Greatest Grimpeur Inspires Greatest Grimp

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

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

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

(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

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

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

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

Mud Madness at Marilla

(The above photos courtesy of JR Petsko)

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

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

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

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

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

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