Boggs 8 Hour with Mr. Smith and the Danimal.

You didn't need to tell me to take the day off.
You didn't need to tell me to train.
I got my butt kicked at the SoCal Enduro 6 hours of Temecula.  You can read about that race here :-).
I learned my lesson.

Well, I sort of learned my lesson.

Time Heals All Wounds
Within a month, I had completely forgotten about the severe beat down I sustained at Vail.  I'd ridden barely five hours on the mountain bike and was, for lack of better words, perplexed at how I could've seized up in just three hours time, leaving the final two hours to struggle, suffer, walk, stretch, cramp, stretch, and flail about on course.

Rest is important, which is why Nicole and I went out and saw Maps & Atlases at the The Echo in Echo Park.  With an 11pm set, we were out well past midnight, dodging hipsters and listening to good music.  Danimal called in with a late arrival, which gave me plenty of time to pack and forget things like a warm jacket.

We were pumped!  The drive up was uneventful, save for the normal shenanigans 5 north between the grapevine and the 580.  2 lanes, 18-wheelers and lots of traffic leads to some interesting use of the highway.  Our discussion centered around how the race would be pretty "awesome" and probably wouldn't be "that bad."  Tales from Adam Carolla kept us occupied until we raided the Safeway in Napa for ice, beer, Queso Ruffles and cheddar bratwursts.  We set up the tents and crashed out.  All was right with the world.

Danimal, the Subaru XV, the sleds, and a Napa background.

Morning Time!
6 a.m.  Dan and I crawled out of our tents, temperatures in the mid-fifties, feeling solid.  We lit the moka pot and very shortly had café gurgling.  That coffee comes out strong with the moka pot, nearly syrup, you could probably stand a spoon up in it.  We strolled down to registration and picked up our stuff, huffed it back up the hill to the Subaru XV when it hit us: 7:05 am.  Staging was at 7:45.  Shit.  So as not to panic, we pinned jerseys, set-up number plates, arranged cleats and did all sorts of things that, realistically, should've been done on Thursday or Friday.

Number plate, complete with timing chip on the back.
We also had seat post number stickers that contained a timing chip as well.

The good omen of the day?  My number was 248.  My first 8 hour race would use the same number as my first motocross race.  Pretty cool!

7:30

My bibs are still in the bag.  Socks are on but I'm still in the Vans flying around Danimal's car trying to figure out what I'm going to bring for food.  Water bottle's are still empty but things are looking up.

7:50

So we're five minutes late to staging and still trying to figure out where we are going to set up.  We missed our connection with Jason King due to his cell not having any service.  I stuffed my Ogio backpack full with brownies, bars, a 2-gallon water dispenser, Skratch Labs powder, Endurolytes and some chain lube.

7:58

With nowhere to put our stuff, we threw it down right next to the start finish line, just off the course behind the banner separating riders from spectators.  Real amateur.  A big pile of dust already coated our food containers as I scrambled to clean my Spys.  With the XV being a mile away and up a steep, albeit short hill, anything that was not here in this backpack would remain at the car.  This was it.

Race Time!
Having just made it with enough time to spare, I was able to clip in and roll out somewhere in the first 150-250 riders.  My plan was simple: go easy for 2 hours.  Then, with 6 hours remaining, take an inventory of my legs and my mindset, and do my best to really give'r for the final 2 hours.  If I could just make it to 6 to go, I thought, I might be able to meet my goal of being on the bike for the maximum amount of time.  (At the Temecula 6 hour, I cramped so bad that I dropped out with an hour and five minutes remaining.  Unfortunately, my lap times were well over that mark, meaning that I'd ride for nothing).  I did not want a repeat of Temecula.

The first climb up the fire road was like driving to work on the 110 towards DTLA: traffic.  Rubber to rubber, on the brakes, off the brakes, standing, accelerating, stoping again.  My track standing skills came in good use, as I was able to remain clipped in until the top of the climb.  That was, until the Pinoy on a $10k BMC tried to pass me while we were stopped.  He ran into a bush (dumb) and lost his balance into the trailer (dumber), taking out my front wheel.  I cursed him under my breath as I picked myself up, wondering how someone on such a nice bike could be such a shitty rider.  We high-fived and I went about my day.

The Course
Did I mention the course was siiiiiick?  12 minutes on a fire road took us to another five or so minutes of single-track climbing followed by a sweet descent.  Some more rolling, some more up and down.  More epic single-track through the trees.  It went on and on.  Eventually, you bottom out at another fire road and prepare for a 6 to 8 minute, steep, heavy climb.  A few minutes of single-track and there was a lap.  Not bad, my friends.

Lap 1: 57:12

At the conclusion of the lap, I pulled off and dropped by hydration bag.  It was too heavy and neither the temperature, nor the length of the lap warranted a bag for extended trips.  I was going to be fine with a bottle each lap.  Once filled with raspberry Skratch Labs, I was off.  Each lap, I planed to take anywhere from 3 to 10 minutes to refuel, eat, stretch, and perform any bike maintenance necessary.  It would be a great way, I thought, to stay loose in my legs and lower back.  Not great for time saving, but I figured the breaks would yield positive results during the sixth and seventh hours.

The second lap clicked off without incident.  The course was opening up and the rhythm of the day was really starting to fall into place: Longer climb, rolling, rolling, longer climb, finish line.  At the end of lap two, I managed to find the Danimal's electrolyte pills.  Full bottle.  Back on the bike.  Keep in mind, each lap time from here on out starts with filling bottles and eating, checking tire pressure and/or wiping down the chain.  I wish I would've kept track of this time and separated it from the actual ride time.

Lap 2: 58:54

I don't remember much of lap 3.  Some dude on the Bike Monkey team (or in a Bike Monkey kit) came barreling through on a descent started yelling, "Let me pass!  Let me pass!"  He didn't realize that a few of us were already bottlenecked behind a lady who was doing her absolute best to descend quickly, safely, while trying to get out of the way as soon as possible.  From a mountain biking perspective, this was not a cool move on Bike Monkey's part.  Oh well.  I took a natural break at some point during lap three.  Not that you need to know.

Lap 3: 58:22

Lap 4 started rad because I was feeling all sorts of good mojo, or sensations.  Mojations™.  All was right with the world.  The day started getting a little warm for me, which was a perfect excuse and opportunity to unzip my shirt and blast the bare chest look.  The trail was perfect, and I was absolutely owning a breakneck speed section of jagged-rock-rib-breaking fire road that rewarded the "no brakes" approach.

My view after the race.  Wrecked.  Beautiful.

Lap 4: 57:16

At the start of lap 5, I was hauling the mail, but my stomach was unhappy.  I was craving bacon like nobody's business.  I was imagining bacon, thinly sliced, and crispy.  I was imagining thick-cut bacon that was still chewy, though warm and salty.  I was imagining pork belly.  Then I started on pulled pork, slathered in a spicy chipotle bbq sauce with grilled onion strings on a brioche bun with a fresh slaw and thick cut fries.  The last time I went to the Red Car Brewery I had their pulled pork, which is fabulous, more especially because their chef makes all the sauces in house.  It's a really nice atmosphere, actually, though I prefer Strand for my South Bay Beer fix.  The owner is a strong cat. 4 rider and all-around good guy. TREE!!!!!!

My mind was starting to wander.

Lap 5: 58:59

What I remember about lap 6 was that I didn't think I could finish lap 6.  I remember thinking that I was going way too slow.  I jumped off for another natural break and couldn't find it in my heart to get back on the bike.  I thought about Temecula, I thought about a cold beer, I thought more about bacon, and I ate a chocolate brownie.  Lap 6 was a dog.

My hands became the new issue.  In my haste of preparation, I forgot gloves.  Located back in the campsite, I sobbed through the rocky fire road and yelped while tackling the switchbacks.  The next two hours were going to suck.

Lap 6: 1:06:02

I was now well-done and properly sun-kissed, even though the majority of the race takes place under tree cover.  The fire road climbs were exposed enough to get in my head and cause me to doubt my electrolyte strategy.  "How come I haven't cramped yet."  I thought.  "It's only a matter of time.  Just try and bring'er home."

My hands had absorbed, literally, the rubber on my grips.  They were now blistered and covered in the black, sticky substance, which was not dirt or mud but, very clearly, rubber.  The center of the palms had the "Pivot Cycles" logo engrained into the skin.  I was having a very rough go of it, but still enjoying my descents.  I will not, however, forget gloves at my next race.  Unless you mountain bike barehanded enough to get the hands tough, there's no way they can be forgotten.  Danny Hart doesn't forget his, neither should I.

Shredded, rubber hands.

After topping out the fire road, I overtook another rider who was chanting out loud.  "One more lap," he said, probably in delirium, unaware of my presence to his left, "I'll still have time for one more lap."  This was motivating enough.

Lap 7: 1:05:33

I made it home right around 3:55pm, and I didn't really bother to eat.  One more lap would give me 8 and would allow me to meet my goal of being on the bike for 8 hours.  I attacked the climb like someone who was capable of attacking the climb.  At the summit, I cracked.  Quickly, I jumped off the bike and stretched out my lower back.  It was in lockdown mode and none too happy of my decision to ride my bike all day.

Further evidence of my cracking, was my sudden lack of strength.  One swerving line gave you the choice of hopping a rock or cutting the line a bit sharper to the right, so as to avoid it all together.  The former was faster and cooler, while the latter was easier.  I tried to hop, but had nothing in my legs.  The rock made a solid contact with my bottom bracket, which sounded a bit like "I told you so" or "Got ya!"  Not ideal.

It was coming up the final climb when it all came together.  And yet, on the way down the hill through the pits, I was already hungry for something else.  I had met my goal, yet, rolled across the line only moderately satisfied.

Lap 8: 1:03:44


"What if I had prepared an ice chest with pre-filled bottles?" "What if I had made the portable food items I'd planned?"  An old habit that hasn't died yet.  I took a further step back and enjoyed the moment, flashing my exposed nipples to the crowd, many of whom cheered.  Some gasped.

J-King and the Danimal crossed shortly after.  Dan and I exchanged a strong dude-hug, as well as a look of pain.  We'd both done something that was, for lack of a better word, difficult.  Really tough.  Jason King later said it was one of the hardest races he'd ever done.  This made me happy.



Elapsed Time: 8:06:04
Average Lap Time: 1:00:45

Speak Softly and Leave the Stick Behind

"So you're telling me that you have a job?"

"Ya, I gots a job."

"Here, at school? On campus?"  

"Yeea Yeeea, I gots a job."

"And what might that job be?"

"Goin' crayyyy and actin' a foool!  aaaaaaahhhhh!!!"

Well, I walked into that one.  Wednesday afternoons are never pretty.  Block periods only enhance the general depression and frustration that many students carry with them throughout the day.  Like depressed picketers who just had their rally shut down, students sulk through the hallways.  It's both comical and depressing. 

They avoid through tardiness, through so-called "laziness," with destructive habits like graffiti (oh which graffiti-filled backpacks are most popular), and they avoid class by doing the most annoying thing on the planet: walking with the pace of a snail.  

Try.  They try.  They try, but just as the picketers have to choose between leaving their post or incarceration, so must the students choose to either enter class, or suffer the consequences.

If you're in a bad mood, these are two really, really sucky choices.  

Don't Debate...

I tried to talk the girl into understanding that a job actually requires that you get COMPENSATED in some way, but it was to no avail.  She's not on my caseload.  She's not in my class. She treats me, and many other teachers, like dirt.  I move on.  Besides, it's Boggs weekend.

Your face is a boggs...

Coincidentally, the week was jam-packed with things.  From concerts to final papers to IEP meetings to more final papers, a presentation of epic proportions and more students actin' a fool, there was a little bit of every flavor present in this first week of May.   The 29th and 30th came and went, as they do, but without any sort of forewarning as to what kind of ridiculous day Wednesday would be.  

As a reward for great attendance in CST testing, teachers and administrators united under the banner of "positive reinforcement" by shortening block schedules by 15 minutes for both days of block periods (Shortening class time is a blasphemous idea) in order to show a freaking MOVIE.  A pretty darn GOOD movie.  The Avengers.

Think back.  For some of you, way back.  Movie day.  Movie day was the business.  You get to watch movies (good) in class (plusgood) and NOT do any work (doubleplusgood).

For many of our students, movie day is quite "ungood."  Why?  Because watching a movie is boring.  "Boring you say?  But it's movie day!  Movie day is the best!  You get to watch movies!  How can students find such a simple, easy thing to be so annoying and frustrating, something worthy of misbehaving in class?" 

Key:

• If watching a movie distracts from assignment or replaces class time, movie = good.
• If watching a movie is the main focus of the period, movie = bad.

And so it was.  Because the movie was actually the "focus" of two, separate 70 minute free periods, students felt that they were "forced" to watch the movie.  And there it is.  We would've been better off telling the students that they had more testing, and at the last minute, tell them that the tests were canceled and replaced with the Avengers.  Then, and only then, would the movie be enjoyed by students.

Despite the overwhelming wave of depression you feel when you realize that these students can never, never be pleased, I felt great!

"The Boggs 8 hour is this Saturday," I told myself, "and you are so NOT going to cramp this time!"  Boggs is a mountain bike race.  It's a mountain bike race where you race your bike for 8 hours.  You pay money to do it.  You will not win, and you know this, but you do it anyway.  You might crash and hurt yourself.  Further proof to my students that "white boys be crazy."

Act II

I had a chance to sit down with a student I don't really know during the movie time.  I was taking care of some paperwork in the conference room when he was ushered into the room and instructed to remain seated.  He got in a fight.  For awhile, I couldn't wrap my mind around fights in school.  Matt and Cory got in a fight in high school.  They took care of business off-campus.  

At this school, fights are almost exclusively held on-campus.  It took a few fights before I realized the simple truth: these kids don't actually want to fight.  Fighting on-campus, for the most part, insures a speedy breakup.  Fighting at the park across the street leaves the outcome in the air.  Will students actually stop the fight?  Will there be mercy?  These are things are cannot be controlled.  There is, however, a 100% chance that the fight will be broken up at school, either by a student, a teacher, a staff member, or a cop.  

The formula is simple, push, shove, punch, punch, over.  And what are you supposed to tell a kid, really, when he gets shoved twice?  Of course we tell him his options, to walk away, to turn the shoulder, but it wasn't so long ago that we were in high school.  

I often forget how tough high school is and how difficult it is to find your way, to make friends, and make your own identity.  Each one of these kids has so much going on, and in the whirlwind of the day, it's easy to forget that these kids have FEELINGS!  Whoa!

Bottom line: I can never condone fighting on campus.  But, I get why he fought back.  And I can never, ever tell him that he was wrong.

So you want to be an endurance mountain bike racer?

Storm the Beach 2012 was quite nearly the "perfect storm" of characters from San Diego State University Cycling circa 2008 - 2010: Danimal, Logan Freaking Fiedler, Clodfelter and myself, all of us having made the transition to: a) racing 'cross occasionally and beating the shit out of people and winning (Logan), or b) racing 'cross occasionally and having fun with it (Clodfelter and the Danimal), or c) racing 'cross every fucking weekend, treating it like a second career and getting shit for results (Hello!).

Storm the Beach

It was on this day that another event was taking place.  This event, of course, was the November 10th running of SoCal Endurance's 12 and 6 Hours of Temecula.

"Poor Lily," I thought to myself, "sitting all alone in my room while the Spooky gets aalllll the love.  A spontaneous, ill-advised purchase to erase a breakup.  She's just sitting there with nothing to do.  Curse you spontaneous purchases!"  

Lily (for those of you who don't know) is my totally cherry, totally sweet Pivot 429.  Like my Spooky Supertouch, she came to me in the "Heart of Darkness" anodized black.  The color roughly translate to:  "I kill you."

Lily is, quite simply, a downhill-rocket-ship-climb-crushing-quick-and-nimble-Imperial-Walker-par-excellence.  A bike that, when delivered in size large, is indeed far more than a jamoke like your humble narrator could ever ask for.

Plans were set.

"I will ride the 6 Hours of Temecula....solo.  And it will be good."

It started like this:

Let's take a brief moment to notice that the Danimal was the first one to jump on the wagon.

From there it was a progression through a series of misguided, silly, and downright ridiculous assumptions about what was in store for me on January 19.

1. I've been doing 6 hour road rides throughout December, many of them over 100 miles.

2. It's JANUARY!!!  The cool weather will be in my favor!  

3. While I'm not a downhiller, my affinity for all things two wheels (motocross, cyclocross and mountain biking) will mean that I will descend safely and not waste precious energy.

4. I've been climbing like a beast.  My rides in Alpine all broke the 1000 feet/ 10 mile rule...easily.  I'll be fine if I climb at pace.

5. I will be riding for a long time, but after a long cyclocross season, I've got plenty of high-wattage bursts stored up.  I'll be fine on all of those quick, vertical grunts that are littered throughout the course.

The thing I should've been worried about was eating. 

Good morning Starshine, the Earth says 'hello!'

4 am hit me like 4 am should, and not because I was up until midnight making almond butter sandwiches and watching the Australian Open.  I could taste the blood of the course and my competitors.  They were scared, I was prepared.  The feast was sure to be succulent and filling.  I had paid my registration and, therefore, was overly-prepared for the race.  There was no doubt in my mind that three almond butter and strawberry jam sandwiches, water, and some sweet n' salty bars would propel me into the top 15.  

Danimal, LFF, and one soon-to-be suffering dog.

Lap 1

At ease, laughing and joking, we rolled up to the start area with a bit of shock: people.  People everywhere.  So many people about to indulge in the pain.  It was clear to Logan that we would need to move up further towards the front, so we did.  But the people, I couldn't get over how many racers were in attendance.  The series and promoters have obviously done the right things because there were newbies to the scene (us) and die-hard enduro-vets alike at this event.  Rolling through the camping areas out to the first climb, it was clear that SoCal Endurance has something going. 

Up we went.  The climbing started immediately and we went up quickly.  12 hour racers, team or solo, were on course at the same time as beginners, one lap riders, and 6 hour riders with or without a teammate waiting.  Everyone had a different pace but all I knew to do, being the complete amateur, was to pin it.  Fire road turned to double track turned to your typical desert trail about two bike-lengths wide.  With plenty of room to pass, riders made their way forward and backward, settling into the rhythm of the day.  

The course continued to wind up before a short, rocky descent took riders into a nice sandy wash.  Another quick grunt up the hill, a little down, a little up, some longer down, and then, as if out of nowhere, switchbacks.  SWEET SWITCHBACKS.  Technical, higher-cadence climbing.  Before you could breath there were two more steep, short, pitches.  People were off the bikes on the first lap pushing.  It was 9:15 in the morning.  5 hours and 45 minutes left.

Not shortly after, riders had to negotiate a very risky bit of single track with this super scenic, super killer drop off to the right.  Killer, as in, if you make a mistake, you'll probably fall for awhile.  Or maybe you'll be impaled by a root of some sort.  Either way.  Don't fall.  Around the corner and riders found the high ground, 1700 above the ocean.  It's the exact moment when your brain tells you that it must be all downhill from there.  

"Oh brain, how silly you are.  I'm looking at my Garmin and we're around 400 feet of vertical.  According to the race promoter, it's around 1200 feet per lap.  But never fear, legs, as 1200 feet is merely an appetizer.  We'll be fine."

You drop from the top down a series of awesome ridgeline descents.  Again, nothing too technical, but the penalty for a mistake was high.  As such, the descents became extremely technical.  On the first two laps alone I saw three different riders lugging their bikes up from 30 feet down the cliff.  They were fine, but there is something to be said for the uncanny ability of a pilotless bike to fall much further than the pilot.

Down to the bottom heading South followed by a quick turn North again.  Up again.  South, North etc etc.  After lap one, the picture was clear: when facing North, climb.  Southbound equals happy times.

Lap 1: 48 minutes

Lap 2

Pretty much the same but less people.

Lap 2: 48 minutes

Lap 3

In the scoring area before starting lap 2, I made no stop for water.  This is because, for the first 9 mile lap, I was enacting a top secret strategy: DO NOT DRINK WATER.  Water equals weight i.e. water weight.  Based on what I've heard from past-girlfriends, this is to be despised.  Therefore, it was my goal to avoid extra water weight.  Cyclists tell me all the time that 'weight' and 'extra' should never go together.  

Lap 3 started with a quick pit stop from the one, the only, Sara Hanson.  Sara Hanson is an anomaly of sorts.  She's rather unassuming because she's super nice, super sweet, super helpful, super smart, and has a dog that is actually a human trapped in a dog's body (Harlan the Destroyer).  She also happens to be the Danimal's better-half.  Little do people know, she can rip legs off and descends like Nicole Duke.  

So Sara was nice enough to hand me a bottle and I was nice enough to say thank you. I didn't ask about Logan or Dan because I wanted to appear calm and otherwise indifferent.  Full bidon, sweet n' salty bar, and I'm gone in 30 seconds.  I figured that after 100 minutes of riding I should eat, and I did.  Instantly, the bar dried my mouth out, as they tend to do.  It took me a full mile to get the bar down when I realized, "Hey asshole, you just killed your entire bottle.  Happy trails!"

With two miles to go, the cramping started.  Subtle, but there.

Lap 3: 55 minutes

Lap 4

Lap 4 was doomed from the beginning.  Not learning from previous mistakes, I took a bottle and one of my super-sandos and sped off.  Again, at the end of mile one, I had finished the sandwich and my water.  WONDERFUL!  Then the cramps hit, and I was forced to walk portions of the switchbacks.  NO LONGER SWEET SWITCHBACKS. The bitch of a climb after that sucked.  My drivetrain was a grinding mess.  The bottom bracket had completely dried out ("skreek, skreek, skreek").  For the remainder of the lap, feel free to revert back to the Lap 1 summary.  Replace the words "quick" with "hellish," and you'll get the idea. 

Lap 4: 61 minutes

Lap 5

Lap 5 was a proper slog.  I made sure to spend a minute with Sara at the finish line in an attempt to calm my nerves and ease the cramping.  I dropped more water (it was too late) and ate a bar (it was far too late).  I was cramping because I didn't eat or drink enough.  Everything sucked.

The switchbacks sucked.  They sucked because, as I cramped, I couldn't help but let out a loud, "WOWZUUHHHH!" To my disbelief, one rider took pity on me and threw a Pickle Pop my way. 

"Warm pickle juice, you say?  Why, yes.  Let me partake in this pickle-y goodness."

You mean warm pickle juice tastes good??  And how!  Never would I have assumed that warm pickle juice was as good as it was on that dusty hill but, if I could do it all over again, I'd ask him for another.

Ride.  Cramp.  Stretch.  Ride.  Cramp.  WOWZUUHHHHH!  Stretch.

Lap 5: 75 minutes

There's no telling if I could've made a sixth lap (which was my goal).  Best case scenario, a 75 minute lap.  The short, punchy climbs turned into short, punchy, bastard, evil climbs.  The downhills were no longer fun and, instead, became the proverbial waiting room for suffering: at some point, I knew it would end, and that I would have to go uphill again.

Logan lapped me on lap 5.  That made me a sad Matty.  Logan declared that it was "really hard."  That made me a less-sad Matty.

I arrived to the finish line at 1:50 p.m., which left only 70 minutes to get in another lap.  The writing was on the wall.  After lap 2, my splits were negative.  If I went out, I'd miss the 3 p.m. cut.  

Results

Logan Freaking Fiedler - 6th place, 7 laps, 63 miles and 9,411 feet of climbing.

Danimal - 14th place, 6 laps, 54ish miles and probably 6,000ish feet of climbing (start your Garmin on time please).

 I came in 29th place, 5 laps, 45 miles and 4,852 feet of climbing.  The field size was rather large, at nearly 60 riders, but the result stings.  Danimal and myself have decided to rethink our goals of doing a 24 hour mountain bike race this coming summer, but I'm already looking forward to June's 6 hour race.

Next time, Margarita Cliff Blocks.  Or, on second thought...

Tell Fran to keep her dirty hands off me

Blending
Blending two sports is often times a dumb idea.  Blending two sports only works for Mr. Phelps, and even then, that second sport is smoking weed. (He still smokes pot.  You know it.  I know it.)   Blending three sports is downright silly.  Need I remind us all about this thing called triathlon???  In our fragment of the universe, this thing exists.  Even so, this blog is not run by a triathlon hater, per se.  I merely sit, stare, and scratch my head.  T-1 is absolutely hilarious.

In the Olympics there is such a thing as the "Modern Pentathlon."  In this 5-event cluster of madness, athletes will compete in fencing, swim 200 meters, run 3 kilometers, "show jump" on a cute horsie, and....
....shoot a laser pistol.

But I digress.

This crossfit/cycling hybrid works, but it doesn't. Let me break it down for you:

Do I look better?  Yes.  Am I stronger?  Yes.  Do girls think I'm cute?  Duhhhhhh!  Do I hurt worse than ever before?  Hell yes.  Do I still have tan lines?  Of course.

So when I get an email bright and early Tuesday morning that I'll get to ride for Bob's Red Mill's newly formed grassroots/devo team, it took all of ten seconds to jump into the chamois and hit the road.  I pounded intervals up and down PV drive, dreaming of cat 3 cyclocross glory, epic run-ups, beer hand-ups, and podium finishes.  It was a beautifully painful training session with plenty of suffering.

Gonna Look So Hot Wearing This

I returned to my couch promptly, threw on some olympic coverage and passed out proper.  Tonight's workout?  Fran.

The Art of Underestimating

Okay, so if you're stupid (and I might very well qualify as such), you look at this workout and say something along the lines of:
"well, it's only two movements.  21 reps will be fine but kinda suck.  the 15 will really suck but it's shorter than 21.  and by the time I get to 9, I'll be super numb from pain and therefore, 9 will be super duper, though it might take some time.  cool."

If you are, at this point, shaking your head in disappointment at my hasty analysis of such a wod, you can now take a moment to say, "this fucking guy."

So this fucking guy shows up to the box in all sorts of good spirit.  A double espresso sitting warmly in my belly and the sudden inclination to get in a really official, healthy warm-up.  Rich Froning style.  He's hot.

Get, get yo' Fran on (and grind)
And it gets really real on the 11th of 21 thrusters when I realize that I am still a scrawny cyclist and there is no way I can get this 95lb (# for you hardcore cf'rs) barbell to go over my head for a 12th time in a row.  I have to drop it.

Think, Matt, Think.

Subtraction: 21-11 = 10.  Division: 10/4.....nope.  10/ 3.....shit.  10/2 = 5.  2x5 = 10.  Okay that checks out.  Two sets of 5.  Inhale.  Up!!!!

It is well known around the 7:15pm class that I can now do something that resembles a kipping pull-up.  Not well, of course, but I do them.  Those weren't a monster problem, despite taking time.

But the thrusters.  The thrusters were a lot like my first weeks of high school.  Brent was in my face, constantly reminding me of my big ears and skinny arms.  It hadn't occurred to me, all of 14 years old, that I had skinny arms.  Or big ears.  Or a crooked nose.  I just went to school.  It had, however, occurred to Brent.  Glaringly, in fact.  And every day during Hell Week for frosh football, that's what I heard.

"Fuck that guy.  Oh well, he's probably fat now.  Actually, I'm pretty sure he is.  And maybe a drunk too.  And poor.  Or not.  I don't know.  Wait, why am I thinking about this??"

9 Thrusters.  Math time.  9/3 = 3.  Sweet.  Up, 1.  Up, 2.  Slam.  Damnit.  9-2 = 7.  I hate prime numbers.

And when the agony finished, 2 minutes and 12 seconds over the time cap, I did what anyone would do: I stumbled behind the Wod Gear wall and fell into a heap.  No one could see me grab my chest.  No one could hear me pant like a heaving baby.

It was like a really tough breakup, and Fran had gotten the upper hand.  She dropped the bomb.  "You're not strong enough."

Yet.

These Fucking CrossFitters....

Profanity???  Fo reeeeaalllsss???

No but seriously.  These fucking people.

I moved to Lomita and, naturally, felt the need to fill my schedule up with more stuff.  It's as if I wasn't already going to be busy enough come the first day of school on August 13th.  And now: some demographics.

Lomita, for reference, has roughly 20,000 people.  My former town of Alpine has roughly 16k.  The difference here being that Lomita is not isolated, as is Alpine.  Don't say I never taught you anything.  If you're from San Diego, stop asking me about Lomita.  I just told you.  Don't interrupt me anymore.  I kill you.

So I'm in the South Bay, and it's a bit rough.  I have no friends to speak of in Los Angeles, no acquaintances around.  A few friends in Long Beach, but they're busy getting ready for a wedding.  So as to avoid the bitter mood swings of a 5-year-relationship-gone-poof, I saddled up on the C'dale and hit the roads of the South Bay.

My explorations post-Palos Verdes took me down Hawthorne Avenue.  After fifteen near-sideswipes I pulled into a small strip mall containing what looked to be a mattress store, a Sees candy storefront, and something about Code 3. It was a bright as hell, hi-viz yellow sign advertising a crossfit gym.

I returned on another day in the Danger Ranger.  Naturally, I decided to go into the mattress store.  Who likes sleeping on a couch anyway???  This guy!!! (For the record, I spent 42 days sleeping on a couch.  Ya.  Classy)

I walk on out like a boss having purchased a brand new Serta mattress.  Firm, supportive, soft, sensual (that's Serta, ladies). "Oh hey! there's still a crossfit gym next door."

So I went into the Sees candy shop.

And here's the beautiful thing about truffles: they really get your brain moving. Dark Chocolate Chip, Cafe Au Lait, Milk Chocolate, Dark Chocolate.

I got a handful of truffles, bagged them and stepped out.  With a smile on my face and chocolate in my mouth, I skipped around the corner and saw a bunch of grunting, sweaty people that looked really fucking good.  Like, "we lift lots of shit and have fun doing it" good.

Pop a truffle, "Hmmmm, I'm pretty fucking skinny still." Truffle "This cycling shit is cool, but I'm REALLY fucking skinny."  And that's how it happend.

Starting crossfit has brought me right back to my first group ride experience on the SDBC A ride.  On the climb up to Stud Loop, explosion in the legs like I've never felt.  Never.  Limp.  Lifeless. I thought, "Damn, a couple more weeks of this and I'm going to be FLYING."  Yahuh.

And, as if to remind me of my ironic existence on this planet, my first workout at CrossFit Code 3 was much the same.  It went like this:  "Do a bunch of push ups and sit ups and other shit, but do it for time.  You know, go fast."

Push ups?  I know I'm a cyclist, but ya sure, whatever, bring it.

And then my arms locked up.  I've never fell flat on my face before that first day. It's kind of like when one of your sarcastic, punk ass high school students calls you out in front of the class,

"Hey Mr. Smith, solve this problem that you're completely unprepared to solve while I make snide remarks to my friends."

Slam.

My first trip to the Fiesta Island World Championships https://www.facebook.com/pages/Fiesta-Island-World-Championships/103294853037699 was a pseudo-religious experience, coupled with suffering and busted egos.  I had never gone that fast on a bike before.  After 10 minutes I realized we were averaging 28 mph.  Are you shitting me?  You can actually do that on a bike?  At 10:01 my heart exploded, my lungs came out of my mouth, and 50 other riders literally pedaled away from me, as if I dropped and anchor in the road.

Dude.  Fiesta is like, soooooo fast.  Who can find me?

And just the same, my first real WOD involving pull ups.  Oooooomf. 

Does this thing go any higher? 

"Come on Self, you can do at least one before you jump on the bands.  Quick, no one is looking.  Show yourself what's up."

And, like someone being strangled to death, I flailed and flailed.  A few desperate kicks sealed the deal. The three coaches walked back into the corner of the gym where I was in eyesight.  I released my death grip from the bar with a quickness and landed back on my feet.  I was defeated, and mildly embarrassed; staring at my arms and chest in confusion, as if a visual pep-talk was all that was needed.

3 months later and I'm doing pull ups like I've never done, Olympic lifts (albeit, like a goon), some running (why run if you're not playing soccer?), and other weird workouts I most certainly would have never done on my own.  Best money I've ever spent.

Douche Bag Cyclist: "Ya, whatever dude.  Does it make you better at cycling? I saw you got dropped at Fiesta last time you were in San Diego.  Pffft"

Fuck no, it's not supposed to.  And shut your mouth.  I had to close those gaps 5 times before I popped!  However, over the past 3 months I can honestly say that I'm not worse for wear.

I haven't put in one week over 7 hours since April.  I race the Telo Street practice crit every tuesday night.  I can sit in, but always explode if I go off the front.  Over the past 3 months I've kept a close eye on my power, and I'm still able to push out 367 - 375 watts during a 5 minute test.  Not my max, nothing to really write home about, but it speaks to the power of at least being FIT.  At least doing SOMETHING.

The fact that we're constantly squatting at the box doesn't hurt (I'm told it's the one functional workout that will sorta-kinda translate to cycling in some capacity, if not a small one).

Look at those tiny arms!  Look at that baby chest!  Gone, I say!

So basically the test is this: up my cycling to 7-10 hours a week of INTENSITY and maintain 4 - 6 hours a week of crossfit.  This will work well with my teaching schedule in the fall.  Will it lead to some podiums?  We'll see.

Fucking CrossFitters