge of the Storm

2011-11-29T21:40:00.001-05:00

Bull fighting!

Unidiscovered country right in my own backyard.

Blue skies on Sturgis church road.

Two paths in the woods diverge and I took the one without the arrow.

I caught myself laughing out loud in the middle of the first stream and thought myself silly. Plowing though the second, giggles bubbled up again. I made the right choice and opened up a new route from Bull Run to Snake Hill- Mt. Run Road.

All these new roads found, never more than eight miles from home. Sometimes when you drag yourself out in the rain, you get your reward.

One Helluva Fight

2011-11-18T08:05:00.001-05:00

When you combine this sort of neanderthal training with-

This kind of punishingly beautiful terrain-

You get-

This kind of stunning result:

In a truly inspiring ride, Birdman sprang up from mediocrity and grabbed the polka-dot jersey that he had lost oh-so-long ago. But, before we get into the specifics of his daring deeds, there is important Grimpeur business to attend to.

With great pomp and circumstance, the Grimpeur of the month was awarded to, drum-roll please, Diesel! He racked up the most points in this first month of the Grimping season and has proven himself worthy of this prestigious award. And now-

GET REEEEAAAADY to RUUUUMBLE!

At the foot of the day's penultimate climb, eight Grimpeurs stripped off layers of shielding against the cold in anticipation of the inner furnaces they were about to ignite. Their breath hung in white clouds. Once again, the Grimpeur's course had been newly paved as though they were in some grand tour.

Skinny tires seemed to roll almost effortlessly up the smooth black slab beneath them. The pace jumped up from the get-go. Fat Cat played the role of rabbit, trying to make a little headway on the lesser grades before Beulah proper.

Legs marked the move and smartly tucked into the draft. He had learned the lessons of the past. He was inside Fat Cat's head.

As the road rose up, Sandbag and diesel powered past, as expected. In an unexpected turn, Birdman was with the other two. Not to worry, He had not been on form lately. He would be caught and dropped.

Legs tried to use weight and gravity to his advantage, He launched past Fat Cat only to drop his chain. Fat Cat pedaled by. Legs clawed back up, his steamy breath rolling across Fat Cat's back. Clank. Legs dropped the chain again and saw The Cat ride on while he fumbled in the cold. But, again, legs bravely scratched his way back onto the Cat's wheel by the top of Beulah.

As the course turned onto Summer School road, continuing its relentless rise. Sandbag led the way with Diesel, Birdman, Fat Cat and Legs all tight behind. That was the hierarchy up most of the tough inclines. The gaps spread a bit, but none got out of site.

Legs was the first to pop off the back of the lead group. The mechanicals sapped too much energy and were his eventual undoing. The Fat Cat Kept his eye on Birdman but the gap would not close. Then, the shocker. Birdman jumped and passed the yellow jersey, Diesel, who could not respond. The Cat was taken by surprise, never suspecting such a shot across the polka dots bow. It had never occurred to him that they would pass Diesel. However, watching Birdman fly away, he had to try. The Cat's bike creaked and groaned under the strain. He was sure the cacophony would wake the slumbering beast. The Cat slipped briefly into Diesel's slip stream and then it happened. The Cat slung out of the draft and made his own pass of the polka-dot and yellow jersey holder.

Just ahead, less than a 1/2 mile from the finish, Birdman's world was a contracting blur. Oxygen debt consumed him, toying with his consciousness. Despite his body's protestations and warnings, he flung himself into the breach once more and passed Sandbag. There he was, after 4.5 miles of climbing, with nothing but clear road between him and the finish line.

Mere yards behind, The Fat Cat was still too far behind to make a run when he saw the finishing flag. As a knight of the order of the Grimpeurs, he is sworn to never look back. So, thinking Diesel and Legs were right on his tail, he made his own maddened sprint. He crossed the line third and had just enough time to throw up (again) before Diesel finished. Legs Came across in fifth, spent from his valiant efforts in the face of mechanical adversity. Soon after Brahma Mama surged across the line just ahead of Trip and Jack.

Thursday's race was the most hotly contested of the year and perhaps the most well ridden. Kudos to all who came out in the cold and really gave it their all. Congratulations to Birdman on his secret deep mountain training and his leap back to glory. Congratulations to Diesel for his "Grimpeur of the month" caliber riding.

In the overall, Boyscout fell in the rankings like Tiger woods. Diesel held the yellow but gave up some of his point lead. Legs limited his losses and held onto second by a slim margin over Fat Cat who regained the points he lost to Legs on Mud Pike. Fat Cat jumped into third and onto the overall podium. The rest of the Overall Standings (including +1 for the cold) are as follows:

1) Diesel- 63

2) Legs- 52

3) Fat Cat- 51

4)Boyscout- 47

5) Birdman- 36

6) Mama- 29

7) Sandbag- 26

8) Tallboy- 18

9) Trip- 9

10) Fixie- 8

11) Razor- 5

12) Chunks- 5

13) Highlander- 3

The rest of the ride featured Reedsville, a flat tire, a very cold stretch of road, Masontown and a race down Snake Hill.

Thanks to everyone for coming out. It was one of the best rides yet. See you in two weeks and Happy Thanksgiving.

Go Till You Blow

2011-11-10T21:16:00.001-05:00

Seven Grimpeurs were blessed to find Mud Pike a smooth black and yellow ribbon dangling from the pale blue-grey sky. Right off the bat, The Fat Cat tried to take advantage of the fresh tarmac. The other Grimpeurs would have none of it. They were on to his psychological games. If one was to win this edition, it would be on strength, not trickery.

It was pretty much all together on Scylla (The first steep section) when Kevin, a past Grimpeur who somehow escaped naming, made the first move. He got a small gap. The leaders responded and the move was covered in short order. It was a valiant effort from a man headed up unfamiliar roads. We pray he doesn't make such missteps as he made on The Pike this day.

Shooting through the jowls of Scylla and on through Charybdis' slopes, Diesel made his own move. This one had legs. The Cat and Talks-With-Legs followed as best they could. Through the Doldrums, Legs and Fat Cat took the measure of each other until Legs was finally able to make some headway. It is well known to Legs that Fatty hates the doldrums. Legs was able to get about 75 yards on the Cat before the gap settled.

From then on the leaders were locked in painful, lonely bubbles- only the distant backsides of thier competitors to keep them company. Fat Cat cycled through gears and positions, looking for any ounce of extra power to close the gap to first and second. The distance to Legs shortened in agonizingly slow increments. He was not about to surrender his one point lead over The Cat. The Cat pounded the peddles up Baby Bear and Mama Bear but so did legs and Diesel. Diesel crested Papa Bear too far ahead of the other Grimpeurs for any challenge for the top spot. With Boyscout in absentia, Diesel knew the jersey was his for the taking and he would not be denied.

Back on Papa Bear, Legs still had a good 25 yards on Fat Cat. Old Fatty knew he had waited too long to make a move but, really, there on the leg breaking grades of Papa Bear was his only window. He stood up and throttled his groaning bike for all it was worth. Four lengths were all that separated him from second right before he popped like an old inner tube. The Cervelo lathered up and nearly came to a stop. As Legs rode off, the Fat Cat tried to squeeze of one last impotent attack but only vomited in his mouth. No excuses-he had nothing left to give.

The Fat Cat passed Kean's Tree at 31:30. Legs put in a fantastic effort to cross 30 seconds faster. Diesel was about a minute quicker than that for a glorious solo victory in the fine white snow and a week in polka-dots.

Birdman came through in fourth. After a bit, Brahma Mama powered across the line, a big smile on her face. Kevin took the sixth spot after vomiting three times on the fine new pavement. Thus he will now and forever be known as "Chunks". The lantern rouge was brought up by Highlander, who came down from his high Herring Loop cabin to do battle on Mud Pike's Famed slopes.

At the Summit, Brahma Mama carried out the charge of "honoring the living" with a poem for Legs.

"A Poem for Tim

A man was proud to be a non-believer

Logic ruled his mind, not superstition

Yet he lived as Jesus would wish

(If Jesus really was who they say he was)

Showing kindness to a girl stranded at the bus stop

Taking Chinese visitors to meet Albert Einstein

Rescuing a kitten from a one-handed cyclist

Sewing up a friend’s wounds

Talking, problem solving, inspiring strangers

And always: making friends laugh

Nearly every day this man gave generously of that thingcalled love

Even though he would rather call it something else

Humanity? Kindness? Giving?

This man found generosity to be a way of life

And I get to honor him while he’s living

For this man is very, very much alive "

After the battle had been waged and the accolades paid, the Grimpeurs were allied once again in shepherding a helmetless Legs down the mountain (He left it at home but was undeterred). The group sauntered about in the lowlands for a bit, had a bit of libation, and then each headed on about the day's business.

The double points- plus one for the snow- shook up the overall standings. Diesel swooped in and swept up the Grimpeur of the month honors as well as the overall lead. Legs tied Boyscout for second and fended off Fat Cat's podium challenge. There was also a change in the standings due to an error that was honorably pointed out by Trip. The updated standings are as follows.
1. Diesel- 57
2. Legs-47
2. Boyscout- 47
4. Fat Cat- 44
5. Birdman- 27
6. Mama- 25
7. Sandbag- 18
7. Tallboy- 18
9. Fixie- 6
9. Trip-6
11. Razor- 5
11. Chunks- 5
13. Highlander- 3

It's back to the friendly climbs of West Virginia next week. Don't forget to clear your calenders for the second Thursday of December.

No Press!

Here's your interview!

Seeing Spots

2011-11-04T14:28:00.000-04:00

As you can see, this post doesn't start with the now traditional podium shot. Oh, it will be unveiled, trust me. It's just that it is so unnatural, unnerving, even shocking, that leading with it may well cause your mind to seize up, leaving you to be found drooling under your desk by your flabbergasted co-workers. All you thought you knew will soon be turned on its head. The only humane thing to do is to massage the reader's brains a bit and ease them into it.

Nine riders made the start yesterday. From the onset they were champing at the bit and clamoring to flog themselves on two climbs like last week. What a monster we have created. It was decided to have one climb at the onset and one in the end to test the mettle of The Grimpeurs. The peleton started the first race at the bottom of Snake Hill. The pressure of the upcoming fight was such the unafflicted wrested banned substances from the needy and desperately sucked them into their lungs.

As usual, Fat Cat (sans le dopage)started off fast in vain hopes of making a show of it. He swore at the pois a rouges who marked the move and later rode The Cat off his draft. A little further on, Diesel made a move to try and catch the jersey he covets so badly. As the Fat Cat saw first and second decided ahead of him, he chanced to look back. There was no need to think of a surge. He was unchallenged and could drift across the line and onto the podium! Do not scoff you non-believers. There is a Santa Claus, Bigfoot is real and The Flanders Fat Cat did make it onto the podium. A shout out goes out to Sandbag without whose absence this moment would have never been possible.

Tallboy, who had been travelling and off-bike for two weeks, took the forth spot. Legs, despite his nefarious actions lost a couple of points to his arch nemesis and came in fifth. Brahma Mama tore up the femme division and finished sixth overall. The fans rose to their feet for the gallant battle for seventh place. It was a photo finish. Being that there is no camera, the nod is given to... Razor, who put in a mighty acceleration to try and beat Trip. Fixie brought a knife to a gunfight again and hauled the lantern rouge up on his cross-bike.

After the ceremonies, everybody regrouped for the Herring Loop. The idea was to get the competitors a little more tired for the second run up a hairy climb way back in the Hatfield's back yard called Mt. Zion. All along the loop The Fat Cat coughed and hacked up pieces of his broken lung, seemingly being made to pay a price for his hubris. He was further punished with a flat tire and a dropped water bottle. By the time the Grimpeurs reached the bottom, The Fat Cat was begging for the order to rescind its decree of a second race. The mob would not acquiesce.

The Cat's legs were nothing more than ground meat held together in a pastry bag. Any form that he may have had was left steaming in the ditch. His upper body bobbed up and down in a violent effort to compensate for quads laced in barbed-wire as the regular suspects made their moves.

Boyscout tantalizingly waved the polka-dot jersey in front of Diesel only to yank it away like a matador. Further down the hill, Tallboy made his own move, spinning past Fat Cat heading into the steepest part of the climb. He got about seven bike-lengths before the gap settled. The Fat Cat desperately wanted to sit up. All he had to do to relieve his suffering was stop turning the pedals and be engulfed by his pursuers. Legs cried out from behind that he was coming. The Cat pushed a sliver more and inched up on Tallboy. Near the top, The Cat had cut the gap to five lengths but was hurting badly. He had reached the stage of bargaining. The grade rose such that his front tire lifted when he mashed his ham-foot into the poor pedals. He promised that he'd make an attack if he could hold the gap to the rusted dumpster at the final bend. He secretly prayed that he couldn't.

The dumpster came and the gap held. The Fat Cat rose from his saddle and staggered forth. He squeezed past Tallboy and clawed onto the podium (helped in no small part by the fact that Tallboy did not know the exact location of the finish). Legs came in yammering at The Cats near lifeless form about the location of the finish. The rest is very hazy. We think the remaining finishing order was leg strong Brahma Mama, Trip and Razor. We now Jack was the red lantern because he flatted out and gave us the luxury of lying in the open field, throbbing in the sun.

After the finish it was a simple matter of badgering Legs into descending Snake Hill without braking, which he managed divinely.

The points standings are as such:
1. Boyscout 47 (catch me if you can)
2. Diesel 42 (I think I can-I think I can)
3. Legs 34 (Stay back, you rabble!.)
4. Fat Cat 33 (From hell's heart, I stab at thee!)
5. Brahma Mama 18 (Girls Rule!)
5. Tallboy 18 (What was that yellow blur?)
5. Sandbag 18 (Where are the pants in this house?)
5. Birdman 18 (I'm waiting for the snow.)
9. Trip 7 (Get off my inhaler, dude.)
10. Razor 5 (I wear the pants!)
11. Fixie 5 (Big tires aren't supposed to flat.)

Jerseys and a Smidgen of Cross

2011-10-31T12:30:00.000-04:00

Here are the Jerseys. Email or call me with your size. Also, last chance to voice any dissatisfaction or suggestions.

"Team" jersey

points leader

Daily winner

These fellows were a little too literal with the word "cross"

2fer

2011-10-28T10:04:00.001-04:00

The weather was just above 50 degrees. It had been raining all night as well as the day before. The rain persisted through The Grimp start time. It was a day to gather up one or two points while everyone else gathered by the hearth and sipped Jamaican blend. At least that was what one would expect. But, the revamped Grimpeurs were hungry to climb hills as fast as their legs could push them, weather be damned. Eight riders saddled up and headed out onto the wet West Virginia Roads.

At the onset, it was decided that the ride would stay relatively close to home. A planned start from the shores of Cheat Lake got the kibash when Boyscout lived up to his moniker, scouting out a passage to the closed bridge. The Grimpeurs decided to make the crossing and tackle Quarry Run.

(Occupy The Bridge 2011)
The pace was high up Quarry Run from the outset when boyscout took a flyer. He thought he had distanced the group. But, when he swerved across the road to survey the damage, he ran right into Fat Cat. The race was on. The hills echoed with labored breathing and painful grunting. Nary a word could be fitted between gasps. It was something to see, the way all Gripeurs had quickly progressed this season and were really fighting it out. The race stayed tight throughout, riders passing each other only to be hit with a counter punch. At the top Boyscout ( on a cross bike) won by a slim margin. Sandbag came off the bench and turned in a solid second place. Cross-eye rouded out the podium. Legs finished just ahead of Fat Cat with Birdman, Brahma Mama and Fixie coming in after. There at the top of the hill, steam still rising though helmets and into the golden foliage, the Grimpeurs decided that they had so much fun, they'd do it again.

This time The Grimpeurs took on the originally planned course. They crossed the Ices Ferry bridge and raced up the river hill. The Fat Cat broke away this time, knowing that there was a downhill back to the lake on Rockley Road. The descent of Rockley was unfamiliar and strewn with storm debris-- nothing to do but let loose and pray. At the bottom Fat Cat still held the lead but heard the war whoops behind him.

Halfway through the Rockley climb, Boyscout, Sandbag, Cross-eye, and Fat Cat were tightly bunched. The wet road pitched up such that skinny tires started slipping and bikes became disobedient. Cross-eye slid sideways, but kept his balance. Fat Cat had to go foot down so as not to T-bone Cross-eye. The Cat was left waving goodbye to a shot at the podium as he tried to get started again. The whole affair was reviewed by the judges and ruled unintentional- no foul.

Cross-eye took the win at the top of Rockley and, by virtue of his win, got his wish to change his nicknname. He is now called "Diesel". Sandbag put in another gritty performance and finished second again. Boyscout could only muster the will for third, his polka-dot jesey already re-won on Quarry Run. Fat Cat's legs and lungs begged for quarter and it was nearly given until he glanced back and saw Birdman (who he thought was Legs). He opened up that hurt locker and found a little something under that old cyclocross jersey. After Fat Cat and Birdman crossed the line, Brahma Mama pulled off a stunning upset over the former holder of the overall points lead, Legs. Fixie proudly hauled up the Lanthern Rouge.

There was quite a shake-up in the overall standings:
1. Boyscout (I want all the jerseys)- 29
2. Diesel (The artist formerly known as Cross-eye.)- 26
3. Legs (I don't like downhills) -24
4. Fat Cat (I'm the law in these parts)- 19
5. Birdman (Why is that fat guy ahead of me!)-18
5. Sandbag (Wait till I fix this tire.)- 18
7. Fran (Tete de la femmes)- 10
8. Tallboy (MIA)- 6
9. Fixie (I'll kick butt next time without this damn red latern to lug around!)- 3
10. Trip (I might melt.)- 2

Don't forget to mark your calenders for the Mud Pike double points race on Thursday November 10th.

TUESDAY TRAINING

2011-10-26T11:35:00.001-04:00

Breakiron Breakout

2011-10-21T13:25:00.001-04:00

Bad weather can't keep a good Grimpeur down. The Temperatures dropped into the 40's with a cold wind and wet roads (but little rain) for the race up Breakiron's dastardly slopes. Despite this, six riders made the start including one who is notoriously weather averse. Legs, drawn by the siren call of series points, not only broke character- he busted out carbon fiber and skinny tires. Methinks he is serious. Watch your backs, kids.

The Fat Cat expected little of himself, harping on about how the hill's profile really didn't fit him; Traditional excuse tendered. Surprisingly, the race didn't split apart as much as would be usual on a climb with 20% grades. After the worst of it, The Fat Cat found himself within eye-shot of the leaders.

Shocked, he coached himself to stay at, but not cross, the line. He focused on Big Daddy, fooling himself that he might catch him. And then it happened! Fat Cat finally caught Big Daddy Birdman on a climb. Birdman said he just didn't have it that day? Fat Cat, capable of speaking in sentences even, said, "Well get it, man!" and upped the pace a smidge. In another first, he rode away from Birdman. We'll give Fat Cat this short gloating window, he may never get it again.

In the end, Boyscout pulled away to extend his reign in polka-dots. Talks-With-Legs pulled off a stunning upset, cresting ahead of Cross-Eye to take second. He also secured another week as the overall points leader. Looks like the yellow jersey(figurative for now) has given him wings. Fat Cat just missed the podium with a very self-satisfying fourth place. Birdman was next with Brahma Mama carrying up the coveted red latern.

Now rememder, the Grimp is not all about who can turn the pedals the fastest. Its also about endurance and perseverence...embracing suffering. As such all the participants were awarded 1 extra point for braving the elements(Very Hogwatian,eh? 50 points-Gryffindor!). This will be the norm with conditions below fifty with rain, any days with snow, severe cold or any other weather requiring a stout heart and a weak mind.

After the hill climb was over, the Grimpeurs headed down Summer School and Aarons creek into town and then back to Cheat lake via Dug Hill etc. for an early finish.

The overall standings are as follows:
(1) Talks-With-Legs, 17pts
(2) Boyscout, 15 pts
(3) Cross-eye, 12 pts
(4) Birdman, 11pts
(5) Fat Cat, 10 pts
(6) Tallboy, 6 pts
(7) Brahma Mama 5 pts
(8) Sandbag 4pts
(9) Trip 2 pts
(10) Fixie 1 pt.

Kobayashi Maru

2011-10-14T13:35:00.002-04:00

The Grimpeurs raced up Snake Hill Road yesterday. High points were available with eight riders at the start. The Fat Cat kept it at 90% from bottom to top, wheezing like an octogenarian, 5-pack-a-day smoker whose oxygen tank just ran out. The leaders were kept in sight throughout the joyous ordeal and , possibly for the first time ever, The Fat Cat did, distantly, witness the win. Boyscout took the top spot along with eight whopping points ( We didn't get the polka-dot jersey back in time for the podium shot). He was followed by Randy and then Andy rhymed out the podium.

On the upper reaches of the climb, Talks-with-legs snuck up behind Fat Cat. It was particularly disturbing in that a blind man can usually mark Legs' approach via the constant discourse. The pace had apparently stolen the power of speech from the great orator, almost. He did have the capacity to ask The Fat Cat who was riding just ahead. Fatty must have been right at the red line because the supreme effort of saying ANDY (with an implied DAMMIT) nearly caused a brilliant explosion of flesh and lung right there. Legs used the occasion to pull away by about 20 yards. Fat Cat wondered if he had some extra reserve deep down in the bottom of his own pain locker, maybe under that musty old cyclocross shirt. Maybe he could sprint up the last incline, take 4th place, vomiting as he crossed the line. Or maybe, legs would just speed up a little himself, leaving The Cat to die in his wake. The musty old shirt lay undisturbed. Legs was 4th and Fat Cat was 5th.

The Fat Cat wobbled around in a haze of oxygen debt while the remaining riders crested the climb. Brahma Mama was followed up by Trip and "Fixie" Jack who brought up the Red Lantern on his brand new cross bike with soul crushing knobbies.

The overall standings are as follows: (1.) Legs has dethroned Big Daddy with 11 points (2.) Birdman is tied with Boyscout at 8. (4.) Randy -who shall be called Cross-eye for his fascination with ultralight cross bikes- is in sole position of 4th place with 7 points. (5) Fat Cat and Andy -or Tall-Boy because, well he's tall- are tied for 5th at 6 points. (7.) Sandbag has 4 points. (8.) Brahma Mama has 3 points (She'd have more if training Tuesdays counted). (9.) Trip has 2. (10.) Fixie has 1.

The rest of the ride consisted of a pleasant jaunt through Preston County. The Grimpeurs turned onto East Street behind the Pharmacy in Masontown. They proceeded to drift down Long Hollow (or South Street or Gibson depending on the map you use). A right onto Dillon's Creek Road led to that steep punchy climb and everyone knocked it out. The Grimp took another right onto Oak Flat Road and crossed Rt 7 to bombed out Burke Rd. Zinn Chapel Road led to Born Road where the wide fields and blossoming fall colors slowed the pace. After that it was Kingwood Pike and the rocket ride down Summer School before each Grimpeur went off on their separate paths.

Next up is the Tuesday Training Ride on Mud Pike at 12:30. The next point race is next Thursday, 9:30 (botanical gardens start-try to ride there if possible).

Tuesdays Are Back

2011-10-12T13:57:00.000-04:00

In the spirit of getting some of the old ways back in The Grimp. The 12:30, 2hr or less, lunch-time ride is back on the menu. It always starts in Haydentown and there is no rest for the last on the course. Don't worry, that is usually the Fat Cat. The Grimpeurs sorta raced up the Pike. That is to say that Brahma Mama kicked tail, The Fat Cat blew big time, and Legs hung out with Fatso until he could stand it no longer.

After The Cat recovered, he combined his anger at the 44 minute climb with a return time deadline and kept up a strong tempo pace leading the group all the way across Skyline, down Jumonville through Fairchance and back to Haydentown. It was a great workout ride. We'll do that same sorta thing next week for those interested. Call it a training ride for the Grimp point climbs.

Here is an idea for a Grimpeur jersey. I was thinking that we would sell it to ourselves for cost plus ten dollars. The extra money would go toward a cyclist of the year type award, one we can do to praise our brethern while they are still alive to hear it. (Oh, yeah- Legs read "The Road Less Traveled" post ride in honor of The Fat Cat.) Here is the tentative design. Any of you graphic artist types, feel free to submit a design or logo.

Old Time Grimp

2011-10-07T14:16:00.010-04:00

The endless Seattlesque weather torturing West Virginia and Southwestern PA retreated swiftly at the announcement of the 2011-2012 Grimpeur Championship points series. Talks-With-Legs, Big Daddy Birdman, The Flanders Fat Cat and Sandbag showed up on a fantastically sunny and temperate day to give the old Mud Pike Mountain what for.

Back in the days when the mighty Aerobinator roamed the hills, The Grimp was a painful affair. It was all someone of the Fat Cat's stature could do to hold on to the slipstream across the rolling spine of the mountain. All uphills were anaerobic death marches. Since then the Grimp has migrated from Tuesdays to Thursdays and has matured into a congenial cycling affair. Each incarnation has its merits. Meandering through hill and dale, parsing out the nature of God and man on the backs of carbon and aluminum steeds has become well-loved. However,the Aerobinators ghost got the Fat Cat nostalgic for the days when all was given to the climb.

So, it was decided, by royal fiat, that old and new be combined. From this day forth, one day a week, willing Grimpeurs will attack a designated hill/mountain with all the fervor they can muster. For their efforts, points will be awarded. The points will be based on how many riders are on that days ride. For example: If there are six riders, the first to the top gets six points and the last gets three. The series will continue through next September with a trophy presentation and other wondrous prizes and accolades. The weekly winner takes the Polka-dot jersey at the top of the mountain and keeps it until someone wrests it from him/her by beating them to the top on a subsequent ride. On the second Tuesday of each month the ride will be on Mud Pike and will be for double points (I just thought that part up!).

After flogging themselves for 30 minutes or so, The Grimp will go casual again. The world's problems will be solved from atop bicycles and stress will be pedaled away.

With the above in mind, the four combatants line up at the other side of 857, muscles twitching like racehorses in the starting gates. They rode the false flat at a pace above the norm, but still not punitive. After that, the story must be told from the rear, as any familiar with the illustrious history of The Grimp, must have expected.

The Fat Cat held on valiantly as the gradient ballooned. Ahead he could see Big Daddy and Sandbag just ahead of Talks-With-Legs through about 2/3 of the climb. However, around each turn in the road, the leaders grew smaller. The Fat Cat was alone by the pull-off before the small downhill dip.

The race had been won several minutes before that Fat Cat arrived on his erstwhile blue cross bike, Earnestina, at 38 minutes. Birdman had edged out Talks-With-Legs by a half a wheel and Sandbag had faded to third. By virtue of his performance, Bridman got 8 points and stripped the Jersey from Fat Cat's back. (Somebody had to get it to the top, so why not wear it. It'd be the last chance.) Legs got 6 points, sanbag got three and Fat Cat got 2.

Another tradition of the Grimp is The Fat Cat's excuse. This time it came on the part of the climb called "Baby Bear". The Fat Cat had to stop as a real live bear (and it was no baby)regarded him from the middle of the road.

From then on it was a happy ride, sometimes fiesty, sometimes calm. The Grimpeurs stopped at the Summit Inn for coffee, green tea and excellent conversation. The descent of Jumonville was fast, with Grimpeurs passing trucks and cars along the way.

Over the finishing miles along the Mountain's feet, The polka dotted engine and the red lantern caboose teamed up and lashed across the countryside and back to Haydentown.

It was a truly great ride and an illustrious start to the Grimpeur Championship series. Can't wait to see you all out there next week.

Oh, one more point of order. Fan and Tim thought it'd be nice for one Grimpeur to do a post ride poem. Fran did a nice one last week. I'll go a little off course and offer up a painting:

Greatest Grimpeur Inspires Greatest Grimp

2011-09-16T12:12:00.008-04:00

On September 15th 2011, twenty friends gathered in the Laurel Mountains of Pennsylvania, just across the West Virginia border, to honor the memory of Kean bird.
The sky at the bottom of Mud Pike, a traditional climb for the Grimpeurs, was low. The rain was steady and the temperature struggled into the fifties. Our destination, the top of the mountain was shrouded in dark clouds. One might think that such conditions on a Thursday morning at 9:30 would wash out a group of roadies in spandex but, not so. As we waited in the lot at the bottom of the mountain, cars saddled with bikes and bikes saddled with riders steadily streamed in. When all had finally arrived, it was the greatest number of cyclists to ever ride a grimp. Such is the draw of our friend Kean. How apropos that we all had to suffer to honor him. I think he would have liked that.

Despite the sadness that had brought us to the mountain, the mood was upbeat. We had had enough of mourning. Some laughed at the conditions, shared memories and caught up with old friends all the way up The Pike. Some choose to push themselves for a quick ascent or to wrestle a single speed up category one grades. Some found a quiet gap and let the effort wash away any residual sadness. At times it was eerie, riding up and up in an envelope of white. Even experienced Grimpeurs lost track of where they were on the mountain. It felt like riding the hill for the first time. Indeed it was the first time without the threat of Kean slashing past.

When all the Grimpeurs, old hands and first timers alike, had arrived at the top, a small ceremony was held. Gunnar read a poem entitled, “The Men Who Ride Bikes.” A chainring encircling a picture of Kean, arms raised in triumph, was tacked to a tree, not on the very top of the mountain, but just on the other side- no need to explain the symbolism. Flowers from yesterday’s funeral service were laid below the plaque, as his family had wished. Wine and whiskey found its way into the cups of all and the Grimpeurs raised a toast to the champion of the Grimpeurs, Kean bird. A bottle of wine was laid into a hole beneath the memorial tree and covered over with earth so that the Grimpeurs would return and raise their cups again in a year’s time to each other and the memory of their friend. I for one was left with a good feeling.

With that, the Grimpeurs said goodbye and descended the mountain, their eyes stinging from the rain but not in sorrow, for they saw that Kean was a man who had not lived his life in vain. He had the respect and love of his friends and family. He inspired people to be better. He brought us all together. Kean Bird made a mark in this world on the positive side of the ledger. What more could any man ask for?

Now, those Grimpeurs who travel on, keep racing for the top of the mountain together and don’t let up until the finish. It’s just on the other side of the mountain and Kean marks the winner.

Those in attendance:
Hannah Schrum, Steve Harouff, Jay Downs, Timothy Nelms, Linda Litman, Abraham Schauer Shogren, Andrew Walker, Don Dickerson, Gunnar Shogren, Betsy Schauer Shogren, Kean Bird, Frank Gmeindl, Frances Cole Toro, Mark Rosso, Matt Kettering, Dave Light, Craig Weimer, Evan Williams, Mike VanderRyanBerg, Tricia Lewis, Robin West Barnett

The Best Among Us

2011-09-11T13:22:00.003-04:00

I'm glad to see you all here tonight. The drinks are all on me, though I don't think they could brew enough to make us forget. But, to forget is not why we Grimpeurs and all the rest have gathered here today. We have come here to remember our friend, Kean Bird.

As the universe is prone to do, either according to some unfathomable plan or through the cold dictates of randomness, it has taken a man before his time. On this day, it was someone it had no business with. Kean was the pinnacle of health, someone you'd refer to when you wanted to emphasize what a strong bicyclist looks like, as in: Damn, you flew up that hill, I thought I was chasing Kean. He was the record holder for the fastest climb up Mud Pike, the true measure of a Grimpeur. Before Kean's pancreas turned on him, he was having his best year as a cyclist. Anytime you checked the standings of a local race, there he was at the top. Sad to say, I really didn't know Kean outside of cycling, I'll leave talk of him outside cycling to those of you who want to say you piece later. I can tell you that there was both joy and fear when he rode up to the courthouse before a group ride. In the meat of a ride, I often found myself squeezing into Kean's slipstream as he mercilessly pounded the pedals. He could hear me wheezing and grunting and he loved the sound of it. He'd take me to the limit and I'd see him glance back now and then to make sure he still had me. Sometimes he'd yell something back like, "Stay in your big ring!" Then he'd give a wry smile as he tweaked up the pace. Kean would put you through hell but he'd always be there at the top waiting. He'd never leave you behind now matter how bad you were. Honestly, I was sure that was what he was going to do this time, put himself, ans us, through hell. I can't believe he won't be waiting at the top of the hill.

Anyway, that's enough out of me. Raise your glass, all, to Kean Bird, the best of the Grimpeurs. Now, let's here some of your stories and celebrate the life of our friend we called Aerobinator.

The Stupidest Grimpeur

2010-10-20T11:02:00.003-04:00

It was a cold and rainy day, the kinda day when you expect no one to show up for a ride. The Flanders Fat Cat was ready to see if he could find something productive to do, like let the white noise of rain lull him off into nap-land. However, she of great intestinal fortitude, Brahma Mamma, sounded the klaxon horn. So those two Grimpeurs, stout of heart but weak of mind, set out to climb Snake Hill and parts beyond.

As they climbed, the rain got stronger and colder. Frankly, that is the type of weather the Fat Cat enjoys once he is nudged out into it. Mamma and the Cat were spitting water and generally having a good ride when the air rushed out of the thing. The Fat Cat had switched to a grippier cross tire to battle the rain. He had just put it on a brand new rear rim the night before. The last thing he expected was a flat. He had gone into this well prepared and with the right equipment, quite uncharacteristic. Why had the cycling Gods forsaken him so?

Brahma Mamma huddled under a sparse tree While The Fat Cat fumbled about in the rising storm. Still confused as to why he had been struck low and despite the conditions, an exhaustive search of the tube for evidence took place. Finally, only one small hole was found, no snake-bite. The inside of the tire was clean as a whistle and there was no sign of any forced entry- what tha hell? Then, on the verge of reassembly, realization hit like a bag of whoopee cushions. NO RIM TAPE! Some dummy had forgotten to put in rim tape before putting the rear wheel, tube and tire together. It was a miracle the Grimpeurs had gotten as far as they did, what, with 30 some metal orifices gnawing away at the rubber ballooning down their throats.

Well, even the ultra-polite Brahma Mamma agreed, her hands turning various shades of purple in the cold, that what they had there was the height of stupidity. The fat Cat cobbled together a repair by using a spare tube as "rim tape." Having no sharp objects, It was necessary to gnaw off the valve stem of the tape-to-be like a wet rat and chew a hole through for the other tube's stem.
The repair got the Fat Cat back down the Hill safely. Brahma's mottled and contorted hands, barely able to operate the brakes, got her down as well. Needless to say, there was little enthusiasm for doing the wheel job right and heading back out.

And, there you have it, the stupidest moment in Grimping history.

SOME LIKE IT HOT

2010-09-24T13:16:00.002-04:00

(Others Don't)

The Grimp has gone on all summer, sporadically. The Fat Cat has valiantly struggled under the heartbreaking crush of bad genetics (thanks Mom and Dad)and a strong commitment to the "fourth meal" movement. Despite what Big Daddy Birdman says, The Fat Cat is sure he is the greatest sufferer the world has ever known. Now comes the part You've all heard before. It was a stuggle of epic proportions into the very mountainous heart of darkness and other such hyperbole, cliche, melodrama and kitsch. And therein lies part of the cause for The Tuesday Grimpeur's absence from the interwebs.

There are only so many ways you can say. "It was really hard to ride up that mountain." For example: The Sun beat down on Mud Pike with unfettered brutality for a late September afternoon. Raging rivulets of sweat ran down from neath the helmet-- whoops, said that before-- okay--I crept up the hill at the speed of bugs, who harassed me mercilessly--wait, used that too, and so on.

Not that there weren't some really cool and funny things that happened. On one ride a girl from Rhode Island joined the ranks. She was a strong runner and really held her own up the inclines. Problem was, she didn't really ride bikes and had only borrowed a bike to join the famous Grimp. She'd never used clipless and didn't know how to shift on a steep climb. She fell over several times on the steep grades and we had to catch her at every stop sign. Her Grimp name became "Turtle" for her struggles to get off her back. She was one hell of a trooper.

Anyway, I kinda got tired of thinking of new ways to say, "I suck" and, "That ride really hurt."

So, To use an economy of words: We rode Tuesday, the four of us. It was very hot. I have discovered that I have a heat intolerence and always do poorly on sultry days. I sweated and dragged my 213 lb self up Mud Pike. Everyone was faster than me. Legs was kind enough to give me shelter on his wheel. When we got back off the mountain, there was just laid blacktop on 857. The last hill was a sticky black furnace. (Believe me, I am resisting the urge to go all metaphorical with that.) For several hours afterward I resited the urge to vomit. Despite all that, it was better than not biking.

My winter plan is to do more, but shorter, training rides at faster speeds. I also plan to tell the kids to make fun of me if I eat after dinner or take seconds. Hopefully I can get in better shape for next year. Cycling is always fun, but it's more fun when you're faster than everybody else. Right know, I'm at 213.5-down from 220+. I don't know my Pike climb time. Kinda afraid to measure it. I'll do it soon. I'll keep anyone interested abreast of progress.

The Thursday Limp

2010-04-17T11:15:00.000-04:00

Lub_________________________________________dub____________________________lub__dub_________________________________________lub__dub___________________________lub__dub__________luddub____lubdub____lubdub____lubdub---We have a pulse!

The grimp was back on after a long, cold hiatus. I, who prefers to be called Zig-zag until further notice, washed the October mud off the Colnago cross and finally answered the call. After all, a sound training schedule does include climbing the biggest, 4 mile hill right out of the gate after 6 months off the bike, doesn’t it?

So, ill advised as it may have been, I met up with Brahma Mama, Legs, Birdman, and Butch, the well known trouble maker and first time grimpeur. Being that Butch was sporting three, count ‘em, three rings at the crank, he has been conferred the name “Trip”. This may also have connections to his sordid past, but I’ll never tell.

All in all, the ride went far better than expected. I rode without ego. I did not try to hold any wheels or participate in any reindeer games. I zig-zagged my way up all the steep hills and rode pretty much selfishly, to just try and make it back alive. We were at RECREATIONAL pace to be sure. To their credit, my fellow grimpeurs were uber supportive. There were no breaks, even though they were not discouraged. There were no tests of strength. There was no discord of any kind. The group stayed cohesive the entire 30 miles despite their handicap, me.

Of course, there are always one or two embarrassing moments. Still unexplained is why Trip and Brahma were at the top of the pike alone, Trip stripped to the waist, when the rest of us crested. What can a man and woman do in twenty seconds?

My own moment happened on Hopwood-Coolspring road. It has two steep climbs with angry coal trucks preventing any kind of energy conserving course corrections. Just yards from the top, it finally happened. Turning the cranks became too much for my diminished legs. Sigh, I was prepared for this. I swallowed my pride and pulled into a driveway. As my foot touched the ground, I chanced to look at my chainrings. There below me, my greasy black chain was wrapped around my big ole 52 tooth ring. DUH!

That’s about it. I will admit that when we got back to Haydentown, I felt a bit like the bull after the piquador. But, thanks to the patient support of my fellow Grimpeurs, my first ride in ½ of a year was a good one.

Public service message for hipsters

2009-11-18T12:33:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-04T13:17:00.005-05:00

(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

2009-10-13T10:44:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-03T10:50:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-25T11:38:00.005-04:00

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

2009-09-16T14:56:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-02T15:04:00.001-04:00

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.

The Tyranny of the Cyclocomputer and the Power of Two

2009-08-24T16:17:00.003-04:00

The sweat of self doubt piled upon the perspiration of excessive physical effort. All was not going as expected. Everything hit rock bottom when that stupid little machine beeped and shut off on the hill coming out of the river valley. The little handlebar mounted tormentor, with its single digit curling like a snide smile, stopped recording because we were going so slow it thought we had stopped.

To think I was excited at its arrival. I opened the package like a Red Rider BB gun on Christmas morning. It was the spoils of my victory, the reward for my effort, in the big Tour internet challenge. Well, actually, it wasn’t really due to any top placement in the virtual race. It was more of a random award, you know-name out of a hat kinda thing. But, isn’t that really apropos…a random award for a random rider. Anyway, it was only the second time I had won anything. The first was after winning a running race at some kind of family picnic. I was one amped up 8 year old. What did I get as a reward for my first, and only, big win- a handbag made of old milk jug pieces crocheted together with orange yarn. I bawled inconsolably.

You’d think I would have learned, but when my major award came I quickly forgot the lessons of the past. I stayed up late into the night setting up the cadence meter, calibrating the wheel size, strapping gizmo’s to tubes and testing the heart rate monitor. It had been a year or so since my last cyclocomputer conked out and I never got around to replacing it. How great was it going to be to see the blistering speeds and Herculean efforts that propelled my little blue and white Cervelo?

I took the Tuesday Grimp over to Carmichaels to accommodate Lord MonkeyButt. The prospect of a fully monitored Grimp was apparently so exciting that I had been unable to sleep the previous night. With great fanfare (a barking dog and mewing kittens) we mounted up and took off across the freshly tarred and chipped roads of fabulous Greene County Pa.

The expectation was a moderate ride registering a respectable 15 mph avs or more. It quickly became apparent that it wasn’t going to be so easy. There is some sort of evil magic associated with The Grimp. Though there be easy flat to rolling courses all around, the legs are inexorably drawn to the steepest climbs and the deepest drops even in the sweltering heat. After a mere eight miles, and this is no exaggeration, I was really ready to stop.I needed to stop. Had this been a race I would have abandoned to the comfort of the broom wagon. I struggled mightily to keep the average reading from dropping below a measly 12 mph. There was an irrational, yet palpable, fear at the prospect of seeing 11.9 mph register on the little screen. The rest of the thirty miles was spent huffing, puffing, sweating profusely, complaining internally (and occasionally out loud). My eyes were glued to my little screen as though it were the electronic manifestation of Mesmer himself. It was a desperate time trial of the unwittingly unfit. Apparently, without something to watch over me, I had taken to old man pacing spiked with delusions of speed. Now, I was consumed with the piteous task of pushing liquid crystal a few tenths above my lowered expectations, 12.0, just to see it slip back to the bottom and dimly suggest .9 for an instant. I had become a Sisyphus in spandex with a cylocomputer starring as Lord Hades.

And so, beaten, I plodded on through to Saturday. I didn’t want to, but I had to ride if I was to serve my lord of the average speed and climb the fitness slope, yet again. Feeling like a lumbering tortoise, I relented when my nine year old asked to come along. We took the tandem and instead of the bike path, took the roads I would normally tackle. I set a time goal but didn’t expect to make it, tied to the boy on his first real road ride and all. But, by God, he was a force back there. He never complained and always pedaled harder when I asked. In, fact, I had to teach him moderation, lest he flame out before the hills between Masontown WV and home. Not only did we make it back in time we made it back 15 minutes ahead of time. It was two and a quarter hours of good old family fun.

So Sunday I came back and taught that cyclocomputer a lesson. Fourteen of us did 50 miles of terrain similar to that hellish Grimp. It was fast, it was a whooping good-time, and the cyclocomputer choked on its own electrons, having to show an average speed of 16mph. I guess you’ll just have days like this and that.

An outsider's view

2009-08-12T13:53:00.002-04:00

We did Have a great grimp Tuesday. The gods pushed aside the rain clouds so that The Fat Cat, Phallose and Legs could have fantastic weather for a quick little romp through the Appalachians. Phallose toyed with the other riders, dodjing ahead and turning around, sometimes getting them to take a playful swat at him. Since Sandbag was in the mountains but not on the ride, the Grimpeurs invaded his hideout, tucked in beside a mountain lake, and demanded refreshment. The performance enhancing pills Phallose was pushing did not seem to help those who chose to serve as lab rats. The post ride recovery drink provided by Legs was much more effective.

Here is an article from PezCycling about West Virginia riding. It claims we're better than Europe. Check it out.
http://pezcyclingnews.com/?pg=fullstory&id=7389&status=True&catname=Latest News

Something Old, Something New

2009-08-05T13:38:00.002-04:00

My rainbow-it was overdue. (Look closely, it's there.)

So, what has happened in the wide world of Grimping over the past few weeks you ask? Truth be told, I can barely remember what I did yesterday. Still, I’ll try and render a semi-lucid account.

I used the Tour De France to try and kick start my cycling level back into something other than bike trail tourist. I did manage to ride every day the tour did and tried to emulate the stages. In the end about 700 miles were logged and nearly 40000 feet were climbed. I came in at 130something in the world out of 17,000+ in mapmyride.com’s Tour Challenge and- drumroll please- number one in West Virginia. A “major award” is even on its way as we speak. No, it is not a lady-of-the-evening fishnet stocking leg lamp. I’m not THAT lucky. (If you get that reference, well then, merry Christmas and don’t shoot your eye out.) Now please, don’t go getting any ideas about the old Fat Cat because of those results. They were more points for persistence and stubbornness rather than having anything to do with strength and speed. Hey, you take what you can get.

For the first time in a while an invite to the Grimp was sent out via the net a week or two ago. No one showed. However, I did run across a misinformed straggler from another ride and initiated him into the Grimpeurs with a trip over Wymps Gap and around Bruceton Mills. I put in 78 mountain miles (it was a climbing stage that day in the Tour) and Glen made for good company mid ride. He even gets an official Grimpeur handle even though his attendance was accidental. I call him Rocket Man (because associating him with John Glenn was the only way I could remember his name). The best part of that Grimp was the torrential downpour that turned the road into a canal for the last 10 miles. It was rejuvenating. The harder it came down, the more I smiled. Apparently, whoever is in charge of scary weather took offense to my insolence. Rain so heavy that cars were stopped on the side of the road was followed by high winds on top of thunderbolts and lightning. Still I rode on. That was the last straw. From on high hailstones pelted the landscape. Imagine bags of white marbles dumped from a 747 on your head while you are blindly time trialing through a deluge. Doesn’t that sound great! Glad I had a helmet on.

Last week a Grimp was called and some of the old faithful took heed. Goldfish, Killer Bee and Boyscout teamed up to beat the snot out of The Fat Cat. Killer bee had a new Madone, Goldfish had a new Ridley (I think) and both were eager to give them a workout. By the time I was ¾ of the way up the mountain, all three of the others had taken their mid-day tea at the top, discussed my whereabouts, and decided that they had better come back down and see if I had a flat tire or maybe a heart attack. And there you have the theme for the ride. Hurry up and then wait for the Fat Cat. If nothing else it was a helluva workout for me. The tough guys were shown who was the boss on the way down, though. I had my own private tea-party at the bottom.

LOSING TEETH

2009-07-13T14:49:00.003-04:00

There I lay, in the deep weeds along the roadside. My back was screaming, my legs were burning, my friends had left me, the mountain was laughing and worst of all I had lost the last of my teeth. As I stared at the sky, sharp breaths whistling from my maw, I thought about how I ended up backside down and rubber up.

I had been doing just fine with winter riding and felt pretty strong in January. It promised to be a good season. After that, though, things somehow just started going downhill instead of up. I don’t know if my will started fading first or if it was the wheel problems that cut the legs out from under me. I do know, however, that my collection of wheelsets was quickly whittled down to nil.

All through the early spring, the spokes of my rear wheels started snapping like last fall’s left-over twigs. Ride after ride was cut short by rims rubbing breaks and nipples tumbling about loose in the rim. It didn’t even matter if I had just taken the wheel to the shop the day previous- next ride, SNAP! There goes another one. Fifty and sixty mile rides to exhaustion had been cut to ten milers or less. I lost count of the number of times I hobbled home, spokes taped to one and other. (Yes, it got so bad that I carried a roll of black tape along with my spoke wrench.).

On one occasion, I was tooling along just fine with a small group of fast riders and one visiting outlaw when I was gripped with the fear. We stopped to check my wheel and the sucker was wobbly as a WVU undergad on Saturday night. It had more loose screws than a psych professor. By the time I got home, I had wrenched the wheel to within an inch of its life and had reached an equilibrium point with three spokes out and taped to their neighbor. It was at about that time that I started loosing teeth.

The first time was on a group ride up Snake hill and across Preston County, Appalachian wonderland. I was down to my deep dish carbon Hed wheels, not at all suited for this type of ride other than the fact that they were intact. I did alright up the first incline, but later, a strained look down and back revealed that I was one cog down from my normal. Next thing you know, pop-goes-the-tubular, and I’m laying on my back in a soft thatch of high marsh grass. All that was left was a call for evac while my fellow riders soldiered on ( soon to become a recurring theme). What’sthat saying- If it wasn’t for bad luck…

And so it went all spring, each ride was punctuated by some mechanical mishap. With each passing week of down-time the rear cassette got smaller and smaller and the hills got bigger and bigger. Pretty soon, thinking about riding wasn’t too exciting. It’s kinda hard to smile without any teeth.

That brings us to the beginning of our story. I had finally gotten a new set of wheels after much tribulation. (The acquisition of those seemingly benign little hoops is a story unto itself. I’ll leave that for some other day.) I caught wind of a group ride through my old mountain stomping grounds. Before I knew it my bike had me hot on an intercept course.
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At the bottom of Mud Pike, some tikes screamed, Look! There goes another bike.” I knew I was close. Once in the mountains, I took a short cut through a hellish stretch of gravel. I reached the pavement and, as luck would have it, there were The Grimpeurs. Well I guess it was more the opposite of luck. For a few miles I grimly hung on, desperately clawing at my bottom gear. Finally, I had no where else to go but down, literally. I begged the last of my nursemaids to leave me for dead. As soon as he was out of visual range I rolled into the ditch.

And that’s how I got where I am today. Do they make a 37 tooth? Better yet, maybe I can put my 39 tooth front ring on the back.

Things Have Been Happenin', I Swear

2009-06-05T11:28:00.003-04:00

Okay, a quick look at the old blog shows scenes of winter still on the front page.
I promise to try and put something out this weekend for anyone still hangin' around the old place.

Appalachian Spring Spectacular

2009-05-04T10:20:00.004-04:00

If a picture paints a thousand words, then how many words is a movie worth? For all of you who, like Charlie and Kean, were gayly in bed instead of joyously suffering in the deluge, get ready to live vicariously.

In the final analysis, the rain limited the field to 15 riders. That was about 80+ less than last year. Those unable to embrace the absurdity of it all and rejoice in misery, turned back one by one. Speaking for the 60 mile group, there were five when all was said and done. Three fifths of those hardiest of souls were Grimpeurs! Take what you will from that. We sure had a gay old time. Thanks to those who organized this years event and especially those who waited in the rain at the feed station despite our diminished numbers.Also, thanks should go to Mother Nature from the needy in Morgantown. Her soggy efforts resulted in a sizable food donation from the Morgantown Bicycle Club. Not even The Grimpeurs could clean out a post ride buffet set for 100 people.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

2009-04-15T16:11:00.004-04:00

The officials have finished drinking and all the results are in regarding the 2009 Morgantown Road Race. Recall my initial satisfaction that I wasn't last and had stayed with the pack for much longer than ever before. Now, witness my time- 3:00:37 Yuck! It's painful to type. It was 2 minutes slower than I had done on that course in scouting runs. I suppose that back pain really did slow me down.

More inspection and, bam, I'm happy again. Had I registered for my appropriate Cat 5 classification, I would have placed 12th of 26. Not spectacular but respectable compared to 26th outta 29 in the Master's group. Hey! Those guys are good.

Then more shame. I was 34:59 back in my group. Sweet Jesus! Had I been kidnapped and drugged mid race by a band of bicyler buggering itinerant gypsies? I thought that was just an oxygen deprivation induced flight of fancy. Is that where all the soreness in the backside came from?

Happy, happy- Joy, joy. Not only was I not the last person across the line, but 30 men women and children took longer than me. That doesn't include dnf's.

I hung my head at the thought of a fellow from the 60-64 age group beating me by 25 minutes.

Alright, I beat Robbie from the bike shop. He's gotta be fast, and cool, if he works at a bike store.

VeloBetsy beat me by 37 minutes. Well, that's just a push. She's some kinda U.S. Champion or something. Besides, she always rides you into the ground so nicely...can't be too upset about that one.

Hooray! After checking the pictures and the finishing times, I think the girl I worked with/for on 218 was Crissy Buerkle and she did just fine. She was 8th for the women and beat 11 other women. Hope I helped.

But, oh man... Crissy put 7 minutes on me over the final 27, hilly miles.

I woulda been 9th if I was a girl. You make the call.

The Grimpeurs had a kick ass showing and I wasn't last in that category. (Just second to last.) The results:
Aerobinator (of course) 2:30:29 He finished top ten with a broken wheel/brake rub.
Phallose 2:34:27
Brian Talbot (Honorary) 2:34:46
Big Daddy Birdman 2:35:09
Flanders Fat Cat 3:00:37
Killer Bee 3:04:11

Dammit. On a 50 mile ride I slow the Grimp group up by about 25 minutes. Some things you just don't wanna know. Must be my sparkling personality that keeps 'em comin' back.

Ha! Thanks for coming out Bee. What happened?

Well, that's all I got for ya. It all boils down to: I had fun. I need a lot of work.

(Gunnar and Adam. Separated by milliseconds and many years.)

Tales from the Backside

2009-04-12T19:42:00.007-04:00

Update: http://www.iplayoutside.com/Events/?eid=2009/04/11706r.html I wasn't last.

Feb 11th …The plan : After spending the winter going up and down mountains— amping up the training and loosing 20 lbs should be no problem. Look out Morgantown road race.

April 11th…The reality: Showed up at the starting line 30lbs overweight and 30 days under-trained. So…I prefer the term “participate” over “race”. Say it with me, “I went to the participate today.” Don’t you feel better about yourself now? To those of you who didn’t show, I got nuthin’ for ya.

However, it seems that not many stayed home. Mt. Morris was a maze of confused racers, out of sorts in their autos, trying to find the backcountry starting line of The Morgantown Road Race. The hills of Mason Dixon Park were in full bloom. Cars and bike racks filled every furrow. Treks, Cervelos, Cannondales and even an Eddy Merckx buzzed all about, pollinating the local race scene. All told, there were over 160 racers on hand—100 or so more than anticipated. For a little perspective, about 180 riders line up at the Tour De France. Congratulations to JR Petsko, Gunnar Shogren, and the rest of The Back Yard Bicycle Club for making it happen.

The Grimpeurs were well represented. The Flanders Fat Cat, Big Daddy Birdman, Aerobinator, Killer Bee, and Phallose were on hand. It was good to get some moral support from Goldfish and his son, up there in the hills directing traffic. Talks-With-Legs said he was going to be there—more talk, I guess. I was surprised Slider wasn’t in the mix. Who was The Fat Cat gonna follow off a mountainside? It was also great to see the boys from Pittsburgh, who came down for the cross races in the fall, back in West Virginny.

(Phallose on 218. No wonder he didn't win.)

As far as my race, it was really quite a success, considering. In several prior races, I had only been able to stick with the peleton for about 1 mile. My training plan’s chief goal was to keep me with the group longer, maybe even all the way to Blacksville. I know, eight miles out of fifty…Hey, I’m a realist. But, as I said before, the old training plan failed to launch so hopes weren’t high.

The Masters rolled out 5 minutes after the Cat I II and IV. My plan was to start as early as possible class wise, so as not to keep the officials waiting at the finish until Easter. I was assured that the Cat V’s were starting after the oldsters. Ryan, resplendent in his stripety striped motorcycle moon suit, tried to thwart my plan. JR showed in the nick of time to set things straight and calm my bleating.

Just Twenty-five yards in, the crumbling bridge across Dunkard Creek did an impromptu bike fitting. One of its many cracks and craters knocked my handlebars into a new, much lower position. I suppose the bunny hopping didn’t help. Note to self, cross season is over. We rolled onto route 7 at a nice starting pace. These guys were much smarter than the Cat V’s. Those buffoons usually blast out of the gate and into anaerobia. It was nice not to have to yell, “50 miles to go, jag-offs!”

Route 7 is a road full of little to middling rollers. My biggest fear was getting dropped right off the bat on one of these. I managed to keep my self mid pack, surprisingly comfortable with my hanblebars brushing fellow racers thighs as they moved fore and aft. I tried to get near the front on downhills, so I could fall back uphill. Hey, I’m over 200lbs. You use what ya got. The strategy worked well and Birdman even gave me a little push once. Nice guy, eh. The last climb before Blacksville finally saw me off the back— all part of the plan. I gasped up past the old jet plane and then tucked into myself, letting gravity drag me back to the pack.

In my mind, I was sure that if I could be with the pack at Blacksville, I could suck wheels all the way up the forgiving flats of route 218. Unfortunately, a critical error was made. I needed to be in the middle of the pack, not on the rear. They, all gung ho for some good drag racing up the valley, accelerated out of the sharp curve in town. I, not yet recovered, got caught out of the draft. For a long time, I and a chick on my wheel, chased tantalizingly close to the beast. I really thought we were going to make it. Alas, it was two against twenty-five. We just didn’t have that last kick needed to get there. If we’d have tried, I’d have probably just fallen back off, exhausted. In retrospect, I should have asked my girl if she could hang if I dragged her up. My bad. Or, my Good. She turned out to be a great partner. We did turns at about a 3 to 1 ratio and made great time. She helped me accomplish my second goal—beat the Cat V’s to Waynesburg. (A disclaimer: I have been informed that the term, "my girl," may be misconstrued to have amourous connotations. This is not the case, I assure you. The term indicates that we had so little conversation that I don't even know her name. All I remeber her saying was, "I'm suffering like a dog back here," and I grunted in response. She worked like a man, man. Anyway, I got more woman than I can handle over here.)

And that was the end of my race, now it was a ride. That was the plan all along because that was how it had to be. The second half race profile is a vicious succession of hills, a couple of which get pretty steep. Really, it was no place for the false hopes of a fat man. So it went, people passed me on the up hills, I caught some people on the descents, and a large procession of backsides disappeared into the hills.

Actually, I kept thinking I was the last man. But every now and then, another heavy breather would eek his way past on a grade. Each time they had a harder time getting by. eventually, they couldn’t get away.

By the climb on Gump I was having serious back spasms. They started on the first climb. Apparently, I had put too much into pulling my girl to Waynesburg. I didn’t mind though. She was able to catch on when the trailing pack rushed up the climb on Sugar Run Road. I felt good about that, a happy domestique.

Anyway, I could not put any kind of a push on up the grades. As I limped towards Gump, slowing to take a drink and a shot of Gu, a crew got behind me. Where the hell did these people keep coming from? “We’ve been trying to catch you all day,” they said. They were wishing I’d slow down, they said. I laughed out loud. If they were chasing me, they were in trouble.

One young upstart jumped up ahead. I couldn’t follow, the back said no, but I marked him. He’d pay for his insolence. The cool thing was, since my back wouldn’t let me push up the hills, I couldn’t really get into the red. I looked slower than I was, but I had something saved for the other sections. As soon as we got over the hill, I poured it on. I picked up my former chasers and then dragged them up to an Irish fellow. I pulled that sprint pull out of the bag that I didn’t use earlier. After a little recovery on his wheel I pulled through and we worked together swimmingly, what a blast. We dropped everyone. That insolent youth was never seen again. It was almost like a race .

The Irishman and I turned it down a bit on the run up to Combat’s backside. We had a nice little conversation and I gave him the rundown on the remainder of the course and how to race it. We both knew he was going bye-bye on the steep hill to come. One of the guys from behind caught back on and we watched the Irishman round the hairpin above us. We may or may not have hurled a playful insult or two at him from below.

So now, the climbing over, it was my turn to do some more pulling. My charge carried gallons of water all over his bike. He had bottles on this tube, bottles on that tube and bottles under the seat. I guess he thought there was a desert stretch. Waterboy (Maybe I should call him, "My Guy.") was a nice fellow with a deep West Virginia Twang. I really enjoyed giving him a tow. He hung on like a Japanese beetle as I rolled through familiar territory. Occasionally he’d reluctantly come through and give me a few seconds break. Between his crapped out legs and my twisted back, even the smallest bumps in the road hit us like brick walls. It really was comical.

On the home stretch a dude passed us up one of the last bumps. I sprinted onto his wheel, leaving Waterboy to fight the wind himself. I sucked it up for one more glorious sprint to the finish. JR said I looked fast across the line. Well, I had some in the tank since I couldn’t push the hills. If your gonna come in twenty minutes or so behind, at least give the fans a show at the end.

When I got off the bike, I could hardly move. My spare wheels had beaten me to the finish and were waiting there on the ground. I literally could not bend to pick them up. Thanks for the help, nice lady. As I twisted with great pain and difficulty into my car, Gunnar bid me farewell with a reprimand for taking two cans of some energy drink. There goes your Christmas case of PBR from the Grimpeurs.

What a great race. It was well worth a day of ice. I was really a lot stronger than my prior road races despite my crappy preparation. I’m convinced that I’m just 30 lbs away from being a force. My favorite part: getting my girl (I wish I did know her name so I could see where she ended up in the standings, same goes for Waterboy and Irishman) to Waynesburg with enough gas to fly away with the crazy Cat V’s. That’s just me, I guess—force or not— a simple domestique at heart.

Now someone tell me what happened up front!

Popular Demand (or at least statistically significant demand))

2009-04-07T09:27:00.006-04:00

Funny thing, this internet. Everywhere I go, someone always asks me, “Hey, you been up Mud Pike lately?” Sometimes people I’ve never met, such as the guy running the concession stand at the baseball game, ask me that question or some variation. “Headin’ for the pike? Still goin’ up Mud Pike every week? Still chasin’ trucks down Mud Pike…” You get the idea.

Funny thing, this internet. It has led to the addition of a new word to the local lexicon, “grimp.” “Grimp” substitutes for the words "riding bicycle", especially, riding bicycles up hills and mountains. “You grimp yesterday? ” "You grimping today?” "Great grimp Tuesday.” These are all phrases you’re certainly more likely to hear in West Virginia than in France.

Funny thing, this internet. It’s alum for the world, shrinking it down like Sylvester’s mouth on Sunday mornings of old. We share in adventures, both mundane and epic, around the corner and around the world. People throughout the States and in parts beyond have vicariously ridden Mud Pike in a great group ride. In turn, I have biked across the frozen North, ridden rollers in Japan, been dropped in Annapolis and pushed against free rolling winds in Waterloo, all in front of my 15.4 inch view screen (30% more screen information vs. 15 inch XGA. Ha! Take that.)

Funny thing, this internet. Literally, TENS of people have asked me when I’m writing another post. They actually like to read them. They actually care if it’s not there. We all do this, we bloggers and commenters, write little pieces, supposedly, for the entertainment of others. And, funny thing is, we do it for free (Except for NYC BikeSnob. I see he’s hit the big time and has an actual column in Bicycling magazine— Classic case of iconoclast turning into Icon. You are what you eat, I guess.) Really though, I, and most others, just tap it out for fun; if other people like it, that’s a bonus. But… just yesterday someone suggested I should submit some pieces to VeloNews’ back page or something. I don’t know about that. Don’t think I’m goin’ pro anytime soon. But… if some editor of some big time magazine is out there salivating over the idea of an overweight cyclist’s delusional ramblings, SHOW ME THE MONEY. I’d definitely churn something out more often. Oh, and Obama, if you’re reading, could you get the IRS off my back. They are really eating into my blog-time. Speaking of which, I’m outta time.

Cool and Damp With a Chance of Sit-Coms

2009-02-20T15:56:00.003-05:00

Gaudy snow-flakes whizzed across Route 857 in near vertical trajectories. They rode a howling wind that drove the chill north of unbearable. Cars were pulled to the roadside, the occupants cowering inside. Only a man of god-like stature, a Cronos of the cold, a cycling Colossus, would dare challenge Old Man Winter to fisticuffs on such a day. To grind out across a frozen Hellscape with nothing more than a few tubes of aluminum and two wheels as a defense would be more than madness if it were anyone else. Only the indomitable Fat Cat could have had the fortitude, intestinal or otherwise, to throw himself into the breech. All you who would have the audacity to even read of his glory can not help but be overwhelmed by your utter ineptitude and inferiority in the face of he-of-great-girth. Now, it would be perfectly acceptable for those of you who stoked your fires and shuddered in your huts to be incredulous. Could such a man even exist? But, there is a witness. Killer Bee Dave, he-of-70 plus-degree-rides, passed The Fat Cat in his automobile.

Umm…Ahem…Those of you with letters in one or the other degrees of the English language might take umbrage with that last sentence and its lack of clarity. “Don’t you mean that Bee passed you on your bike while he was in his car,” I can hear you say. You know I do not proof-read and will probably chuckle and allow that little ambiguity. But, HA! I am so taken with the utter brilliance of that seemingly inadvertent lack of grammatical precision that I must come clean just so the reader can bask in my literary luminescence.

Killer Bee DID pass The Fat Cat while he was driving his car. The bike was on top, braving the cold, while The Cat was below in a climate controlled cabin. He was well intentioned and well prepared to take on the angry hills. However, the usually dormant lot at the Haydentown Community Center was choked with Haydentowners. The Cat did not want to deal with them as he was changing into his superman cape and tights. Also, Earnestine had a flat rear tire. Just the thought of co-mingling with all those mortals repelled The Cat. Surely, the Wymp’s Gap climb was the way to go. The wind would race across the quarry like the hand of God. Yes, that was the only place fit to host The Flanders Fat Cat, smoter of mountains. Just a little gas in the guzzler and it was off to make history.

The wind cut a jagged gash across the gas station. The petrol came out as a frigid sludge and could be bought by the pound as well as the gallon. The Cat cut the pump off well below full and didn’t wait for the receipt to print.

By the time the intersection with Wymp’s gap was gained, The Cat was toasty warm and bathing in the sweet strains of ABBA. One look at the tree farm’s poor saplings, bent to the ground by the cruel wind, and the thought of fixing Earnestine’s flat tire out amongst the elements was suddenly abhorrent. Better to go home, fix the flat indoors, and then tackle Snake Hill or Breakiron.

Of course, a light lunch of eggplant parmesan, pasta with chick peas and almonds, pickled eggs and a diet soda was imperative once The Cat was back home. By the time his mid-day gluttony had ended, so had the thought of storming the storm. Anyway, it quit snowing. It just wouldn’t be fun under clear skies—or so the self delusion went. Hector could just sit behind the palace walls while Achilles called, couldn’t he? If he had, he’d be alive today, right?

In the end The Fat Cat was able to muster up enough energy to mount the trainer in the garage. His thighs pulsed and his buttocks were ground into pulpy—ah, hell. I can’t do it. It was cushy. He wore shorts, watched TV and stopped in the middle to drink an iced tea from the fridge. Well, whaddaya want? We can’t all be heros.

Both Sides of the Road

2009-02-10T11:57:00.005-05:00

First off, let me say that I do not condone or excuse any of the acts described lately on the Mon Bike Club site. Anyone who grabs a cyclist from a car, guns it, and then tosses them into a guard rail doesn't have the cognitive awareness to discern the seriousness of their actions or, worse yet, they do and relish it. Either way, these sorts need to be culled from the herd. Any baseball bat swinging, mountain dew tossing, high speed buzzing, brake slamming or other obviously life threatening behavior should be addressed. Either intensive reeducation ala A Clockwork Orange should ensue or the deviants should be removed from the populace—method of your choice.

In almost any other setting such acts of one group towards another would be appalling. Could you imagine some intentionally out-of-work miscreant pedestrian taking a Louisville slugger to a random geezer with a walker because he was pissed he had to slow down. How about an SUV ramming a Prius that didn’t see the light turn green quick enough. The police would be all over the case and it might even make front page Yahoo. There are few scenarios when the “strong” (like motorists) are allowed to oppress the “weak” (like cyclists). Nevertheless, that’s what happens on the roads and in the courts sometimes. It’s simply the majority looking the other way when a minority is mistreated. I thought that was supposed to be a thing of the past. “Frankly, I’d like to thump that weirdo too,” is probably the reigning sentiment out there. Obviously, I’m on your side Mon Bikers, as any thinking person would be. I think any oppressive actions, including potential manslaughter, are inexcusable. That being said…

Is it possible that there is at least some provocative action here? All of the cases sited did happen in the most cyclist frequented area. (Which is not so coincidentally, the flattest area.) I ride other roads for the most part and find people to be either friendly or ambivalent. Lucky? Maybe. But, might some people on Rt. 100 be tired of riders strewn across the road, seemingly unaware of the horsepower idling behind them. How many times have you banged on the dash behind a coal truck or semi you couldn’t get around? People might just get irritated at cyclists behaving as if they were cars. I have seen on numerous occasions, cyclists that refused to move to the right. I have yelled “car back” on 100 many a time only to see a couple of guys ignore the call. Imagine: five cyclists move over and two don’t. You and your big American car have to go 15 mph all the way up 100 or risk your life and the lives of the cyclists by riding all the way over on the wrong side of the road if you are gonna get to the smoke shop on time. Do you think you are going to remember fondly the five cyclists who made room or stew about the two buttheads who were expressing their rights (or just didn’t want to break their conversation about anti-chaffing creams and such.)?

Really, just being a Devil’s advocate here, I guess. I just think it is possible that there is some negative reinforcement happening out there. Maybe if we made room when it’s safe, sometimes slowed, or— gasp— stopped, to let a line of cars pass, waved people through when it was safe, didn't dawdle along, or just tried to be our lovable selves out there, we could do a little to reduce the animosity. That way we could weed out the fence sitters and grapple with the real assholes.

If that fails, try this: http://www.oregonlive.com/news/oregonian/index.ssf?/base/news/1215660313233830.xml&coll=7

Just The Facts

2009-02-04T10:48:00.006-05:00

So, here’s a quick inventory of noteworthy happenings on Tuesday’s solo Grimpeur ride through Preston County WV: Nearly all the roads were white. Spinning cars dislodged patches of compacted snow from the ice on steeper sections making it slightly dodgy on occasion. I was repelled by the bike path. It was one inch of nice snow on top of three inches of the refried stuff. I made it about 20 yards before making a “this sucks” declaration.

Sand Bank was all virginal and exciting for a while. Unfortunately, my bike would soon start suddenly going perpendicular to its intended direction of travel on the slickery stuff hiding under the pretty white stuff. I was happy to finally make it to the heavily treated surface of Summer School Road. It was clear of snow and ice because it had effectively been turned it into a gravel road. Since I got my clothes right and was impervious to cold, I bombed down pea gravel plunge and then took the little short cut to Beulah. Of course, the millions of stony shards spread across the road worked their nefarious ways. Just as I got to that little hollow that echo’s perpetually the strains of Dueling Banjos (just the creepy slow part), I got a flat. There was a greasy, gritty sludge coating the wheels. The tire kept sliding off as I tried to set the bead. There is no telling how much gunk got in there. I’m surprised that replacement tube didn’t blow in short order. Now short on time, I busted ass up Tyrone to get back just in time.

So those are the cold, hard facts of the ride. Funny how it sounds like pure hell. Yet, somehow, it ended up being pure heaven.

2000 Miles of Hell

2009-01-28T09:31:00.009-05:00

It's Wednesday morning and I am unfathomably pissed. Quite frankly, I was expecting a day off courtesy those dunderheads down at The Weather Channel. The hysteria of the coming holocaust was such that an automated Frank Devano, Superintendent of Schools, called last night to sound the klaxons and cancel school. Now, I never usually make the mistake of watching meteorologists, which I believe comes from the Latin for "The sky is falling." My past is littered with enough bike outings cancelled on sunny days or staged in freezing rain to have developed a Doppler free attitude. The best philosophy is to simply take what comes. If you are going to ride on March 24th, ride on March 24th. Stop trying to second guess Mother Nature. And, whatever you do, don't trust some pun peddling fat man or short skirt bimbo to guide your activities. Sorry, was that a bit harsh? (If you didn't read sarcasm in that last sentence, go back and try again.) But, God help me, on this day, I wavered.

The weather chick and her partners in misdirection had ratcheted up their rhetoric to a high tenor. The sentences tumbled forth upon one and other in a rush to get out before the zero hour. The men in the field could hardly put together a coherent line under the fist of doom. "Look!" one blathered, "Here is an authentic Weather Channel binder coated with crusty, frozen death. Have you ever seen anything like it, Kristie." Like a shot, the stalwart anchor-chick was running together paragraph after paragraph about a Catastrophic 2000 MILE weather front. Her voice quivered, but did not falter. Comparisons and metaphors were heaped like unused body bags after Katrina to illustrate the magnitude of the system. Not since previous pages of this blog have I witnessed such hyperbole and high drama. I simply couldn't resist. Against my better judgement, I let them set the hook.

"Looks like I'll be stayin home with you tomorrow kids."

"Yes! Will you play with us Daddy?"

"Heck ya! We'll batten down the hatches and play Wii until the power gives out or our retinas burn!"

"Hooray for Daddy!"

So, I wake up this morning to 40 plus degrees and light rains. I could literally chew nails. All I could hope for was a disabling sheet of crusty death on the roads like I saw on TV. Of course, The asphalt was clearer than it has been in weeks. I could have ridden the Cervelo Soloist with 19 inch wheels and a full disk to work. Oh well. All I can do is drain a bottle of Pepto and go about my day, lesson re-learned. Although, I might move my desk away from the window. I think they were predicting an armada of icy comets to rain down from space later in the day. Make sure you wear your booties.

Oh yeah, The Tuesday Grimpeur did make a solo effort yesterday into the mountains. The weather was much worse. Good times, good times. Had I listened to the weather weenies, I might have missed it.

Earnestina loves that stuff.

Beating the Thaw

2009-01-23T11:44:00.004-05:00

Here are some pics from Thusday's solo ride. It was the first in 9 days. I wanted to get out in the snow before it melted in the heat wave Friday. More to come when I can get to it. The cross bike didn't like this too much. The tires kept cutting in and shifting about. It's rough under there.

Here is where we sleep on the weekends. Done building for the winter.

Cinderellas

2009-01-13T19:07:00.005-05:00

Thanks for the pic KB. Is that Andy at Gavia?
I guess Aerobinator took umbrage to his being characterized as a bit soft in the last post. At his suggestion the Grimpeurs rode out of the relatively comfortable climes of Cheat Lake and up to Cooper’s Rocks to look for some snow to play in.

The Fat Cat had just come from a physical in which he was deemed to be A OK healthy by his fresh faced examiner at the university. The comically young doctor said that the Fat Cat was the most fit patient he had. (Of course he really wanted to put him on statin drugs, anyway.) That his systolic blood pressure was lower than before and that he didn’t have that sinus bradycardia of last were good signs. However, the young man is used to a patient base from one of the fattest states in the union with one of the highest levels of tobacco use and a suspect educational status—not really used to “athletic” folks. The Fat Cat saw a heart that wasn’t as strong as last time. 67 bpm and 112 systolic means less stroke volume than a nice 59 bpm and 138. Big Daddy is trying to work on The Cat’s negativity.

Quarry Run Road is every bit as tough as any other of the local hills. It’s close to home and avoided by many. The Grimpeurs don’t use it too often just because it is not amenable to loops of less than 4 hours. It’s an out and back kinda thing. Oh yeah, it does turn to gravel for a bit too.

Nobody let The Cat get ahead this time. If they had to adjust a bike or clothing issue, they jumped out front to do it. The normal order was restored for the day. Aerobinator was up front, The Cat was in back, and Birdman oscillated between trying to keep up with the engine and waiting for the caboose.

This same order held once the Grimpeurs left the now snowy road and hit the trails of Coop’s. That was some fun stuff and a tough workout on a cross bike. Roots and rocks hidden under a blanket of fresh snow, easy fodder for fat tires proved just the right challenge for skinny tires and drop bars. The Cat spent most of the time alone in the soft serenity of nature’s cathedral while the other Grimpeurs mixed it up ahead and then waited.

Unless you like white noise at 3 am on your old Sylvania, the scenic overlook of the river gorge wasn’t very scenic at all. Still it had an arctic vibe that made the Grimpeurs feel like hardy souls.

On the way back down the mountain, Aerobinator flexed his muscles. At the end of the roadside trail there was no sign of him other than tracks in the snow. Either he was tired of waiting for shrinking hearts, still trying to prove his status, or just downright sick of being cold. Come to think of it, earlier he did ask why we never thought of turning back when the conditions got bad.

During the descent of the higher altitudes, The Fat Cat found that he did not like high speed drops through packed snow and slush. However, a bike that occasionally slides a foot or so to one side or the other didn’t seem to bother Birdman in the least.

A realization: Bike pumps really aren’t that great at pumping things up. They are really talismans that ward off evil, tire flattening spirits. For months The Fat Cat has been flat free while looking silly ferrying a pump around in a musette bag from The World Championships courtesy of Talks-With-Legs. Knowing his fellow Grimpeurs would have pumps, he left his home. Let the voodoo begin. Following just behind birdman at around 40 mph the gremlins struck— sudden catastrophic failure of the front tire. All the Cat could do was keep it under control and watch Birdman and his talisman quickly fall out of sight. He’d be a couple of miles ahead and a thousand feet below before he even noticed he’d lost his tail. Bye-bye pump.

As luck would have it though, there was one old Co2 cartridge at the bottom of The Cat’s seldom opened seat bag. He had one shot to get it right. Not as easy as it sounds on the windward side of a mountain on a winter’s day. Damn, it was cold. It didn’t take long for the Cat to realize that he was soaking wet from the trail effort. Might as well’ve been naked. He would have taken the burning quads of a 20% grade any day to frozen hands clawing at hard rubber and aluminum hoops.

By the time The Cat got to the BFS station he was as rigid as his bike frame. Aerobinator had already ridden the 3 hilly miles to his car and come back to gather Birdman, whose brakes had given up the ghost. What a hero. Yes, yes, you are the fastest. All pay homage. Blah, blah.

It might not sound like it but, damn, that was a good time. Summer just won’t be the same.

Ice Castles

2009-01-09T13:20:00.002-05:00

This is how I recollect my ride.

Pedaling as gingerly as one can up a 20% wall of ice and rock atop 32 inch tires, I wonder, how did I get here? Well, in the short term, it was Birdman’s doing. Despite the Fat Cat having left him waiting out in the cold, miles from home Tuesday, Big Daddy remained magnanimous.

“HO!” There goes the rear wheel again, taking an extra turn or so. Maybe The Bird wasn’t all open arms? A little payback perhaps? He did invite Aerobinator along to turn the screws…

Ever since we started Big Daddy’s mad assault on castle Mayfield, I had been living off the thought that once the smooth pavement gave way to gravel and rocks, I could stop looking for minute points of purchase atop the slick surface and just ride. But, I am where I am. Should I risk the smooth part and make it a bit easier or should I go for the increased resistance but slightly better traction of the soft rime ice. Hmm…slow and steady or fast and loose. There’s gotta be some meta—ARF, ARF! SHIT! SLIP!

That damn big dog. I was so focused on staying upright that the white whale could have been squirming out across the frozen fields, mouth agape, towards me and I wouldn’t have noticed. Foot down now, I just give the canine a disgusted look and he goes back to his yard. Dogs are a lot scarier on flat roads in the summer. On a 3 mile, sub-zero climb, you really just don’t care about all those teeth and hackles, signifying nothing.

Back on the bike, I can just see the rougher surface snaking down around the next corner. It’ll be bumpier but if I don’t have to worry about my rear end— slipping that is—I might be able to storm the walls and put some time into these guys.

Oh, you didn’t notice I was out front, all alone. Turns out, Aerobinator does have a weakness. He is not so tough when the temperature drops. Yes, yes, he is still faster than me but not blindingly so. I think his lack of body fat lets his will seep out along with his body heat. To top it off, he has to keep stopping to adjust his clothing. He already looked like some mutant deep sea diver, gripping his handle bars with giant lobster claws. I don’t know what else he’s gonna do; maybe the birdman is back there rubbing him down. Maybe he’s stuffing his face full of oreo cookies. Too late now. Training like that takes months. Gotta keep up your caloric input and forget about your cardiac output if you’re gonna make a go of it on this circuit.

Crimeny! This part is worse than below. The thaw, rain and freeze of the past few days conspired in the perfect storm. What we have here is basically a frozen river. Class III rapids in still life. So much for the carefree grinding I was hoping for. Pedal twice, slip once—pedal twice, slip once, looks like that’s my new mantra.

Usually when we go up here we try and stay out of the gullies, carved free of silt and all sharp with sandstone. Today, I aim straight for them. The little streams of running water offer tortuous little lines of passage. The bike bucks about its loose and watery path. You couldn’t devise a better method to train handling skills. Keep moving and you won’t freeze up.

Well hell, sometimes you just gotta change your plans. I’m not about to try and ride up 50 yards of near vertical slick rock. It’s tough enough when it’s dry. Covered in a glossy clear coat of winter wonderment, better to break out the ice picks: or the ice shoes. Luckily, I still had the teeth screwed into my Lakes from cross season. Score one for procrastination. Actually, what a nice little change of pace, this little piggy back ride for Earnestina. I almost break into a run, almost. Adversity turns to amusement. I’m smiling.

Near the top, I slow up on the one flat section to look around and to let the boys catch me. Wouldn’t want to damage their fragile egos, after all. They pass right by and attack the last wall. They slip on the mountain’s last defense and then scurry on over the turrets and out of sight: funny.

Something to remember: Beware 30 minutes or so of aiming for puddles and streams in sub zero temperatures, all up hill. It doesn’t do much for your brakes. While birdman and I pump our pads and pull our levers back past the bars like the reigns of a wild mustang, Aerobinator rolls down the hill and out of sight. Descending isn’t his strong suit and I suspect he hasn’t thought to chip the ice from his rims. All down the road my bike makes strange clicks and jerks, fighting to free itself from the frozen mud. All the way down I expect to see Aerobinator’s tracks leading straight through a curve and into the woods. No such luck. There he is at the bottom of his bobsled run.

Coming up over a hill on Rohr road, we get a couple of cars behind us. Birdman, ever the gentleman, asks if we should pull over and let them pass. “Let ‘em go.” I say. Next thing you know Big Daddy is rolling head over heels in a snow filled ditch. “I said let ‘em go, not give ‘em a show!” I yell. A little salt in the wounds always helps.

Aerobinator looks bad so we stop at the convenience store to thaw him out. Again we impress upon him the need to go on a diet and gain weight. He puts his gloves in the microwave on the popcorn setting. Forty-five seconds do nothing for the wet bargain bin gloves. “Don’t you know anything?” I say, “Always put gloves on the potato setting.” Four minutes and forty-five seconds later I grimace and say, “Don’t you know anything? Never put gloves on the potato setting.”

Twenty more minutes or so of laying fresh tracks in the snow down the bike trail and we are done. Aerobinator says he won’t be warm for a week. I asked him if he had a good time. He says, “Best time I had all week.”

Base Miles and Banana Bread

2008-12-31T13:01:00.003-05:00

(Phallose at the top of the mountain)

I must be sick. I give up. I admit it; I have a problem. Exhibit A: I was driving in to work this morning on clear roads. Suddenly a mini blizzard stoked up. The roads were immediately covered and I couldn’t see the cars ten feet in front of me for the violently swirling snow. As I slid to a stop after exiting the slow procession on the highway, all I could think was— Cool, I wish I was on my bike.

Lord MonkeyButt summoned the Grimpeurs for a ride Tuesday. Phallose rode in from Morgantown and The Flanders Fat Cat broke up the work day for a ride up Mud Pike. Phallose, astride his gleaming carbon steed, struck fear into the heart of MonkeyButt, who chose an old steel Clydesdale with 32 inch bald tires as his mount. The excuses knocked about like air hockey pucks. The Cat was sick. His smooth cross tires were not in the trunk and he had to ride mudders. MonkeyButt had been working in Jersey and only riding hotel trainers. Anything to lessen the blows sure to be delivered on Phallose’s blog, The Misanthropic Cyclist’s Forum.

The sky brushed aside its grey covers just as the Grimpeurs started up the pike. The pace was dawdling to say the least. Phallose, to his credit, held back the evil powers he has been concocting in his garage and pretended to grunt. The summit was made without any undue pain. The only interesting thing that happened on the ascent was the mysterious case of the road gloves. Phallose shouted from ahead, “Hey, there are two gloves on the road up here. They say Specialized.” When the Fat Cat caught up he was surprised to confirm that they were his, the hole in the shifting finger giving positive ID. He had not ridden the mountain in some time and yet there they were, right in the center of the pavement. The last time he did ride down, it was damn cold and he sure as hell didn’t take his gloves off. Maybe a snow plow pushed them all the way up there from the parking lot?

The Grimpeurs made a right on Skyline for the Bruceton/Lake of the Woods loop. Earnestina did her best to keep up with Phallose and his road monster while Phallose did his best not to completely drop the Cat. For his part, MonkeyButt said he liked to ride alone…on a group ride. Funny how it was always off the back and never off the front. Seriously though, he accounted for himself well despite his exile to the flatlands.

Most of the ride, save a few violent bursts, was taken at conversation pace. Phallose filled in admirably for Talks-with-Legs. The subjects of conversation were: quantum physics and universal intelligence, the biological imperative of propapagation of the species, the “many worlds” theory and its relationship as to buying a carbon fiber bike (hey, you’ll be buying it in one dimension, so why not this one?), the fallacy of human evolution, the offensive nature of the word “fag” and its etymology, and whether MonkeyButt would like to change his name to “Rabbit” in line with the Karma Sutra. By the way, I would much prefer having a Madone to eating dirt. Just yankin yer chain a little, Phallose.

Despite his fears and past experience with the Grimpeurs, the two cross bikes never ganged up on Phallose and he and his delicate road bike were kept off the gravel and other non-asphalt surfaces. However, some pea gravel and ash did conspire against him on the hairpin curve near the bottom of Wymps Gap. The Cat heard him, brakes squealing, slide across the road and onto the very edge. Phallose admits he thought about locking into a power slide or even dumping it but he didn’t want to ruin his tires.

Well, that’s about it. It was a good ride. The best part of the trip was probably the mid-ride snack of banana bread. The Fat Cat found it in the trunk of his car, right beside Phallose’s stuff.. He almost threw it away but there was no mold on it so… Anyway, it sure tasted good, even homemade, like it had been specially baked for someone. Delicious, just delicious. Now you know why it is called “The Trunk of Destiny.” Anything that makes its way in there is destined to be The Cat’s.

Tastee-Freeze for Lunch

2008-12-17T09:45:00.005-05:00

I caught a glimpse of a movie the other day while grabbing a bite to eat. Nicholas Cage sat outside the stone McMansion that housed his dysfunctional family. He monotoned over a shot of the fine home, “Look at this house. Someone should be happy in there.” Sometimes I feel like that when gazing across a frozen valley after pumping up three or four miles of steady grade. Look at this house; we should all be happy on here. One fellow’s fortunes fall while another’s rises like blobs of lava in one of those old lamps, ever changing, ever floating and sinking, beautiful. It’s only when the heat is turned off that the whole thing settles into an ugly cold lump at the bottom. Every man or woman riding next to you has been to the top of the hill and to the bottom as well. They have all felt the strain of the impossible grade and the fear of the descent. All any of them can do is keep on riding, keep the legs moving forward. And, if they do this, they inevitably look out across the valleys and the peaks they have worked and sweated over and they are happy. Works every time.

Two riders got out yesterday for a lunchtime workout in the hills of West Virginia. Birdman and the Fat Cat started out in cold weather but on clear roads. Being averse to clear roads this time of the year, they headed up steep old Mayfield. The climb kept the furnaces burning and the toes warm while it degenerated into a rocky stream of winter runoff.

The Grimpeurs plunged down the other side on Mt Zion road, bunny hopping potholes and shedding glassy shards of ice from their rims with each squeeze of the brakes. Two youts shouted out something ending in “giddyap.” Who knows what preceded that. One can only imagine, being that we were in deepest, darkest. As the Grimpeurs headed out towards Masontown the snow really started to come down.

It was decided that the bike path would be the best way down the hills they had traversed. The 3% average grade and absence of traffic would alleviate the need for braking, allow the riders to control the effort instead of being at the mercy of wind chill and it would be to the liking of their hardy bikes.

The trackless white of the path was stunning. The powder churned up from the tires and through the forks like shavings from a metalworker’s lathe. Birdman must have been getting cold because he quickly shucked off the sight-seeing pace and stoked the old internal fires. He had the Fat Cat just on the red line all the way down. The snow fell harder, the eyes stung more and the effort increased to levels that had The Cat feeling like some musher in a desperate bid to deliver vaccine to stranded, diphtheria stricken, Inuits. But, he wasn’t cold.

The final six miles over Dug Hill and into Cheat Lake were gloriously horrible. The roads were covered and untreated in the heart of a snowstorm. Cars were parked along the roadside, unable to top the hills. All the while Earnestina’s tires just kept digging in. You know you’re having fun when someone yells out from their porch, “Be Careful!” What a wonderful world.

Get Your Head In The Clouds

2008-12-05T09:40:00.002-05:00

It was the worst of days. The world refused to break into glorious wintry turmoil but neither would it offer a smile of sunlight from its gloomy face. It was cold. It wasn’t the kind of freeze in which one can find comfort in the beauty of survival and nature's grandeur. No, this day was the kind that hovered just at the raw edge of dreary existence. There was no glory to be had or promise other than that of discomfort.

Still, the schedule (despite plans otherwise) opened itself and I found myself passing ole Mud Pike on the way for lunch and then Grimplet pick-up. The trainer was in the trunk and Ernestina was on the roof. She was relieved to have been spared a shackling for lunch but still quivered up there at the prospect of my finally beating back Somnus and tying her to the garage floor whilst everyone else sleeps. Her front wheel shifted on the wet rack and turned towards the east.

Out there, just beyond a sea of gloom, the mountain’s top enveloped itself in low ceiling. It was all mystery, wrapped in clouds, an uncomfortable gift from your estranged lover. There was fear. All hell could break loose in the unwrapping, gloom piled upon gloom. There was hope. Pushing aside the pillowy tissue might reveal something wonderful, renewing.

The only way to get started in pouring, just above freezing, glass after glass of ice water over the head, rain is to just take it head on. Forget about “warming up” and all that. Earnestina and I hit the hill like wild bull and savage rider, spitting bile as we cut through the murk. Oh, could the incoherent grumbling and discourse have been made decipherable—

At times like these you can take the mountain on in such a way as to suck out the venom. Bearing down, nose to the rivet, one can use the pain like a buck knife, carving bloody crosses across the wounds and sucking it all out. Soon the world contracts to a senseless orb, no cold, no icy rain, all contracting quadriceps and pounding heart, brain unseated from its throne. It was thus we rode, ignoring Bill Murray’s admonitions to the groundhog (that one was for you, Musie).

And then there it was, the shiny red bike, the Xbox, the diamond ring. In the space between the heavens and the corner of some sodden field (that was for you MonkeyButt) on a break in the grade, the senses blinked back on in a field of white. I don’t know what it is about crossing the snow line on a bike. Maybe it’s the solitude, the sernity, the graphic display that change happens, the thrill of treading the untrodden, the feeling of moving nature and her seasons, by force of will? Maybe it’s as simple as the pretty white show? Whatever it is the snow line always hits my tired soul like a cleansing wave.

Ah, up there in the clouds, alone, without my thoughts, in a sea of brilliant white noise. Like a dream, it sorts out the days events, clears the mind, strengthens the body, preserves the sanity. Why would anyone confine themselves to rolling along the bottom, never lifting their head? We spend so much of our lives spinning away, over the same old ground, that we never change cadence. We ride around the hills, sucking each other’s wheels, crowded into the stifling echelon, hiding from the wind. We duck under the simple act of being happy. I wanted to stay off the mountain, but I couldn’t—shouldn’t

In less than 1.5 hours I am down the mountain and back in the gloom. Thing is, the gloom is not so bad. I take the time to race about the puddles and delight the gawking drivers, some of whom actually stop to see the spectacle. The little hills that caused so much strain, slide under humming tires. I laugh a bit. There is something to be said for getting your head in the clouds sometimes.

Sunrise or Sunset?

2008-11-29T05:55:00.003-05:00

The Fat Cat is letting go of the mountain. He cannot lead the Grimpeurs anymore and is relinquishing command. It has been fun, but, all good things must come to an end. (Although some might question whether it was good or not.) The site will be open to all who wish to post their climbing exploits or any other type of ride related diatribe. The Password is "Grimpeur" and the user name is craigchiro@yahoo.com. Make good choices and be careful out there.

Icicle Bicycle

2008-11-26T11:19:00.006-05:00

Tuesday's ride was the type the Grimpeurs were founded upon. The mountain top was dressed in her finest white linen, shaming the dreary wet countenance of her lowland sister. This was a day when a man who numbers among the least in pure, clean cycling prowess can vault to the top out of sheer stubbornness and stupidity. It was a day for Masochism; it was a day for mirth. Let me take you along for the ride.

It 's cold and rainy at the mountain's foot. The rounded peaks are obscured with grey and white. Twinges of excitement surge through my gut- or is it foreboding. That things were happening up there is not in doubt. That this would be a solo ride was also assured. They are few, the ones who relish such things as this.

Sounds and sensations, dormant through the summer tableau of clean pavement and clear skies, leap up from the road. The crackle of turning rubber on fresh, black ash; the cries of fingers, not yet warmed by the stoking of the core; the crisp smell of the air, rushing through mouth and nose; the wistful sound of the winter wind, tumbling about bare limbs and exposed hollows. These gifts are not given over with disregard like the lazy summer breeze.

Halfway up and the snowline is breached. There's always a special feeling in the transition, like stepping off the last rung with Neal, or Lance, for that matter, moving from one world to the next, leaving mere mortals below. A thin trail stretches out behind, a loose tether to the safety below. Looking back, the wavy lines of an imperfect technique bring to mind the tracings of an EEG. The diagnosis is clear, dementia.

Up in the clouds, near the top, a calm beauty lulls the wary upward and onto the thin stripe of asphalt along the mountain's backbone. She has been saddled, yes, but broken?

No longer under the protection of furrowed shoulders and slowing grades, the old girl turns and bears her teeth to her rider. They are blinding white, row after row of razor sharp needles. They ride the gale, tearing at any breech in Gortex armor. The faster one runs, the harder she bites. In the midst of the battle, a point of science comes to light. Though the skin of the face may eventually grow numb in the cold and throw off the pain, the sclera of the eye- it never dulls to the icy onslaught.

So, head down, switching from one half open eye to the other, I plow forward, blind and oblivious to the labile surface below. Ernestina is newly shod, clawing for purchase. She has my full faith and trust like few others. The heavier the weather, the more determined I am to make my destination before heading back to the calm and safety of four wheels and sealed cabin.

As I slowly loose the battle between heat generating climbs and energy sapping falls, I am the brief annoyance and bewilderment of dozens of pickups and SUV's, laden with hunters and the occasional carcass. I laugh to think of myself, fodder for many a fireside tale. Between the yarn of the impossible shot and the great buck that got away, they'll speak of that idiot on a blue bicycle, riding the crest of a snowstorm.

One last obstacle throws itself up. For the first time in a long time I stop on the slopes of Mud Pike, not because of want, but because I have to. Who would have thought it to happen on the descent, rather than the climb? The great white way is covered in scalloped lines of fresh ash, unsullied by the spinning behemoths from Detroit and Japan. I race down through the flakes, more than half blind, trusting memory, my tires and the road crew's work. At that moment, I want nothing more in this life to put that last four miles behind me as quick as I can. Halfway down, the chilling scream of the mountain, her needling teeth and the unrelenting squeezing of brake pads on frozen rims take their toll. Hands and arms become rigid in the cold flight. I stop and dance along the roadside, ginning up enough heat to facilitate the muscles to work again and the skin to feel.

Finally, the bottom. The road is wet and dirty as is the air. Not at all the welcoming I had envisioned. One more bout of dancing in the parking lot and thawed limbs gain me access to my little, white, Swedish cocoon. Immediately, I can't wait to fight the battle all over again.

Cross n Kids

2008-11-24T10:34:00.005-05:00

The Fat Cat and a couple of other Grimpeurs hit the mountains this weekend for the Bruceton Mills Cyclocross. Truth be told, the Cat was already up there the day before, helping with the course design and set-up. Let me dissuade you now of any altruistic notions regarding the Fat Cat. He showed up Saturday to a desolate hillside, devoid of a course, because he got confused as to the race date. He even had a raucous contingent of spectators on the way that had to be turned back. So, he took the day he had negotiated for weeks and rode around on the back of a quad, sticking orange flags in the ground with frozen fingers. His chief contribution was to ride sections and say, "that's too hard." Hey, the course started out as downright cruel to the adipose challenged. But, the guys were able to make it fun yet challenging in the end. Thanks Don, JR and Marc.

On race day, being that he had burned his free day, the Fat Cat decided to take one of the grimplets up to the race for a little sled riding and heckling. Leo had a blast. He threw snowballs at riders and spectators alike in-between swooshing down the hills with his new friend Bella, drinking hot chocolate and running the course. I advise anyone who wants a good family adventure to head up next year. The venue is great. The course is on an achingly scenic farm in the mountains. There was a raging fire, a heated garage, chili in the crock pot and drinks in the cooler. The sled riding was right in the middle of the course so the kids didn't miss a thing and the parents could keep an eye on them.

In fact, everyone could tell the Fat Cat was itching to get out there all through the B race. Being that Leo was in view of the whole course, the bikes just happened to be on the car from yesterday, and the A racers were egging The Fat Cat to join them, he took Bella's Mom up on her offer to entertain Leo.

The course was mostly thawed and a bit soupy by the time the A race started. The Cat rode like he was on a wet noodle. The faster pussycats rode away in the first few yards leaving the Cat to "chase". It was actually liberating to know that there was no way to stay out of last place. Ride your own race, that's all.

The only time the Cat strayed from this strategy was the only time he got a mouthful of Bruceton toothpaste. In a taped off section of tight turns, he felt the leader bearing down on him for the first of many lappings. Not wanting to be an impedement, he gave it all he had coming into a muddy banked turn. Pulling off would have been a better idea. He washed out right in front of the guy and they did a little mud wrestling. The Cat would be feeling bad about it but one of them thar rabbits did the same to him later. The Cat hit him with a little stiff arm just to keep himself upright. Is that bad?

I could go into the pain and difficulty of it all but I just deleted it. Not feelin it. With Leo cheering me on every lap, the back fatigue and other such discomforts didn't seem all that bad. He was better than any banned substance would've been. (For all you literature types, I know I switched person liberally as well as other transgressions throughout. Just go suckle on some E.B White for a little and you'll be okay.)

Gotta wrap this up so let me say this: anybody who was thinking of racing or just watchin' this year but couldn't drag their butts up the mountain should start making plans to take the family out to this event next year. You'll be glad you did. Leo said he thought it might have been his best day in all his six years.
Oh yeah, great trophys and swag too. But, where was the Lantern Rouge award!

Dirty Girl

2008-11-21T10:54:00.004-05:00

It was a cold and lonely Thursday. Nothing wrong with that. I had my girl and she wanted to find some trouble, get dirty.

When Earnestina and I arrived at the Sabraton meeting place, the only other bike within eye-shot was under some itinerant restaurant worker in blue jeans. Birdman had flown off to FLA and Lord MonkeyButt bailed due to the weather and flat out laziness. The rest were unaccounted for- presumably huddling together against the cold.

Riding alone in winter always lulls me into lapses of fancy. I find myself floating in memories of each hill I climb, both buoyed by improvements and weighed down with losses. Some climbs slip away unnoticed in the haze of semi-consciousness while others pull me back to reality. I stopped twice on Breakiron.

Before you get your chamois all twisted know that it was not of necessity, but of science. Believe it or not, my telephone has grown an inclinometer. Being left to my own devices on this wintry day, I thought to take some measurements for my fellow grimpeurs. I spent the bulk of the hill bitching under my breath about faulty apps because the readings were unreasonably low. "I know that damn section is more than 13 degrees," I muttered to the wind. It wasn't until halfway up Nicholson until it hit me. Slopes are measured in % grades. Faulty brains, not apps- sorry Steve Jobs. I'll try again some other day.

But, I do have some good technical information on the hills. Map my ride has changed the display for their ride profiles. Now the profile is divided up into percent grade sections. For a long ride they are useless because a gradient section can encompass an entire hill and read 0%. But, the smaller you make the course, the more accurate the readings become. For example, a mapping of the whole of Breakiron will give readings that are a bit low, because they are averages of a certain distance. You can see this on the link to the right. However, I mapped out a small section of Breakiron, the one from the bike path to the open field and, lo and behold, grades of twenty percent http://www.mapmyride.com/route/us/wv/morgantown/365081430375 (Check the little box in the upper right hand corner below the distance indicator to get the graphic.). I knew it. I don't think the measurements exceed twenty percent on the site. Mudpike also has 20 %'ers. See, these hills are hard. And, they get harder with every holiday ham and Christmas turkey.

Up at the top, Earnestina wanted to take Sand Bank Road and get off the asphalt. Even up there, the forest was already in a late winter dress of sooty snow and barren trees. Not at all inspiring. If fact, expecting to see boughs bending with white caps, I was a little depressed. That is why we took the bike path down, to find a little lost beauty.

Halfway to the bottom, we encountered the only other biker of the day. As I was extolling the virtues of the cross bike to myself- no worries about flats, etc., we came across a mountain biker kneeling mid-path. He was fixing a flat. Oh, well. After a little conversation about the group ride of one I was on and his plantar fascitis, he and his fixed flat were left in my whirl of snow flakes.

All in all it was a pretty good ride. I chose just the right clothes, right down to the t-shirt under my helmet, and was never cold. The solo effort hid the effects of my extra 4 or five pounds and the one or two ride/week training schedule. Unfortunately, Saturday's cross race should shine a white hot light on the fruit of my apathy. At least I'll make prime fodder for the hecklers.

Stream of Conciousness

2008-11-17T16:37:00.004-05:00

Huntington West Virginia is the fattest city in America.

The above picture is not Huntington. It's just an obligatory high contry photo form stock footage.

My wife went to school in Huntington so I spent a lot of time there. The people are nice, but morbidly obese. The exception is Ritter Park, in the more affluent part of town.

Obesity is defined as 30lbs overweight. In a culture where over 50% of the residents are obese, a person who is at an ideal weight, especially if they have moved down the scale to get there, will be told they are too skinny and asked if they are sick.

Cyclists have been called the sickest healthy people in the world. This is because of the extreme stress and attendant stress hormone release that can suppress immune function. They are “on the edge,” if you will.

Abdominal exercises and related infomercial gimmicks will not “subtract inches from your waistline". You may get a six pack but it will be hiding under that same old Milwaukee goiter.

Abdominal exercises will strengthen your core. This will help reduce back pain and injury. Do them for your health, not your looks.

A lot of people try and make a lot of money repackaging the same core strengthening exercises with pretty names, programs and equipment.

Weight loss is easy- calories in versus calories out. Will power is tough.

Sisyphus syndrome: a loathing of tasks that, once competed, only recur again and again. For example: washing the dishes. I coined this name some time ago to describe my constant need to force myself to do mundane tasks.

Weight loss/ fitness can sometimes seem like a Sisyphean task.

Fear can help. I don’t recommend it but—allowing yourself to get morbidly obese and having to walk a 21 speed bike up hills can make you spit out a donut or two for years to come.

This is where I'm going to live when it all comes crashing down. You, my fellow Grimpeurs, are invited to join the community.
Cozy inside, eh?

Tuesday Grimpeur passed 5000 visitors. I know other sites may do this in a day but it is more than I thought we’d get. Four or five guys was the expectation.

The site has had visitors from every continent save Antarctica. Still waiting for McMurdo to come around.

All the visit indicators for the site in foreign countries never grow beyond the 1-9 size. I imagine the disgust on some Frenchman or Italian's face when their search engine misdirects them here.

I just hope none of the hits from the Middle East are from Albert Qaeida. (Now watch me get bumped off the net again.)

You can go ahead and comment on the insensitivity of that remark.

I was surprised when several areas outside of Morgantown suddenly blossomed to 100+ status. Thanks to all.

If you are from out of town or out of country and feel misrepresented as one timers. Go ahead and drop a few lines. I’d be glad to hear from you.

Some people are very verbose online—offline, not so much.

It is raining a lot lately.

I like riding in the rain…once I get myself out there. (see Sisyphus syndrome)

Fixed gears are for kids…or for those who wish they were kids. Maybe I should get a fixie?

Bikes are fun.

So are kids.

Too Cold? Read It Instead of Ride It.

2008-11-14T11:12:00.004-05:00

I know I haven't given you, dear reader, much over the past couple of weeks. Sorry, life often intrudes and choices have to be made. I'll get something out this weekend. But, as consulation for your loyalty, I have something for you.

If you like extereme sports, especially those involving a bicycle, this is sure to be a good read. The girl writes an intersting and well crafted blog. I followed it last year during the Iditabike race and couldn't wait to check it each day. Here is the link to get her book http://www.lulu.com/content/4691423. The proceeds go to backing her next extreme endurance race.

I think Jill has the potential to support a biking lifestyle as it deserves via her writing, if the blog is any indication. I'm gonna buy a copy so that I can have a small part in someone livin the dream, baby. That and a slice of some good prose.

The Race of the Dead

2008-11-03T16:59:00.007-05:00

Saturday the grimpeurs joined in on the craze that's sweeping the nation, CYCLOCROSS RACING. Aerobinator came in third in his race for the orders highest placing. Other members riding around in circles at Marilla park were Sidewinder, Big Daddy Birdman, Slider and The Flanders Fat Cat. Phallose was there to commemorate the auspicious occasion on digital media for all posterity. You can check out a very nice race montage video on his blog, The Misanthropic Cyclist's Forum http://themisanthropiccyclist.blogspot.com/. For more video fun, check out Sidewinders helmet cam footage http://www.youtube. com/watch? v=MNvH7LfFxkA.

Big Daddy Birdman carving the corners.

Aerobinator giving the barriers what for on his way to a podium finish in his first cross race. Don't you just hate him.
Contrast the above with The Fat Cat's demonstration of how not to tackle the barriers.

But, at least he didn't do that.
Speaking of tackling... This guy looks more like a linebacker than a cyclist!

Here's how it should be done, a regular bicycle ballet.

Ahhh, a bit of West Vurginia flavor--The Hill Of Death.
This guy, Wes, some big time cross champion from the East Coast, cruised up the monster like it was a speed bump. He was amazing to watch.
The Fat Cat's form got a little better towards the end and he failed to claim last place. Officially he was 4th from the bottom. He contends that the officials made a mistake and he was on his eighth lap, not seventh. His reasoning is that he only saw Matt and Birdman pass him once, he knows he lapped the one guy on a mountain bike ( he marked him at the beginning) and he is pretty sure none of the women ( who started later) caught him except the all-powerful queen of cycling, VeloBetsy. Nevertheless, he could also be suffering from oxygen deprivation so no protest was filed. Does it really matter? The point is that everyone had a great time. Cowbells sang, children laughed, Gunnar heckled, beer cans clanked, and the sun shone bright on a great course. Congratulations to first time promoters Slider and Gary with design and construction assistance from Gunnar et al. The camaraderie was so great that when, Bill, an "A" racer from Pittsburgh ended up in this place--

the Fat Cat saddled him up on Earnestina and gave him his shoes. It was nice to see the girl doing what she was born to do.

That's about it for now. You can check out the race results at
http://echelon-design.com/marillacross/marillacross_recapresults.html. Can't wait till next time! Cyclocross is just super.

Oh, one more thing. The Fat Cat probably wouldn't have gotten his fat rear out to the race had it not been for some guy in Iowa. He was so excited The Cat just couldn't let him down. Thanks Blue Colnago.

Rocky Road

2008-10-31T10:31:00.005-04:00

Birdman, Aerobinator and The Fat Cat got out for a cross bike adventure on Thursday The whole thing was one big photo op annd would have taken all day, had they indulged. There were long steep climbs on dirt roads, dead end thickets, Liver lacerating descents that left the family jewels feeling like the speedbags at Mick's Gym and even some redneck, bald tire bowling down Darnell Hollow Lanes. Things even got a little scary in the back woods. There's no feeling like the one you get when a pitbull rushes you from some deliverance shack until his nose touches your leg. He finally responded to the meanest voice The Fat Cat could muster. It was easy to see why when the owner threw a boulder at the beast. At least he wasn't wearing lipstick (the dog or the owner.) That's all I've got time for.

A Love Story

2008-10-29T13:15:00.009-04:00

I decided to commute home from Uniontown Tuesday, despite inclement weather. Giving the car over to my mother and making the ride a necessity seemed the only way to get the bike under me. I felt like something on the bottom of a shoe. Nevertheless, I had to get a ride in. One thing I knew for sure, I was not heading up the mountain.

Our relationship had become no closer than passing on the way to work lately, a subtle nod offered at best. How had it come to this, who really knows? Not so long ago I couldn’t keep my tires off her, couldn’t stop talking about her, now—indifference. When you know every curve of the old girl, every inch of her surface, not so smooth anymore in places, does that familiarity calm the swells of passion? When she knows just when you will push and just when you will roll over, is that when it is all over?

Despite having missed many rides, I felt an unexpected vigor. It was cold and raining: my best rides always come then. I came rather quickly towards my mountain. She had covered herself in a heavy veil. She wanted nothing to do with me and I wanted none of her. Just ride on by, Fat Cat, that would be best.

Of course, it would be nicer to get off the main road—you know with the traffic and the poor visibility. It wouldn’t hurt to just brush up against her on Barton Hollow. As I got closer she got darker. She knows I like that brooding side of her. Haven’t really seen that in a while, just blue skies and easy passage. It’s nice and all but… she’d become too settled—too vanilla. The girl I took up with last year was wild and unpredictable. You couldn’t get on top of her without a fight.

By the time I got to her feet at the bottom of Mud Pike, she had raised her nimbus skirt just a little. A tease? She still looked mad as hell up top but… Oh, it wouldn’t hurt to head up just a little ways, get my head up under those clouds a bit. See what kind of tantalizing nastiness might be going on up there.

The riding was easy. The higher I got the higher she slid her grey petticoat, just out of reach. It was as if she knew what I wanted. Just a little higher, just a little bit more and you’ll have it. Just as I was about to turn back in disgust, she fell upon me. It was like one of those silly scenes in the movies. You know, the ones where, in the heat of the argument, the woman starts slapping and punching the man. All her pent up fury is unleashed. They struggle a bit, all the while drawing ever closer. Finally, pugilism turns to passion as the lovers embrace in a torrid kiss, during which they crash onto the dining room table and—you get the picture.

There she was, resplendent in glistening white. The wind cut though my jersey as I passed the first snowline of the year. It was just like old times, the adversity, the unexpected, the beauty, the excitement. Then I stopped— yards from the summit. It didn’t seem right to just take her like that. We should slow down a bit, leave each other wanting more.

Seems she did not like being left in the lurch. As I turned back down the mountain, she lashed out. It felt like she had, in my absence, taken some sort of correspondence course in Transylvanian acupuncture. Icy needles stung my face, propelled by swiftly rising winds. She slowed my descent such that I was actually passed by a car. Oh, the indignity. As fast as I dropped down her slopes, she followed with her worst. It chased me all the way to the formerly calm base and into the lowlands. Yeeehaa—what a woman.

I took the easy way home, down the unfinished strip of the worlds biggest bike path (at least until 2010) highway 43 south. All along its wide open stretches, my mind wandered back to the mountain. What a welcome change from a long summer. I couldn’t wait to see her like that again.

The Not Bike

2008-10-22T14:05:00.003-04:00

Although it may look like one from afar, a cross bike is not a road bike, especially with 30mm tires. The trip up Mud Pike Tuesday made this point clear. The really steep parts were definitely tough enough that intervals weren’t needed. A pace that would have turned out about 32 minutes for the 4 mile ascent produced a time of 35 minutes: about 3 or 4 minutes slower.

Although those knobby tires might lead you to think otherwise, a cross bike is not a mountain bike. The Fat Cat took Ernestina down our lady of unpaved roads, Quebec Run. He was bombing through the dirt and rocks much like he would down the summit on the Cervelo. Pfstsssss! Immediate loss of front tire integrity. This was no tiny snake bite. No close inspection required. This was a king cobra bite. Two gaping holes near the valve stem were quickly patched with much trepidation as to the holding power over such a yawning defect.

After picking his way to the bottom of the ridge, The Cat ran across another biker out there in the middle of nowhere. He was a mountain biker from the garden state. The two talked about how WV/ Southwest Pa was probably one of the best biking areas in the world, regardless of discipline. The Jersey boy compared us to Vermont. The only problem was that the mountain biking was too, technical, too hard here. That’s about right, and that’s the way we like it.

The ride up Quebec Run was more like it for the cross bike. In fact, it seemed oddly easy for the 39x27 gearing. This Summer The Cat did the same climb on the same bike with quite different sensations. At 3 or 4 mph, he was traveling at the speed of gnats, which were heavy in the hot air. He was huffing and puffing such that he was inhaling the little beasts by the pound. Finally, he resigned to walking the steep parts so as to have a free hand for the swatting.

Back on top of the Ridge, the Cat and his crosser decided to boom across Skyline. On this terrain Earnestina did a fairly good impression of a roadie. The intention was to go out and then turn back for a short, safe ride. Alas, the call of the unknown was too great.

There are legends of a forest road that dresses the mountain face like a scar. Ernestina begged for a go at Lick Hollow and The Fat Cat obliged, despite his better judgement. Scenic beauty and flowing track quickly turned to steep drops, furrows and loose stones (I think they call them “baby heads” in the Midwest). To top it off, the integrity of the questionable tire patch was akin to Robert Downey Jr. on rehab.

The front tire softened like a…(insert your own phallic simile here). At one point the Cat tried running down the rocky slope thinking it might just be faster. It became a race against the clock and The Fat Cat was not going to leave the kids waiting at the school door. The seat pack coughed up an old tube that had already been patched several times. Thinking that the time required to change the tube was not worth it if the replacement tube was bad, The Cat started on the quick pump and go strategy and soldiered on.

Again, a cross bike is not a mountain bike. Lick hollow was definitely mountain bike territory and it woulda been tough at that. There where ditches, boulders, rock outcrops, downed trees, crotch knockers and other sundry delights. How the rim survived under that deflated tire is a mystery. But survive it did and the mountain finally spit out Ernestina and her fat companion.

A fast run on asphalt back to Haydentown was interrupted only once more by a little pumping. Actually, good time was made. The Cat actually had to wait a bit for the kiddies to be released. Maybe a cross bike is a bit closer to a road bike than a mountain bike. One thing is for sure: for all the things a cross bike is not, there is one thing it definitely is—fun.

Return of the Native

2008-10-15T11:25:00.003-04:00

Today’s ride was marked by the triumphant return of Talks-With-Legs, just off a string of European tour dates. Phallose also made the trip to Haydentown and he and the Fat Cat of Flanders were treated to sordid tales of foreign debauchery. There were raucous, drunken Belgies, soused Irishmen defaming poor Tom Boonen, cases of Croatian gender confusion and incidences of full frontal nudity. Oh, yeah—there were also climbs up some legendary peaks such as Alpe d Huez and there was The World Championship in Italy. Maybe that’s why the Grimpeurs rode a little more aggressively than usual, jealousy.

The Fat Cat did his new interval thing up the mountain, misleading Legs into thinking some quantum leap in climbing prowess had been attained in his absence. He was disavowed of such silly notions when Phallose did one of the bursts with The Cat. Staying with Phallose to the pull off blew Fatty up. Legs caught, passed and gapped The Cat to summit with Phallose, well ahead of their toasted companion.

The Grimpeurs blasted down Kirby with a top speed just under 55 mph. It could have easily been more had they not been a tad beat fearful of things that go bump under the leaves. One of these days some nut will disconnect the brakes and make 60mph. At the bottom, Phallose started some videography. You can check it out at http://themisanthropiccyclist.blogspot.com/2008/10/tuesday-grimpin-more-gravel_15.html. It’s really pretty cool and has some original background music by Phallose and his crew. The Fat Cat looks like some grizzled old sea captain ala the Simpsons. If you pay attention you can see him check Legs off the road like Marty McSorley.

Gibbon Glade road was fantastic in its fall finery. The many steep punches were fended off with more gusto than usual and it was apparent that muscles began to protest early in some sectors. The Cats wheel began making a rhythmic rattle at low speed. By the time the Grimpeurs reached Canaan Church road, a spoke had simply fallen out, the nipple destined to roll about in the rim sounding out cadence for the remainder of the ride. The Fat Cat may be slow, but it takes a lot to stop him. He just taped the spoke to its neighbor, figuring there were still a bunch of good spokes left.

Right in the middle of parts unknown, Canaan turned to gravel. Damn that Google. Change of plans, take a right and get as much asphalt as possible. Turns out, it wasn’t much. Wirsing road blinked in and out of blacktop until it finally degenerated into a long loose climb. Its amazing how hills of gravel can be so taxing at such low speeds. “This sucks,” was muttered more than once. Projectiles shot from under 20 and 23mm tires such that one had to be careful of getting caught in the crossfire. Finally, in accordance with basic physics, the fattest guy got it—a pinch flat, that is. The Fat Cat and his back wheel were at war.

Skyline drive and its double yellow lines was never more anticipated or appreciated, especially after there was such disagreement between The Cat’s memory, Google Maps, and actual topography on Wirsing. It was still uphill to the top of Mud Pike, but the Cat could smell the oats in the barn. He and Phallose made a run for it. Despite the searing pain, it was great fun. The Cat took satisfaction in hearing Phallose voice his own discomfort at close quarters. Maybe it was oxygen debt that made the Cat and Phallose act like school boys and try and hide behind a shack so as to spring out behind Legs after he passed. The old boy was too wily, though. He thrust out a digit as he passed (not the third) and punched it down the hill. He left the brakes alone this time and no one could catch him. First ride back and first to the bottom, what a guy.

Hero No More

2008-10-10T12:14:00.004-04:00

Aerobinator+Golfish= 1 Fat Cat. You can’t beat the laws of physics. On a hilly course in wild and wonderful West Virginia, the little guys will always beat up on the big guy. It’s kinda like boxing with a kid. The adult just throws little rabbit punches and puts his hand on the kids head to hold him back while the young upstart throws a bunch of impotent haymakers and gets all red faced. That being said, The Fat Cat thinks he did better than usual yesterday.

The three riders mentioned above pedaled around mountain momma for the Thursday edition of the Grimpeurs. Aerobinator was sporting a single speed and all the ladies were duly impressed with his manliness. It was another perfect day for biking up and down hills in the afternoon sun. The north wind bated its breath and the clouds played in someone else’s yard. The trees were simply bursting with the secret of their surprise costume party to come.

The Grimpeurs started downtown and headed for a run in with Diamond Road. The Cat held on to the top of that hill, but it’s not really long enough for a serious anaerobic crisis to develop. After that it was down along Aarons Creek and then a right turn up to Kingwood Pike. Aerobinator was not really interested in a single speed test of strength along the ridge to the left. The run up to the Pike would usually be enough to drop The Fat Cat but he just made it.

The riders drifted through farms nestled between rising hills on Coburn road. When the Road headed upward once again, Goldfish took a turn on the singlespeed. He powered up the first slope and the Cat busted a gut to keep up until it leveled off a bit. That was enough to unhitch him. For the first time all day The Cat lost sight of the other riders. Thanks to the horse trailer that gave him a draft for the last few 100 yards of the chase.

“Come on, man. That rode has gotta go somewhere doesn’t it?” When you hear this statement, ignore it. The cute little road just across 119 lured us in with blacktop and a scenic descent, only to crap out into a morass of gravel at the bottom. All we did was buy ourselves an extra climb. Aerobinator offered up the quote of the day. “That road was like a marriage. Nice and smooth in the beginning, but ultimately a rocky dead end.”

Back on track, the group braved 119 to Goshen road. They whipped on down to Hornbeck and then onto 4H Camp Road. It was pretty fast along the roly-poly track of 4H. The Cat hung on by the skin of his teeth. Whether it was the profile of the road or a small bit of malice on the part of his companions, the Cat couldn’t quite find a wheel to suck and had to do all his own work.

Apparently, Goshen Road was miffed that the Grimpeurs left it. When they got back to it, the damn thing rose up into a freakin wall. The aerobinator didn’t seem to be having much fun on his single speed and even did a little weaving across the grade. Even with that, he and Goldfish distanced that gasping Cat. But, they did stay within sight—a small victory.

There's the view I'm used to.

All the work being done, the Grimpeurs drifted down Little Falls towards the river. The corridor of high foliage, hinting at red and gold in the furls of its greenery, relaxed the pace. It’s one of those short stretches of road that makes you want to stay as long as possible. At the bottom it was a bike path jaunt along the Monongahela River and home.

Yes, it was a relatively short ride, but there was cross practice in the park later on. If you want a laugh, go out to Marilla park and see the Fat Cat turn to Jello trying to carve around a tree on a hillside covered with nutshells.

Hero For a Day

2008-10-08T14:15:00.004-04:00

Funny how a random occurrence can set the tone for the day. The Fat Cat woke up feeling neither good nor bad on Tuesday. He was a clean slate, just waiting for the world to make its mark. The Grimplets were unusually benign and did little to scuff the slate or decorate the board. After dropping the lads off at school, The Cat approached the forty stairs behind Cheat Lake Elementary. Just before he started his climb, the school band struck up a rousing rendition of “The Magnificent Seven”. The Cat bounded up the stairs with the accompaniement of his own soundtrack: Da da-----------da da da da, bum bum bum bum. By the time he reached the top, he felt like all was possible. The mark had been made, indelibly.

Killer Bee was in the parking lot and at the ready when the Cat arrived at the foot of Mud Pike. If there had been a thermostat on the old Oak draping over them, they could not have dialed up a better day for riding. Blue skies, still air and temperatures that sought neither to overheat nor chill graced the Mason-Dixon Line. As the two riders started up the hill, Killer Bee informed The Cat that he had ridden everyday for the last 10 days, dwarfing The Cat’s 3 or 4 ride weeks. The Fat Cat didn’t know exactly what to make of that. So, he just took it to mean that Bee was well trained and looking to kick butt.

Kinda tired of slowly falling off pace and getting dropped by his pals, Ole Fatty decided to do climbing intervals up the mountain, like last week. It went swimmingly. He put giant gaps into The Bee and then got to rest until he caught up. And, what was that— was that the sound of rasping breaths and strained grunts? Why yes it was. But, it wasn’t coming from The Fat Cat for a change.

Other riders have frontsides! Who Knew?

Whether it be from over training on the part of The Bee, or weight loss on the part of the Cat, the tables turned and it felt good. It was like he was riding with his usual self in tow. It was The Fat Cat who was taking the pulls and cutting the wind while the other rider rested behind. It was the Cat who powered up the hills and then looked back to see how far behind others were. Whatever the circumstances of the metamorphosis, The Fat Cat was someone else for a day. It was a good day.

The Grimpeurs forged new routes through mountains and valleys whispering colors that would be at full cry in a weeks time. Kirby road took them to the bottom of the ridge's east side. After a short ride up Elliotsville road the Grimpeurs veered off on virgin paths. Gibbons Glade Road offered short steep climbs and topography so grand that The Cat didn’t much mind the squabble between the Cervelo’s chain and the cross bike’s rear wheel and cassette. What’s a worn tooth and a jumpy turn of the crank when you’re off the front and the sun is shining through stands of tall trees and peeking around the shoulders of pigment splattered hills?

After stopping to take in an old school house nestled in amongst the high farms and distant cabins, The Fat Cat vowed not to take any more pictures. Too bad. The best was yet to come. At a ‘T” in the road where gps had no reign, the Grimpeurs were left to fly by the seat of the pants navigation. They were happy to take a right and hope for the best.
Canaan church road was only too willing to oblige. It snaked though miles of naked forest: a patch of planet free the cloak of civilization. The Fat Cat actually felt guilty, taking it all in while others were taking in soup and a sandwich. He wished his kids, his wife, his friends— everybody could be there in that moment.

Canaan church road finally gave way and set the grimpeurs right back on Wharton Furnace road, near where they had come down the ridge. In yet another reversal of fortunes, Killer Bee refused to slog up the mountain on Kirby and The Cat was perfectly willing. I tell you this not to slight anyone, just to point out the absurdity of it. One could almost feel the Earth reverse its spin.

The Grimpeurs two headed out of the mountains via Wharton Furnace Road and Rt. 40. Traffic down the Summit was heavy and slow, ripe for a 50+ mph rocket bike to pass. I don’t know what those oldsters in a mini van were thinking when some maniac on a blue bike squatted against the wind and pedaled on by their window. I bet they are still talking about it.

The Fat Cat pulled Killer Bee back home along the foot of the mountains on Hopwood-Fairchance road. As Bee turned up Cave Road The Cat told him to make sure he wore himself out again before the next ride. It’s fun being in front for a change.

At last, with grimplets in tow, The Fat Cat came back upon those forty steps that started the day. This time each one caused the thighs to protest and the kids easily beat him to the top. What a workout, what a day.

Riding Backwards

2008-10-06T12:41:00.002-04:00

The vanquished.

La vainqueur

Not really, the pictures just dictated the captions. Last Tuesday it was just Lord MonkeyButt and The Fat Cat. Monkey boy was feeling beat from a hard day on the bike Monday and The Cat was hydrated, fed and well rested. So, there was no shame in watching the polka-dotted backside of The Fat One repeatedly slipping away—right?

The Fat Cat plans on doing a new cross race in November. That is actually ideal for his normal, upside-down training methods. He tends to lose weight and get faster during the winter, when no one can see it, and then get plump and pokey over the spring and summer. Anyway, all that being said, the circumstances were perfect for some delightful climbing intervals Tuesday.

All up Mud Pike The Fat Cat spun into mini lactate crises and then caught his breath while MonkeyButt kept a steady pace to catch up. With just Papa bear to go, the Grimpeurs decided to quit the mountain and coasted back down for a lowland tour (MonkeyButt says he is sick of the highlands). They used the gps on an iphone and followed the maps through uncharted territory. Surprise, the route was very hilly and served up a lot of nice climbing interval opportunities. Polecat Hollow, Nilan Hill and Bunker Hill were all in the mix. Lord MonkeyButt especially liked that quad busting hairpin coming up from the Dam on the Cheat River (read sarcasm here).

Thursday was more of the same for The Fat Cat. It was climbing intervals all along the ridgeline from Sabraton to Masontown WV. Musta been the low temperatures and the biting wind that kept all the other Grimpeurs indoors. All the sudden everyone had fevers, or urgent yard care duties. The inappropriately dressed Cat had to do intervals just to thaw out from 15 minutes circling the parking lot in case any stragglers showed up.

Out on the road he thought he was doing great, really tackling the hills and making them pay for all their past slights. That was until he tried to knock off the local bully, Breakiron road. Even if he had lost 10 lbs, The Cat was still no match for its 19 and 20 percent slopes. Has Chris Carmichael ever said, “A top speed of 5.6 mph would be a good goal during your climbing intervals.”? You can just imagine the “rest” speed. But, who cares? Because the really great thing about intervals is that intense euphoria you get after the ride is done. That stuff should be illegal.

Well, that’s the week in a nutshell. I know its not artistic, poetic, comedic— just ick, I suppose. Fear not, though, there is light at the end of the workload tunnel.

Three Dogs and a Cheat

2008-09-29T09:47:00.005-04:00

(The Fat Cat of Flanders continues to flounder in a sea of obligations. Thus, he has resorted to stealing. Phallose, otherwise known as The Misanthropic Cyclist has already given his version of the Thursday Grimp on his blog http://themisanthropiccyclist.blogspot.com/2008/09/near-death-experiences.html. The Cat has lifted a portion of it and pasted it below with the addition of a picture or two.)

Since the Grimper Blog is broken...
I will cover the play by play of the last ride.
If I get things out of order or something, it is just because my brain is that foggy.
We left creepy square at 11:something heading out for River Road.
Immediately after crossing the river Styx,
we were halted by a retired porn star with a stop sign in her hand.
We stopped, we waited for 30 seemed minutes,
then we got the go signal and proceded to draftd a large dump truck up to the steeps.
We must have cleared 15mph a couple times there!
Then as we climbed, the rest of the string of cars passedand one by one,
Our pace was not that slow and also we had to dodge water being sprayed all over the place by a truck, of course it hit us and GOT MY BIKE DIRTY!!! GRRRR. I had not gone through a puddle in over a month! BULLSHIT... I have to clean that!! OK OK
As we approached the four way stop, I know my eyes got big...
That porn star and her redneck crew abandon us for dead,
Barreling right at us, a long line of cars (mostly big trucks) IN OUR LANE!
We slowed and got a little space and made it through...

My first plot was foiled...

This set the tone of the ride for the day, (NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCES.)
Later, while a large truck was right behind us, a very large dog charged me at full speed.
I think I yelled "DOG!," (or at least I know I thought that (or "SHIT" or something like that)) and I sped up,
the dog could not change its path of attack due to its momentimum and I cleverly had dodged it.
Then I thought of the guys behind me and cringed thinking that dog was going to take someone out!
The dog skidded behind my rear tire, but recovered just in time to not take out the swerving guys behind me. (The Fat Cat felt the hot breath of the beast on his hirsute leg.)

Drat, My second plot failed! These guys had some skill...

(Phallose makes out like The Fat Cat was in his league or something. Thanks for the literary license. You'll notice that all the Fat Cat's rider photos are from behind because that's all he ever sees!)

Riding along, the conversation drifted back to more pleasant things...
The guys gave me some kudos and mentioned limited sponsorship from Grimper to represent in races starting with some sweet cleat replacements. Now praise, I have trouble with, when I am not worthy anyways, but yeah, could not handle, but an awesome gesture and a good compliment! But back to my sekrit plan!
Next, coming to a T intersection the girl in a car took a run at the guys in front of me and without that heads up play by the guys, seriously running out of the way, because that car did not stop... Serious injury was again narrowly averted.
(Can I tell you to never stop unless you have too? If we had been stopped, we would not have been able to move out of the way... and be not half as smug at the moment)
Of course we yelled something to the effect of "what is your problem!?!"
and the reply was "I DIDN'T SEE YOU!!!"
We all said in unison "That is our point!"
but she seemed intently pissed that she almost ran over bikers while driving on the wrong side of the road in an intersection. (Seriously, she came head on at The Cat- on his side of the road-and then when she stopped she got out of the car and YELLED that she didn't see the Fat Guy in a red and white polka dot jersey. Had she just had the decency to say sorry without any bluster, she would have been shown compassion instead of being skewered online. Then again, cyclists are somewhere between squirrels and dogs in the minds of some motorists.)

Man, these guys are good, I knew at this point I was going to have to call in "the Spaniel" to take at least one of these guys out.
I positioned myself for the ambush...
Spaniel, took its run from nowhere and was like a flash,
but by now Birdman was obviously on to my plan.
He saw spaniel running towards him with the kill look in its eye and calmly ran him down. (It is important to note that we were in a little paceline and traveling at about 32 to 36 mph. One wrong move up front would have doomed us all. Props to birdman for staying upright. He says Kim was looking over us)
It was a cruel thing to have to watch ladies and gentlemen,
the smiling birdman,
the crack of doggie arm,
the animal taking spinning flight down down to splat into the deep gully.
With the last great hope, Spaniel, splattered in a ditch, I knew now that my plans were foiled.
We went back to find the corpse but it had spontainiously cumbusted, no... wait, we heard it up in the woods running, so we knew it was getting around OK, so we went on our way. (The Cat was at the end of the paceline, of course, and did see the dog do a little whirly whirl and then scamper out of the ditch. The Grimpeurs were concerned and tried to call the little fellar in. The guy across the street didn't give a squat. "It's not my dog.")

This victory had given the guys some spunk.
They now took advantage of the Phil and stomped him on the remaining hills and hammered him on the rollers.
A great ride!

(Here's a gift for Phallose. He wanted to know about the Mason-Dixon Park but didn't want to take "his baby" on the gravel. The Fat Cat thinks adversity builds character-- in as much as an aluminum bike can gain any more.)

Thursday, Tuesday and a Few Tidbits In-Between

2008-09-24T13:16:00.005-04:00

I know, I know. I am lax in my blogligations. Gotta lot to do and if I had a boss, he’d be glaring at me for doin’ this. So, I glare from the inside out.

THURSDAY
The Grimpeurs rode in Morgantown and the surrounding area on Thursday last. There was a nice turnout for Rachel who was visiting from the state of Washington and looking for a ride. She claimed to have done some racing out there, it showed. Even on her dads dysfunctional Trek, she was able to stay with Boyscout, Sandbag, Big Daddy Birdman and Luke— I’m your father—Charles. She CRUSHED the Fat Cat on the hills, oh well.

Rachel shall go down in the Grimpeur annals as Rainier. She claims to have never climbed that mountain but she sure rode like she had. She’s welcome back anytime she’s in town. Rainier is only the second female Grimpeur. Since this is a new season, she is the current leader in the female division, congratulations. No offense, but may your reign be short. The Fat Cat likes being beat up on by the ladies. In these parts, “girl power” is not just a lot of talk.

Since we’re handing out names that aren’t likely to be used much, Let’s move on to Luke. He has been threatening to make the Grimpeur ride all summer. He finally made it Thursday. Unfortunately, it was because he was done with workin’ for the man in PA. He’s moving to a new job in his ancestral home of Michigan. Being the Master of the obvious, the Fat Cat chooses, “Skywalker” as Luke’s Grimpeur name. He will be missed. The Cat suspects he may be back , though. After a few weeks of rolling along endless ribbons of pancake flat roads, Skywalker will be Jonesin’ for a roll in the hay with mountain momma.

Anyway, the Thursday Grimpeurs headed out of Morgantown on Dug Hill, cranked up Snake Hill (where the Fat Cat got distanced), went through Masontown, headed for Reedsville via Gibson and other nameless back roads, took Born Road just to add a few little climbs and subtract a few cars, and then flew down Summer School Road (the only time The Fat Cat contributed to any dropping). A short cool down on the Rail trail brought them home.

TUESDAY
There was a surprising host of Grimpeurs at the base of Mud Pike awaiting The Fat Cat’s arrival Tuesday. Lord MonkeyButt, resplendent in Soviet era Jersey, made the trip over from Carmichaels PA. Goldfish, Phallose and Sandbag also circled the parking lot like sharks looking for fresh meat. The Cat hung around for about a mile up the Pike but, again, faltered. He was about 1 mile per hour slower than earlier in the year. Blame it on weight loss/diet, mucous, lack of miles, old age, genetics—take your pick. Regardless, He was far enough arrears that Goldfish came back down and paced The Cat up the final slopes. Let it be known that MonkeyButt tackled Mud Pike with gusto and removed his backside from The Cat’s sight well before the summit. This is only mentioned to counter a bit of razzing later on.

The traditional route along Skyline, down Jumonville and back across Coolspring-Hopwood-Fairchance road was taken, but with a little mustard on it. During the Bullfeathers post ride cool down and carbo load, one rider commented that The Grimpeur ride had been turned into the Wednesday hammer-fest (which had its last hurrah for the summer last week.) It wasn’t that bad but it sure wasn’t sightseein’ pace. That was great, because, apparently, The Cat has been seeing too many sights as of late.

Of note:
54.6 mph was attained on the way down the mountain. Sandbag flatted at the bottom of the mountain with only MonkeyButt there to escort him back to the waiting group. Goldfish and Phallose lit it up between Hopwood and Fairchance. The Cat grabbed a wheel and hung on for dear life. Goldfish kept making sure The Cat was on. What a guy! Not so attentive, The Cat, less than a mile from home, noticed the rest of the train had become unhitched. Out of the goodness of his heart he let go the two engines and slowed. With no sign of the trailers, he telephoned MonkeyButt, thinking they may have had another mechanical. “No! We did not get another flat— smart-ass,” was all the Fat Cat got for his concern. It was really quite comical.

You can read another point of view at http://themisanthropiccyclist.blogspot.com/2008/09/bubba-grimp.html He also has a lnk to his gps data that is very cool.

TIDBITS IN-BETWEEN
Several Grimpeurs raced the Mountain State Classic road race Sunday. Phallose (Phil), who is improving all the time, put in a great ride, finishing close to the holder of the Stars and Stripes jersey, VeloBetsy (who won the female division but has never graced the Grimpeurs with her exalted presence.) Slider(Marc G.) was in there mucking it up. Even Big Daddy Birdman(Don D.) braved the race which included two major climbs. Congrats to all. Here’s a link to the results http://www.iplayoutside.com/Events/?eid=2008/09/11237r.html

Big Daddy tried to entice The Fat Cat into bringing up the rear of Sunday’s race, but The Cat had more important things to do. The grimplets accompanied the Fat Cat on a Sunday rail trail ride. The whole crew stayed together at speed on a tandem (Courtesy of Big Daddy) with a trail-a-bike behind. Got in 30 miles and no one got too tired and no one didn’t get too tired. It was great! Even the two flat tires weren’t that annoying. The first came as a result of an old corroded screw. The tire was holding air but the offending object was hitting the fork. It had to be excised and the act was accompanied by a rushing exodus of air. We had to flag down a rail trailer because we forgot a pump. Those people are unexpectedly intense and it’s hard to get their attention. Thanks to Paul on a mountain bike for you help. The two tubes we had were dry rotted but we were able to patch the original tube. Later on we saw Mrs. Talks-With-Legs just before a whoosh of air issued from the rear tire. A large piece of glass was excised this time. The Grimplets figured someone wanted us to walk so we sauntered along the last half mile instead of bothering about for a pump and a patch.

The only regret The Fat Cat had about not "competing" Sunday was that he would have finally beaten Aerobinator, who DNF'd.

Talks-With-Legs has been Grimping around the Alps and will be at the Worlds in Italy this weekend. A full report is expected upon his return.

Sunday blow

2008-09-17T14:31:00.003-04:00

This came from the Dominion Post Monday morning:

An unexplained explosion Sunday left trees flattened for hundreds of yards just north of Mt. Morris PA. Windows rattled in buildings as far away as Waynesburg PA and Morgantown West Virginia. Airborne photography shows the area of downed foliage to trace out two spoked circles with an amorphous blob like shape between. Local fire chief, Dirk Dermol, said, “We don’t know exactly what happened here. We’re looking into it. About the only thing we’re sure of is that something blew up here, big time.”

The Tuesday Grimp was uneventful, just me tooling around through Preston county WV and coughing up quart after quart of mucous. It was a nice day and, aside from the copious discharge, it felt good. But who are we kidding? You don’t wanna hear all that lollipops and rainbow stuff. You want to suffer vicariously. Thus, I give you a bit of the Sunday supernova.

All had been going along just fine. The Cervelo was back on the road with her brand new Ultegra upgrade. Despite the fact that I had done the work myself, she shifted crisply. She was wearing her big Hed carbon shoes with a 23 bottom end because I hadn’t fixed her regular wheel yet. Even so, the hills didn’t pose any real problems. For forty miles or so I thought the pace was pretty laid back.

Then it hit me. It was really that sudden. Everyone was regrouping and I sorta drifted through and soft pedaled until they caught up. Trouble was, once I started, I couldn't stop soft pedaling. On the next hill, which is really of no note, I felt like an octogenarian on the freeway; everyone—and I mean everyone—motored on by me.

Again at the regroup, I rolled through and tried collect myself on the downhill. Sensing blood, the peleton took its serpentine form and flew by on the flat section of rt 19 before Mt. Morris Pa. Not quite willing to accept the bonk, I grabbed for the tail. After being dragged along like an unseated knight behind his horse, my foot mercifully slipped from the stirrup. I watched the paceline slowly pull away. All I had left was not enough. With 10 miles to home, it only got worse from there.

To backtrack just a bit—I did this to myself, almost by intent. Earlier that morning I had a bag of feed ready and in my hand. For reasons only known to God and one long haired fellow on a Tibetan mountain top, I put it on the counter and walked out. It may have been the weight loss kick I’m trying to be on or it may have been some inner need of punishment, I don’t know.

Back to the road. Rounding the corner and literally limping into Mt. Morris, I saw a line of bikes outside the grocery store. Ah, my compatriots taking on food and water. My mouth was a Saharan dunescape and my stomach was a gaping, groaning hole in my torso. So, what did I do? Thas right, I rolled on through.

The reasoning was that I had to get home, no time for stopping. I was so far gone, anyway. There was no way I could keep up. No sense in making everyone drag my heavy ass along the seafloor. I’d be like a guy on a recumbent going on a mountainous group ride. Better to just grope along on my own, without witnesses. They would probably catch up in no time anyway.

Underneath all that, though, there is a fascination with the bonk. Honestly, when it hits, I like to wallow in it. I like to blow out all my air and sink to its dark and rocky bottom. It’s fascinating really, one second you are rolling along and the next you can barely turn the cranks. It’s as though a cork has been pulled and the life blood funnels down and out of your body. In a time when men need not wrestle sabertooths, defend themselves in close combat with highway robbers or joust for a lady’s honor—what an opportunity to test your mettle!

A couple of miles later I could feel what little breeze I was generating whistle through the growling hole in my gut. I searched my jersey for any forgotten foodstuff.
A lint battered jelly bean, the shriveled rind of an orange, anything would do. I thought of sucking on the pockets for any trace remnant of melted Power Bar or the crumb of a Fig Newton wedged into the weave. However, I knew if I stopped to do it, there was no starting back up. I had become my old 1964 LeMans.

I passed myself countless times; sitting on the roadside, head in hands, off the bike, free the source of my pain. All I had to do was pull over, dismount, cry for mercy, and it would be granted. The inquisitor sorted through my innards and torqued on the rack. The bike wobbled towards the burm. The inquisitor lowered his ear to the gasping soul. “The prisoner wishes to say a word!” he pronounced. Head hanging loose on its tendons, foot half unclipped, bike nearly stalled, the last effort was summoned. “FREEEDOOOM,” rang out from scorched lungs. The spine stiffened with resolve, the center-line was taken up again. Once more into the breech, dear friends, once more— Well, I did say that I was hallucinating just a bit, didn’t I?

By the time I reached Morgantown, the wounds of the Stigmata were upon me. Palms and soles burned as though the centurions spikes had been driven home. Breaths came in short pants, even as I sat in the car. My only consolation was that I did not get overtaken by the group. They did not have to nurse me home. As I skulked down a side street, I saw the leaders shoot through town. Ahhh, nary a sole knew my predicament. Perfect.

Making Nice

2008-09-10T11:57:00.006-04:00

There has been a lot of talk this year on rides about the inhospitable nature of motorists lately. Aggressive passing, finger waving, dirty looks and verbal confrontation seem to be the norm if you listen to the chatter. But, riding along my mountain roads and those in Morgantown, I don't see it that way.

Cranking the four miles up Mud Pike, I will often see a driver giving a thumbs up from his little cubicle (when I have the strength to raise my head). One Sunday group ride I made it a point to look at all the motorist as they passed our little peleton, a tricky feat indeed. More often than you'd think, someone in the car was giving a friendly wave, especially if the group went single file or if someone in the group waved them through.

Don't get me wrong; I acknowledge that there are assholes out there, full of rage. In any population there are going to be fringe elements that fall outside the norm. On our four climb epic a few weeks ago, some wing nut in a Red Pickup laid on his horn as he passed us. This despite the fact that we and he were the only ones on the road. He had absolutely no impediments to passing. Slider called him out and he slammed on the brakes. Turned out it was some disgruntled old man. Slider just said, "be nice," and sent the gentleman on his way. Don't you think a person like that has other issues? That reminds me of a similar incident involving Slider. I was not there but I hear the confrontation ended with the road rager telling stories of a life gone bad and wanting to buy Slider a beer. They might have even hugged.

Now, you may want to generalize, as humans often do, that it's always the whoopees in pickups-they are the problem. Those types need some edjamacation and we are just the spandex army to give it to em'. Before you grab your front forks and torches, ask me who picked me up when I was thumb out and carrying my bike on my shoulder. It wasn't the numerous SUV's, family sedans and even Prius cars: they left me clomping along the roadside in silver clipless shoes. You guessed it. A red pickup with some poem about killin' deers with arrows emblazoned across its back window went 15 miles out of its way to take me to my front door.

So, here are some of my rules for living a happy life on roads filled with cars:

1. Remember, share the road goes both ways. I don't know about you, but when I am in a car, passing a bike is a slow and dicey prospect. We have to give motorists all the courtesy we would give a nervous rhino. This means moving to the far right 90% of the time and getting into a tight single file when a car is behind. When someone in the group yells, car back! What he means is, get over! It is just arrogance and inconsideration to continue doddling along in conversation with your buddy when you are called to share the road.

2. You can "take the lane" when it is unsafe for a car to pass but make sure they know what you are doing. Look back so they know you are aware of their presence. Give them a "wait" type hand signal and make an exaggerated effort to look ahead. Get around the blind curve, or whatever the obstacle, as soon as possible and wave the car through as soon as you can see it is safe (which will be before they can see it). This usually gives the driver the idea that you are looking out FOR THEM. When they see this effort on their part, they will almost invariably give you "the wave."

3. I like to ride toward the center of the lane in a low traffic situation so that when a car comes, I can tack to the side of the road. This lets drivers now I am aware of them. I think it makes them less nervous about my possibly darting over into their path when they pass. I also think it shows an effort to accommodate them.

4. When there are cars behind, always look like you are busting your ass. There is nothing motorists hate more than seeing some skinny fool noodling down the road when they are packin' plenty of horsepower with someplace to go. Stand on the pedals, suck in air like a vacuum, hang out your tongue, whatever it takes. I have never had a motorist impart any ill will when I have been giving max effort.

5. You may know all the laws regarding bikes and cars, but make sure you keep in mind the laws of physics. Prominent among these is: force= mass x acceleration. It means that, no matter what laws a man writes on a paper, if you go against a 1 ton automobile- you will lose. Ride accordingly.

6. As Slider would say, "Be nice." Cars are not the enemy. Have some empathy. Put yourself in the driver's place and take a moment to think how you would feel all cramped up in a metal box with a bunch of care free people bopping around in front of you on kids toys. Jealousy might just boil right out your ears if you are running on empty with 2 dollars in your pocket towards a dead end job and away from a nattering spouse. As a biker you could either be the only person to have shown that person any courtesy in weeks or you might be the last straw.

My little list is by no means comprehensive. It doesn't address advocacy issues, road improvements, driver education and all that other important stuff. What it does do is allow me to take as much control of the situation as I can while I am riding. Yeah, people in cars can be self important jerks but that is beside the point when you're out there on the road. The point is getting back alive and, hopefully, promoting a little good will along the way. That way the next guy on two wheels will have a better time of it when it comes to the metal monsters.

Avenging Larry

2008-09-04T22:24:00.005-04:00

Killer Bee came out of his mountain cave to take on The Fat Cat on his own turf Thursday last. The roiling remnants of hurricane Wolfcry set the stage for his dark intent. From the relentless circular assault the Bee was about to deliver, it can only be assumed that he had come out to avenge poor Cubby. You will recall that Killer Bee brought his unsuspecting pal out for a first Grimpeur ride a couple of weeks ago. Little did he know it was to be an irresponsible five climb nightmare that would pound his young ward into the ground.

The mountain was angry, said The Bee. High winds and dangerous conditions unsafe for man nor bike prevailed on Mud Pike by his account. Outside The Cat’s window there were dark clouds and spitting rain, perfect conditions. Given the weather, Killer Bee thought it best that he come over to Morgantown for a nice little ride. The Cat thought he heard a little Snidely Whiplash snigger from the other end of the line just before he hung up.

Some of you might think The Fat Cat rides hills for fun, but it is more of necessity. For mere yards from his front door, a steep 1/2 mile pitch called Tyrone Avery blocks any thought of easy passage. It is either learn to climb or be shackled to bike paths. The reason for this revelation is so the reader can better understand Killer Bee’s obvious ill will.

As soon as the duo hit Tyrone Avery, Killer Bee cranked it up. There would be no warm up. The gentlemanly nature to which the Grimpeurs had evolved (or devolved) was cast asunder. Bee pulled right away leaving The Cat standing on the pedals, eyes boring holes in his partners back, just to close the gap. At the top Bee said, “You were really riding easy up that hill,” then he took off again. The Cat was left to ponder the possible meaning of the enigmatic phrase. Did he mean that the pace was brisk, the hill well ridden? Did he mean that he thought the pace was easy?

The intent became clearer as the two Grimpeurs started the climb up Snake Hill. After keeping The Cat tantalizingly on his wheel for about a half a minute, just long enough to hear his heart start pounding like a kettle drum, the filthy insect spun up a sizable gap in short order. The only thing that saved Killer Bee from the laser-like gaze of the Cat upon his back was the stream of stinging sweat that forced one eye closed and the other into a slit. In the midst of the struggle, nay—the beat-down, The Cat began to smile. Two guys kicking each other in the nuts; that’s just the way it should be.

The Cat smiled again when he said the next hill wasn’t too long, good to sprint. He made a measured effort and watched his fellow grimpeur blow about 25 yards from the top. Heh, heh.

More of the same followed—Bee cranking up hills with superior form, the Cat reaching into his bag of cheap tricks on the rollers and down hills. The trip up super steep Mt. Zion was a challenge on wet roads, no standing please. Bee, of course made a point to come back down after he summited and tease the Cat. But, he didn’t have to come too far down.
Killer Bee clearly established his superiority Thursday and had done his friend justice. The Cat definitely was dealt a share of what he had dished out. Still, a rising rain storm and a downhill profile on home roads was just what The Cat needed to make a desperate break and put a bit of a scuff on The Bee at the finish. It was great fun. Now, the Cat’s got a mouse to chase.

Since I am slack on the ride reports, I’m just going to tack a short report of today’s ride onto the above.

Killer Bee and The Fat Cat met again at the bottom of Mud Pike on a blazingly hot day in September. Bee’s blood lust had apparently been satisfied last Thursday. He put on a good lead pace but always kept an eye back for The Cat. He amiably offered his wheel whenever the Cat was flagging. In the end they averaged 15 mph over the Pike, Skyline north, Jumonville, and across through Hopwood and Fairchance. The Cat made it to after school pickup with 40 minutes to spare.

Ironic Inhibition

2008-08-28T11:50:00.004-04:00

Four Grimpeurs hit the highlands Tuesday. Lord MonkeyButt Joined The Fat Cat, Phallose and newest member, Chris N. It was a gloriously sunny day with moderate temperatures and just enough wind to be helpfully cooling rather than quarrelsome and pushy.

The Fat Cat was the only one on a cross bike. This did not occur out of some kind of masochistic machoism. The speedy little Cervelo that usually labors beneath The Cat’s girth apparently did not like the extra Sunday morning mountain ride that Aerobinator, Slider and the boys cooked up a week and a half ago. Her already shortened chain broke early in the ride and lost a few links in the repair. A couple of hours later, in the midst of a climb, she went into a fit of madness and began to violently cannibalize herself. In the end a twisted derailleur lay on the road and the rear wheel was warped beyond rotation. All attempts to turn her into a single speed failed and the call for evac was made. The poor girl still hangs in the garage awaiting a new derailleur hanger, derailleur, cables and wheel repair.

Of course, much to Lord MonkeyButt’s irritation and everyone else’s amusement, the Fat Cat forgot something. Now, he has at various times ridden without gloves, without water, without a helmet, without socks and in tennis shoes (very painful with clipless pedals). If you’ve ever happened to see a potbellied half man, half hairy ape type creature on a bike then you had the misfortune of coming across The Fat Cat on the day he forgot his shirt. Quite a stir occurred in the Bigfoot community that day. But, without shorts, that might be where the line is drawn. Fortunately, the world was saved from a Sasquatch in whitie tighties sighting by a pair of swimming trunks buried deep in The Cat’s trunk.

Despite MonkeyButt’s official lodging of a pre-ride excuse—he had suffered grave illness recently, possibly pneumonia or maybe even TB— he rode up Mud pike with aplomb. Phallose has reportedly been working on his skills and was strong. Chris is 140lbs, nuff said. Then there was the Cat.

He didn’t lodge any excuse. He did so well in the 4 climb extravaganza last week that he thought this one summit adventure would be a breeze. Wrong! It was evident early that the legs were not willing. The knee jerk reaction was to blame Earnestina. But, it really wasn’t her fault. The funny part was, though turning the pedals was shockingly difficult, the pulse rate and respirations were not even close to the red. After some time alone on the climb to think, the reason became clear.

It was really quite interesting and ironic. The Fat Cat attended a seminar on neurology, more specifically—reflexogenic systems, the weekend prior. This entailed 15 hours of sitting in an uncomfortable chair as well as about 10 hours sitting in the driver’s seat. Monday morning’s up and at ‘em turned into a wince and roll outta bed affair. Yep, the old disc was acting up and making standing erect a difficult proposition.

By Tuesday afternoon the Cat’s back had calmed down quite a bit, at least in the realm of cortical realization of pain. The ride up the hill, however, showed the very mechanisms covered in the seminar to be at work. The damaged tissues were sending impulses out that were reflexively causing inhibition of the muscles of the low back and legs. The gams were only recruiting a fraction of their total motor units. Thus, The Cat was at his limit in terms of strength to turn the cranks but, because of less muscle recruitment, oxygen usage and cardiac output, were not maxed out. Now, that’s one hell of an excuse; don’t cha think?

After the Cat finally limped up to his comrades on the mountain top, all headed out across Skyline Drive, past the Summit Inn, past the perpetually closed Fabrizi’s Italian eatery and down the mountain via Jumonville Road. Earnestina showed herself to be a pretty good downhiller and brought a small measure of redemption for the climb.

Pressed for time, the Grimpeurs made a pretty good run along the foot of the mountain. Chris andPhallose finally opened it up between Hopwood and Fairchance . Through great effort, The Cat caught a wheel and hung on for a bit. MonkeyButt was lost in the jet wash. He would later proffer a second, post drop, excuse. He had to make a call…okay. The kid is really learning form The Fat Cat but he’s still got a ways to go.

The Grimpeurs all made it back to Haydentown with minutes to spare, strung out but safe. The whole trip was only about 30 miles but they were good, mountain miles. Everybody enjoyed the ride. Chris earned his Grimpeur name with little struggle. He is “Goldfish” because he’s wafer-thin and always has a smile (like a Goldfish cracker). See ya next time.

Tunnel Grimping

2008-08-23T19:10:00.011-04:00

The Fat Cat has added some music to MonkeyButt's guest post. It's the kinda thing Williams likes, or did in the old days. You might have to turn it off to actually read the post as it is not really conducive to cognition.

Today, a non Grimping sidebar bonus post by me,

Evan. As I was coming home from working in Valley Forge Friday, I decided to take a small break at Breezewood Pa and explore the abandoned 12 mile stretch of Pa Turnpike hidden in the area. Back in 1968 this section of the Pike was closed because the two tunnels became a bottleneck and current road building methods deemed it more cost effective to plow through the mountain rather then bore another tunnel. There were 3 tunnels effected by this and these are the pictures of two along this 12 mile stretch. The first tunnel was Rays Hill, approx. 3700 feet long. As usual I was 90% prepared for this trip the missing 10% being a lighting system but little matter....I made the decision to go through in the dark as I could see the exit portal on the other side. As I went through things got darker then I imagined and I began whistling in the dark to ward off potential unknown beings in the tunnel, waiting to take me down.....I'm not really afraid of much, but this was a bit unsettling.

As I pedaled down the crumbling road I could not help but feel like Charlton Heston in Omega Man.....it was quiet and empty all around. I neared the next tunnel at Sidling Hill and peered inside. As I remembered from the info I had read earlier, this tunnel is 6500 feet long and passes under the current turnpike road. The sound of dripping water and a blackness blacker then my very soul left me only peering in, not to enter.

I will let the pictures speak for them selves as I am still sick after two weeks and feel very uncreative at this point.

A Mountain Too Far

2008-08-20T16:50:00.004-04:00

Dear Madam,

We regret to inform you that your son didn’t make it this time. He fought alongside his unit with valor and honor and gave all he had to give. Our mission was an all volunteer detail. We were to take four major hills all in one day. The fact that he knew the enormity of what was being asked and still took that step forward with only six other seasoned Grimpeurs speaks volumes about his courage and fortitude. You should always be proud.

Our mission was far beyond anything we had done before. We trained as best we could but for some things you just can’t be fully prepared. We pushed on for many miles through the woods and took two pitched battles at Mud Pike and Jumonville without losing a man. That much should have been enough. I could see it in the sallow faces of the men. Retreat at that point would have been unquestioned and without shame. That we fought on, and the horrors that followed, I alone take responsibility for that.

I know I shouldn’t go into detail, after what I did to your son, but I feel a need to unburden myself. I led the boys into uncharted territory. By the time we got lost the first time, we were already down two men. There were rumblings from some of the others that we should turn back. Despite the wounds already suffered by your son on this, his first Grimpeur mission, he was not among them. His only complaint was that he might slow us down. It brings tears to my eyes just to think of his bravery in the face of extreme physical adversity.

I had been told that Ohiopyle hill was a real meat grinder. One grizzled old veteran had told me that if we ever were to assault that point, we would never make it past Mt. Carmel. To have taken on the task after already fighting two arduous uphill struggles was simply madness. But, sometimes in the heat of battle—when the sweat of our endeavors reddens the eyes and our muscles burn like slow fuses ready to explode—the forward push becomes all encompassing.

Initially, we rolled up the mountain with little resistance. I have to admit I was a little drunk on the tap of our easy progress. Surely we would be heroes, taking such an imposing chunk of territory so quickly. I forgot that heroism always comes with a price. I cannot describe the fear that overcame me when I saw our foe rise up to its full height before us. I admit that I myself sat down and cried for a brief moment at the sight. Honestly, we would have turned back but we had already passed the point of no return. We were caught between the proverbial rock and the hard place.

Against an impossible gradient we flung ourselves again and again until finally we reached the safety of high ground. We had made it but no one rejoiced, there were too many miles to cross before we were thrown into the breech again.

Despite his best efforts, your son began to succumb to exhaustion, dehydration and general trauma. The boys tried to feed him and pull him along as best they could but it was no use. Killer Bee Stayed behind with him and called for a rescue evac. That was the last I ever saw of him. We remaining three fought our way up one last mountain on route 40. Just a few miles from home one of our strongest men even faltered and fell behind. In the end we logged more uphill miles and elevation change and a greater grade than Mount Ventoux in France. That’s without counting the rollers in between.

New grunts are always razzed and nicknames for Larry such as “Kid Dynamite,” “Dwarf Star” and “Trizilla” were playfully mentioned. But, for the way he kept tagging along like a little brother, and for how the boys nursed him along without complaint, “Cubby” is the name that stuck. He will live on in Grimpeur lore.

Calm Before the Storm

2008-08-13T12:15:00.003-04:00

“We have nothing to fear—but fear itself.” The little known following line to this famous quote is, “That is, of course, excepting the climbing of several monstrous hills in succession by means of a bicycle.”

Legs and Birdman cycled the 20 miles in from Morgantown and joined the Fat Cat at the foot of the Appalachians. The skies were lightly overcast, temperatures were in the seventies and humidity was low, perfect conditions for a little ride. The Grimpeurs started up the mountain with the promise of a virgin 43 mile route with climbs up both sides of the ridge. The route was to pass Lake Courage and skirt the Fort Necessity battlefield. http://www.mapmyride.com/ride/united-states/pa/haydentown/330163230958 Alas, Legs flatted out at the top of Mud Pike and the fix took a while. So, instead of blazing trails, the group fell back on the same two bagger as Thursday— because it was so much fun.

The Cat decided to attack one of his weaknesses and do a lot of standing on the pedals in a bid to keep up on the steep climbs. The pace was a bit faster than Thursday, enough to keep Legs in short sentences rather than long diatribes. Everyone was riding strong. In fact, nobody seemed to be feeling much pain until the second summit. Big Daddy, of course, showed everyone who was boss along the way if they got a little too feisty.

Sometimes when you’re wrestling your way up a hill for thirty straight minutes, you kind of fold inward. To notice what condition anyone else is in would require too much effort. The picture below was snapped with much difficulty after the second climb. Only after seeing it later did The Cat realize he wasn’t the only one feeling it.

Suffice it to say that everyone had a workout by the time they got back down the mountain and into Haydentown. The Fat Cat was feeling particularly dry of mouth, much like long past Sunday mornings of a misspent youth. Everyone piled into the Cat’s car, their bikes sticking from top and open trunk like porcupine quills. Time constraints weren’t the only thing stopping them from cycling home.

“So, what’s all this about hoo-ha about fear?” you say. “That ride seemed to go pretty well. Nobody’s innards were melting like summer statuary at Madame Trousseau’s with the heat on? No one’s legs seized like rusted pistons? Did someone blow like a Daisy Cutter and I missed it?” Before you go feeling all mislead, realize that fear is usually of the unknown—of what is to come.

The Aerobinator informs the Grimpeurs that he will grace them with his exalted presence Thursday. In a fit of inspiration, or madness, The Cat designed a course specifically to put some hurtin’ on the big “A”. He then splashed this epic, four summit, diabolical extravaganza all over the internet via the Mon Bike Club site. This, of course, drew other local luminaries such as Slider, Birdman, etc. out of the woodwork.
Haydentown/Dunbar 4 climb
Find more Bike Rides in Haydentown, Pennsylvania
(I left off one KOM marker near Ohiopyle State Park.)
Now you can feel the fear creeping in, can’t you. The hero Phallose backed out when he found out that his mommy wouldn’t pick him up if he got tired. Did you actually think we bought that last second groundbreaking ceremony thing, old boy? If the big Fat Cat was feeling spent after two peaks, how the hell was he gonna make two more. Sure, it looked all “Tour de Francy” when he mapped out the stage. Sure, just the look of it stirred the competitive fires. But, guess what—The Fat Cat is no Tour de France rider! If it’s going to hurt the Aerobinator, then it’s gonna kill The Cat. Maybe this ride will finally knock the delusions of cycling grandeur out of his thick head. If he’s lucky, those parasites from George Washington’s watering hole will save him from the whole thing with a nice case of Giardiasis. One can only hope…or lie.

A Honey of a Ride -or- The Dishwashers

2008-08-08T15:50:00.002-04:00

Any ride is gonna be good when it starts off with Grimpeurs bearing gifts of homage to The Fat Cat. Killer Bee sacrificed the toil of his insect minions and presented the Cat with some “dark beer” honey. That’s gonna be great! Much thanks. Thursday's group was rounded out with the return of Slider who brought along Bob Vernon as a candidate. You guys can bring your offerings by later.

Killer Bee took his turn as nursemaid to the ever expanding Fat Cat while Slider and Bob spun easily to the top of Mud Pike. On Papa Bear, The Cat put on a pretty good 20% grade sprint and got some separation, just to see if he could. On the 3 percent final stretch, Killer Bee rallied back and lured the Cat into another sprint. Bee laughed when the Cat sat up just before his comrade at arms said he was about to blow. The Cat filed away the information.

The temperatures were great and everyone was feeling flush. The Grimpeurs headed north on Skyline drive. This time the trip along the ridgeline was extended with a shot up Braddock road behind the Cross, followed by a plunge down the mountain on that schizophrenic hill that was ascended for the first time when Slider last joined the fray. After that the group sauntered happily along the foot of the mountain for a bit until they came to a crossroad.

To continue tickling the toes of the mountain all the way back or to go for the double bagger, that was the question. Who knows if it was the fantastic riding conditions or the perfect combination of pullers and suckers (clean up that filthy mind); whatever it was, everybody was game. So up the mountain for the second time went the Grimpeurs.

The Cat stayed within himself and kept within 47 seconds of Killer Bee all the way up. Bob was about 25 seconds ahead and slider took the summit with ease; although just where the summit was, that was a matter of dispute. Slider said he thought the Jumonville retreat, with its water fountains and such, seemed like a logical spot to regroup, but he just wanted to keep on going. Isn’t that just like him— that 5 % body fat energizer bunny. We checked under his jersey for batteries.

“Wow that rain is refreshing,” turned to, “Damn that’s cold,” just as quickly as the summer storm had jumped out of the blue. Where were the locals handing out back issues of Le Monde and Le Equipe for the Grimpeurs to stuff into their jerseys? Luckily, the good old Summit Inn and her majestic shelter came to the rescue.

As the storm thundered about, the Grimpeurs shared a delicious “Chianti platter” of cheeses and breads and imbibed the various beverages of choice. The storm, all fluster and little fury, blew itself out in short order. Satiated, The Cat and company were ready to hit the road as soon as the Sun came out. Unfortunately, the words “resort” instead of hotel, “Chianti Platter” instead of cheese plate and “service on the veranda” did not come together in the slowly warming minds of the Grimpeurs until the check came.

“Ahem, Miss, yes, it seems that we are a little light with regard to the bill. We’d gladly pay you Wednesday (or later today) for a hamburger (or inflated cheese plate) today.” What’d she expect from such a scraggly bunch clad in wet spandex and shoes without heels? Hell, if we had means we would have arrived in big American automobile, right? I mean, why ride a bicycle if you’ve got a perfectly good car? The Grimpeurs reputation must have preceded them though, for the young lass had no qualms about letting them ride off on their word. Either that or she was smitten with Sliders worldly looks and manner (See the above picture, he's the dashing chap in orange.). Leave a partial payment? “No, no,” she said, "that would just make it confusing” (just like the sentence structure, not to mention punctuation, of this paragraph). The Grimpeurs bid the trusting young girl adieu and slipped out onto the steaming pavement. They swore they could see a tear cross her cheek as she waved from the whitewashed rail.

For the amusement of his fellow Grimpeurs, Killer Bee, who was riding strong all day, repeatedly pulled away and blew up like an old Chevy Impala on the final leg. Up fire tower hill, the last climb, The Cat put his considerable ass into it. This time he didn’t quit. Bee cried out from below as he blew thermonuclear. Slider and Bob didn’t pass— let’s leave it at that. Short hill sprints: that is really the only trick The Fat Cat has got in his bag.

Well, there is one more trick, the gravity sprint. The Cat regained his descending crown as he ripped off a ferocious descent down the mountain. He did this mainly to avoid following Slider into any more off road mayhem.

It was another GREAT ride, the kind that leaves you smiling all day and pedaling it all over again in your dreams. The Cat even brought his bike into the office afterward so he could gaze lovingly on her the rest of the afternoon. Bob, you shall be known as “Pockets,” as in light pockets, for not being fully prepared for the finery to which the Grimpeurs are accustomed in their feed zones.

Her Cup Runneth Over

2008-08-06T08:50:00.004-04:00

The Fat Cat forsook Mud Pike and her high risin’ pals Tuesday and did some work closer to home. But enough of that: a recounting of such small matters will not do today. There were big doin’s this weekend to talk about.

An overall Grimpeur champion was crowned at a huge Saturday night gala this week. Oooooh, the breathless anticipation, the tingling of spines and the erect hairs on the napes of necks. The electricity in the air of the great hall was palpable. All the dignitaries; Legs, Birdman, MonkeyButt, Analgesus, etc., were there in black tie and tails.

After painstaking calculations over the arcane and ancient Grimpeur king of the mountain point system, it was determined that this year’s winner, in the female division, was—La Femme Grimpeur! Thunderous applause nearly drowned out the torrent of joyful sobs accompanying such a prestigious major award. The orchestra sang out “Chariots of Fire.” Corks popped and glasses clanked neath a shower of confetti blanketing head and shoulders in red and white polka dots. Wow! You just had to be there.

Well, actually…the “great hall” was a table at Black Bear restaurant. The corks were really bottle caps and the confetti was only left over helmet head dandruff. Black ties and tails were really black t-shirts and tie-dye. No one sobbed and the gathering was really a send off for La Femme Grimpeur, who has completed her thesis work and is leaving for Utah. The Fat Cat just glommed on with the whole award thing. But, other than that, it was all exactly as written.

Oh— the orchestra was really one guy with a guitar. He played Beatles and ELP tunes at barely audible levels. The old codger was oblivious to Her Eminence and her courtesans, as well as just about everyone else in the place. He didn’t know “Chariots of Fire.” But everything else I told you was spot on.

Well… I guess the calculations weren’t all that complex. The winner was pretty clear. In truth, La Femme Grimpeur was the only female to have taken up the sword to do battle with the beast. (http://tuesdaygrimpeur.blogspot.com/2008/03/king-is-crowned.html.) Doesn’t that make the accomplishment all the more grand? Of a whole gender, only she was up to the challenge. You wouldn’t accuse me of melodrama and hyperbole if I said that, would you?

But! There really was a trophy. It really did say, “2008 Grimpeur Champion: Female Division.”( It would have said more but engraving was 3 bucks a word.) And, La Femme Grimpeur was happy to receive her trophy. Of these things, I can assure you. If you have read any of my past ride reports, you can surely see that I am not prone to exaggeration or fabrication, can’t you?

Good luck, La Femme Grimpeur, with your new orthomolecularphytowhoziwhatzit degree. Enjoy Utah. I hear they have some pretty good hills out there. You are expected to uphold the Grimpeur faith and promote the order— a missionary in a land of missionaries. Be warned, the Fat Cat has people out there. A group of Grimps might just drop in someday and expect you to lead a ride.
(Open comments are back. It would be better if you used the "name" selection rather than anonymous. Only foul types use anonymous.)