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...

The Whiteboard at your local box is....

.....CrossFit's version of the water cooler.

And you are a gossiping, wage-slaving Peter Gibbons trying to figure out how to get out of working on a Sunday.

Admit it.

You're gossiping like crazy.  You're talking shit.  You're looking at those numbers, the numbers of the defenseless, the numbers of those who have been there hours before and long since left for the day.

"225# c&j?  no way."

"5:43??  More like 8:43!"

"Since when does she/he squat that much?"

Everyone is susceptible and no one is above it.  Questioning, analysis and fundamental math skills are functions of living.  We live to question, to view, to analyze, to add, and to subtract.

Humans are also giant shit-heads (some of the time) who live and breathe and die by the sword of gossip.  That is to say, we talk to much about each other: the good, the bad, the ugly, the unmentionable.  It's a process of reassurance and ego-building.  Talking about others reaffirms ourselves, our choices, our actions, and our beliefs.  It's the 'ugly duckling' of around the waist bird floaties designed to keep us above water.  Without it, many of us would drown.

And Now, Back to the Lying Board!!!

It should come as no surprise that some of us will slip-up, falter, waver, cower, tremble under the pressure that is the white board.  To some, the ritualistic process is simple: remember, write.  Working with students who have special needs, I have seen and can imagine situations in which the process of writing down scores, particularly embarrassing scores or below-par scores, would be the cause of a bit of stress and discomfort.  In order to quell this uncertainty and, most importantly, vulnerability, people can (and will) do whatever it takes to snuff out that terrible, awkward, sinking feeling.

We are pride-driven beings.  We use instagram!  We like to, want to (need to?) take pictures of ourselves lifting a weight for the first time, of the beer we drink, of the food we just made, of the sunset that we (and everyone else) just saw outside.  We brag about our personal records.  We're taught and trained and told to focus on these abstract, yet tangible, concepts of achievement and success.  These are not necessarily bad things and I, for the record, can't wait to get my iPhone 5 fully-loaded with instagram because, dude, people need to see what Palos Verdes looks like at sunset.

Even so, in the grand scheme of all that is and was and will be, we often forget to ask: Does it really matter how much weight was on that bar? Does it matter where I finished in my last 'cross race?  Do these things define me as a human?

For some of us it does, which brings us back to the white board.  For you cyclists, think Strava.

The white board, by definition, starts blank.  It brings us all together on a clear and even slate to post achievement.  Your result, your achievement, is on display to the entire world (what? you don't think of your gym as the center of the universe?), and there's nowhere you can hide....

...lest, you fudge.

Fudge Isn't Just for Holidays

The thought creeps into your mind like a late night ice cream binge.  Tired, worked over, beaten down, you grab the marker and scan for your name.

"Please, oh sweet Jesus of the Heavens and Stars, please tell me they forgot to put my name on the board.  Damn, that would be sweet.  Oh, there's my name. Hmmmm.  I'm normally squatting 205, but today was only 165.  That's, like, totally a 190 average."

I Feel Dirty and, I Think They Know

A white lie, a minor sin, to be sure.  Keep in mind, these are crossfit problems (if you forgot, I shall remind you NOW).  Your crossfit problems are not real problems.  Starvation is a real problem.  Poverty, war, racism are real problems.  Getting beat on Thursday night's wod is not a problem, it's called a hobby.

After writing a tale of deceit in pounds and minutes and seconds, you feel whitewashed.  You feel dirty.  So dirty.  Why?  Because, asshole, others know what you did.  They do.  They saw your double-pump with the marker.  They saw you writing that 5 deliberately, slowly, until the lines magically connected and it became an 8.  Your muscles, as toned as they are, flexed the slightest bit when you wrote :25 instead of :35.  You gave it all away, and now everyone knows.  You are screwed.  People will definitely judge you from here on out.  People will call you a cheater, people will count your reps while you WOD without telling you, then wait to see what you actually write on the board.  That's probably what you're thinking.

But in reality, people don't (read: shouldn't) care about what you say you did.  People are going about their own business and are, in all likelihood, not comparing themselves to you.  They are trying to be better than who they were yesterday.  Your lack of awareness as to what is truly important in life is a dead giveaway to the depth of your personality and ambition.  

The 400 meter run isn't quite so long.  The ability to disappear into the darkness of night offers a pleasant safety net only to be snatched away as you return to the parking lot.  As light cascades over your body, leaving a multi-directional silhouette on the ground, you sprint in the last 25 meters so everyone thinks you're going full gas.  For shame.  When you short yourself reps, not to scale or save yourself from injury, but to save time, you bring yourself further away from truth, self-awareness, and (as horrible as I feel typing this) inner-peace.

Deal with your failures.  Don't make a parade out of it.  Work it out in your head, on your own time.   You don't have to have an inspirational quote, meme, or song to go with every single mistake you make, inspiring yourself to do better.  

But if you did, take one from Gandhi:

"Satisfaction lies in the effort, 

not in the attainment, 

full effort is full victory.”

Spooky Cross

Sometimes I feel like I'm getting really fast.  Then there are other times where I feel like I'm getting really slow.  Still, there are other times where I'm getting my "rad" on in a race and I feel like I'm absolutely unstoppable, until I die.  This year's Spooky Cross, held in the most beautiful of all cities, Pomona, at the LA County Fairgrounds was one such occasion, and oh, an occasion it was.

I go up stairs so nicely.

 "Dude, your socks are sweet.  We're sock triplets"
Said the one dude hanging out with the other dude who both had the same exact pair of 7 inch, Embrocation Cycling Journal socks.  We pretty much felt super badass and New Englander with such socks.  And so we sat in staging, talking shit and booing anyone with a call-up because, "We're so much faster than those guys."

When the gun went off we blasted through an isolated start outside of the fairgrounds.  Set-up for 100 mph flat track motorcycle racing, we came around near the turn 4 exit and ramped up the speed through the front stretch and start finish line.  Into a headwind we went, as this would prove to be an important stretch on the course where drafting was crucial throughout.  Near the speedway's exit of turn 2, the course took us into the infield, where we did our fair share of meandering and cat 3 bar-banging.

It was at this point that I realized I was actually RACING BIKES which is pretty much the COOLEST THING EVER!  EVER!  I counted quickly, "1, 2, 3, 4, .....9!"

8 dudes were in front of me!  I was the 9th.  A quick check of calculation and...yes, yes I was actually in 9th place!  Oh man!  I've surely made it now.

Laps 1 and 2
As if I knew exactly what I was doing (I always do) I sat on wheels and spun that beast of a Spooky inside the top ten.  And it was great.  And at the completion of lap 1, I noticed a blur of determination riding away from our little group that had grown to 14.  Could it be?  Yes, yes it was.  It was Logan FREAKING Fiedler riding the hell away from everyone sporting an incredibly sexy new kit, riding for the Spy-Giant team.  Damn.  He's only been not riding, at all, for a few months.  So of course he's just gonna drop 9 or 10 or 60 dudes and leave us.  As quickly as he arrived to the party, he departed.  Damn you, Logan.  And damn your Giants.  Just kidding.  But seriously.

Middle Laps
Because I was actually "Racing Bikes at the Front" I finally got to experience what real racers do in a cross race: pin.  it.  And I pinned it!  Danny Hart style!  Danny stay on your bike!

I was so pegged, in fact, that I blew myself right up.  Right...the hell...up.  And it was good, as this explosion occurred right before the very vertical flyover, and I damn near stalled in front of curious on lookers who were, no doubt, mesmerized by my shiny legs and pink-checkered-80's-fantastic kit of kits.  Please dial up ITSA Bike Shop and talk to Eric.  He'll get you set up.

Did I mention that I was still RACING BIKES??  Well, I was.  Although, it probably looked more like I was practicing bikes but, DAMN IT, top-20 in the biggest cross race of the season in the killer bees is something to be proud of.  I think

Last Lap

BMX style berms were fun, but not BMX-smooth.  Otherwise...BRAAAP!

Somewhere in the blur of the last two laps, or last lap, or whatever, a really fast dude who was getting ready to shred in the UCI race yelled, "How come whenever I see a pink kit, it's way after the race has gone by?"

Somewhere in the blur of the last two laps, I was no longer enjoying racing bikes, or practicing bikes, or playing bikes.

Somewhere, in that blur, I took a gummy bear hand-up.  It was stuck in my molars and in my beard for that final lap.  So embarrassing.  And you know damn well that I didn't let my 25th place finish go to waste.  Narrowly out-sprinting two guys, I made the pass for 25th place with 10 meters to spare.  Phew.  That was a close one.

banana or beer?????

Okay so when you get punked as bad as I did, you have no choice but work on hand-ups.  Beer or banana: thems be your options.

Epic Quotes and Actions from Epic Students

I will update this as more gems flow in, with newer quotes on top of the old ones.

***Disclaimer***
As much as I hate the paperwork side of my job, I care for my students a great deal.  They keep me in the game.  They are wonderful kids that grow up in an area of the city where people literally expect NOTHING of them.  It is difficult for them to adjust to people expecting GREAT things from them, but as I approach knowing some of these kids for 2 years, I'm seeing lots of progress in their self-esteem and their ability to work on tasks that are longer and more involved.  The rad part of this job is, of course, the fact that my students will say WHATEVER comes to mind WHENEVER it comes to mind.  A lot of times, this causes disruption, but every now and then, I have moments where my brain pops out of my head and I realize that the students are just exercising their sense of humor, their joy for life, and their ability to form human bonds with adults.  I love my students and I wish them nothing but the best in life.  However, I cannot resist writing down the funny shit they say.  It's a welcome bonus of my job.

**11/27/2012**

"Hey mister.  People got problems w'ch you?  I take 'em to the low key spot."
Me: "So...I'm sorry...the low key spot?"
"Ya.  You know.  It's the low key spot.  It's like this place where you go to make a hand off or to beat someone up.  Like if you gotta make a hand off you just roll up with like a can of coke and people don't know that you have the top open and that there's money inside and so you hand off the coke and you leave with your lunch bag but no one know's cuz they think you just gettin' lunch."
Me: "sweet."

**10/18/2012**

"Hey mister.  MISTER!  You're the skinniest heavyweight I know!"



10/13/2012
"There's nothing wrong with having a light saber."

"I wish I could go somewhere that is cold with cold water so I could go and swim so that I could go and refresh myself and be cool and go to the liquor store and buy a cold gatorade cuz i'ma bout to be real thirsty."

"Hey mister, my culture is totally firme as shit.  Oh shit sorry for cussing.  Oh shit my bad, I'll just shut up.......fuck."

Me: "I am going to pause our reading at certain points to emphasize specific words."
Student stands, frozen-still, in the middle of the room.
Me: "What are you doing?"
"You paused me.  I'm paused."

"Hey Mister.  The factory where my Dad works. They make, like, dollar bill things there.  Like, they totally not real or whatever, but like they there. I think they're fake or some shit.  But I think you can use 'em, I just think that maybe you might get in trouble or something."

Student singing the American Dad theme aloud as he walks into class: "Good morning USAaaaa, I have a.......oh shit i forgot the rest."

"Hey mister, do you party?"
Me: "Why are you asking me this right now?  We're working on the Do-Now."
"Mister I like to party.  But what's good is that if you drink a lot while you're dancing corridos, you don't get that drunk, so you can still drive home."
Me: "Aren't you 15?"
"No, I have my learners permit.  Plus, I be dancing all night long so I don't even get drunk.  I love dancing corridos."

"Mister, I need to leave really quick.  Where can I put my bag?"
I point over to a cabinet shelf, which is located next to the trash can by the door.
"Really mister, I don't wanna put it there."
Me: "Just set it down dude, you'll be back in 5 minutes."
"Uhhh, okay."
Students throws backpack into the TRASHCAN.

"Hey mister, have you ever had a really bad breakup.  Has your heart ever been hurt?"
Me: "Yes, I've gone through that before.  Are you going through a breakup?"
"Ya.  It sucks (starts to cry).  She totally cheated on me.  She said that she never wants to talk to me again.  But I love her.  I think I'm going to ask her out again after school."
Me: "I don't think you should do that.  Just focus on your schoolwork and hang out with your guy-friends and enjoy your life.  Does she even go to this school?"
"No, she goes to a school really far away."
Me: "Well that's nice, at least you don't have to see her everyday.  You can make new friends and focus on getting passing grades."
"But I do have to see her every day!!!"
Me: "Whoa.  Easy.  And why is that?"
"Because I always sketch pictures of her face on my papers."
Me: "Yaaaaaaa, so you should probably not continue doing that because, you know, that's not really healthy.... at all."
"I know.  But it hurts so bad.  I'm never going to find anyone else.  She was my soulmate."
Me: "Ya, well, I mean, you know it's okay to think she was your soulmate.  But have you ever thought about how many people there are?  You live in the second largest city in America.  Okay, so hold up on the crying for a second.  I think you'll be fine."
"No, I'm not!!  She was my first!!  I totally popped her......."
Me: "WHOAAAAAA!!! Aaaaaand we're done.  Let's go back inside."

Writing sample: "If I would choice somebody for president I would choice my brother because I know he will say dont do nothing and kick back just go play some ps3 sir."

Orange County World Championships

Race Reports???  You LOVE 'em!

Random analysis of things that you were not present to witness?  POR SUPUESTO!!

Mindless Rambling?!?!?!  Hell yes!

How We Roll in SoCal

Because if it's pouring rain in Gloucester, MA, then it's gotta be 95 degrees for the Southern California Cyclocross Prestige Series.  Dust?  Of Course.  And it's a damn good thing I washed my truck before parking in a dusty, dirty parking lot because, you know, I love wasting my time.

The course was a perfect example of Southern California and our awesome cyclocross scene.  Located at a park not too far from the Pacific, it had a combination of goat head infested, dry-shrub riddled, small-rock littered, massive-potential-fire-hazards-everywhere surrounding dirt walking trails combined with wonderfully humid and sloggy city park grass.  Being that California is dry as hell, in a drought, and generally sucking in the department of "having money," it makes sense that parks across the state still choose to water their grass in the early mornings.  For a cross racer, this means you get to enjoy power-sucking, slow, tedious grass sections with a delightful side of humid evaporation rising up during the hottest parts of the day.  Aside from a truly minor, petty grievance, we were treated to a course that was a blast, challenging, and fair for everyone.  Everything there was distinctly Southern Californian, and on a day like it was, with the conditions and weather, I would put our racing up against anything in the nation.

Please Check Your Shit

It's no wonder that I'm still rambling through the 3's: I prepare like one.  It's a two hour drive from San Diego (I was visiting the family in Alpine) to Costa Mesa.  Naturally, I left myself exactly 2 hours to make the commute.

Gosh, sure hope I don't hit traffic (I didn't).  Really hope I don't have to do any bike maintenance or anything like that at the last minute (Ass).

After throwing on my race wheels I stumbled upon the fact that my shifting was WAY off.  So, naturally, I decided I was going to fix that thing and get to the line.  (editor's note: Matt, you seriously suck at working on bikes.  Seriously. Worse than you suck at working on motorcycles which, by comparison, are far more complex.  Even when you know what you're doing, you find a way to botch the job.  Stick to cooking...please).  No way.  Instead, the shifting got worse.  Worse, due to my handy-work.  Worse.  Wooooorrrrrrrrrse.  And before I could tighten up my Sidis, I realized that my shifted was screwed.  Because of me!

Whoever the mechanic was who wrenched my bike into PRO form in less than 30 seconds, I hope that the money I gave you was enough.  You are a genius.  You are amazing.  But I hate you.  You make me feel dumb.  So I hope that the money I gave you burnt up in your pocket.  Or that someone stole it from you.  Or that you spent it on gas.

That is all.

West Coast Slackers or: Why I Hate Call-Up Poachers

See what I did there?  Ya?  A little Dr. Strangelove??  Ya?  Kubrick??  Ok.

Call-ups are call-ups for a reason.  You simply do not take another rider's spot.  So when dipshit #1 rolls into the other rider's space on the front row, confusion ensues. 60 other anxious, dangerous, and otherwise unconcerned cat. 3 riders have surged to fill the space, and we're stuck with two dudes trying to negotiate a switch of positions: the call-up rider to the front, and the attempted poacher to move back. It would make sense that the "sooner" moved his way in front of me, essentially pushing me from row 2 to row 3.  You bastard.

The Course in Orange County (Where's Jack Black?)

There was so much gnar being shredded that
my radness could not be contained.

The start took us over the fastest, smoothest grass found on the course.  500 meters down followed by a left-handed hairpin and 500 meters back.  Winding through grass and sand and hardpack, we eventually ended up in a higher-speed downhill section to sandpit where, of course, cat. 3 skills were on display: swerving, riders too far forward, endos, wash-outs.  Pretty much everything that makes cross racing exciting occurred here.  Even I managed to throw in some style points with a wheelie or 5 coming out of the pit.  After sprinting over a short, yet surprisingly brutal run-up and we were thrusted onto the mesa, weaving through an interesting connection of single track and off-camber mounds.  These mounds were surprisingly tricky and rewarded a patient rider who made consistent line choices and carried as much speed as possible.  A short flat section brought riders to the BMX bowl (aka: the style section).  Anytime I get an opportunity to air out the cross bike, I will take it, and the number of boosters in this section had me forgetting about the pain each lap.  Over to more slow grass, barriers and more grass, and you've completed a relatively long lap at the OCCX.

So, You're Proud of Going to UC Riverside???

And when it gets singletrack, lined out for a mile in the top-20, you have to be curious as to why a rider from UC Riverside decided to chop wheels in an apparent attempt to advance position, only to give it all back as soon as a turn or dismount was required.

UCR guy: (chopping wheels in the singletrack): oh, sorry.
Me: ooookay, huff huff huff pant pant.
UCR guy: (going backwards, slamming into bars, elbows, shoulders hips): oh, shit.
Me: really dooood??
UCR guy not taking the slippery corners very well, gapping us out: Shit!
Me: are you FUCKING KIDDING ME???

And it was all great for this guy because, you know, he eventually recovered and totally gapped us, Powers-style.

And lo, there was peace, epic hammering, and awesomeness for some time.

But sometime doesn't last all the time, which is why I was so delightfully happy to see this dude dragging an anchor across the OC dirt and carrying a piano on his back halfway through the last lap.  I smiled as we went by; him hopeless to respond.  Cross is an aggressive sport, to be sure, but there's no need for this silliness at our level.

#crossclash

Pedal, Damn You!!!!

It looks like I will again be battling for top 10s.  And when I say battling, I mean FLOGGING myself.  It was cool to see some improvement in late race finishing over last year (in which i was nursing myself across the line to save a 7th or 15th or whatever).  I legitimately caught a group of 3 in the final lap, and if not for missing my pedals 20,000,000,000,000 times over the final barrier section, I might have been able to catch that group and sprint it out with them.  It looks like the boys from pegasus will be around my speed this year, as well as a few others, so it should be a great season to make new friends with them and to have epic cross battles.

Still no idea where I finished.  Results were a bit confused, but such is life.  We have a wonderful series in SoCal with an amazing director and fantastic volunteers.  I'm hoping for a nice top - 15, but we'll see.

Judging, Tandem-Judging, Getting Yelled At, First World Problems

"No Rep.  No Rep.  That's NOT A REP!!!"

Dan Wu has the microphone and moves around the pit like a freight train.  Deliberate, precise, talking all the while.  You cannot get in this man's way.  You can't.  He'd steamroll you with a barrage of obscenity and knowledge if you tried.  His passion is contagious.  Ryan and Marc are there too, though, given their different jobs, appearing cooler by comparison.  Ryan is near the timing station sporting an ice-cold glare,  scanning the pit while keeping Dan informed of time.  Marc is around, nearly bouncing around, helping with the judging.  All three multitasking.  All three intense.

Confuckingtagious.

The kettlebell swings are easy to watch.  Sky-high, bell straight.  Do a bunch.  You keep track of these things as a judge and when it's starts to get shady, a simple "keep it vertical" helps remind the athlete that they're creeping towards a "no-rep."

Knees not locked on the shoulder to overhead?  No rep.
Toes not all the way to the bar?  No rep.
Ironic crossfit t-shirt talking about a snatch that isn't very funny?  No rep and a kick to the shin.

Most athletes are compliant.  They know we're not getting paid to judge, though I suspect some of them forget they're not paid to compete.  99.9% of all spectators do not have shit for brains.  And even though it's annoying to have people screaming directly into your ear as they cheer, and it's extremely annoying to hear them count out completed movements (while messing up my count), I can understand the drama and passion that drives this sport.  Like a bell-lap sprint, you are either in the moment or you're straight out the back wondering what could've been.  There is something contagious about doing this stuff in a race against yourself, other athletes, and the clock.

Creeping Normalcy

Creeping Normalcy is a cool term.  I originally learned about this in my 11th grade U.S. History class.  We were talking about society and how it reacts to problems and changes.  The essence of creeping normalcy is that, as slow changes occur in our surrounding environment, we begin to adjust.  As our senses adjust, these changes ultimately become the 'new' normal.

You would expect that a sudden surge of murder-rates, a sudden loss of jobs, or a serious and unexpected drought would be met with swift action from society itself.

If each year, however, there is slightly less water than the year before, or temperatures rise by a narrow margin or, perhaps, we add only 10 more parking lots throughout the city, it might be harder to notice the change.  Then, one day, you have a parking lot in your backyard and a dry faucet.

(Come on meatheads!!!  You know what I mean.  If you put the frog in boiling water, it jumps out.  If you put the frog in lukewarm water and turn it up one degree every few minutes....)

Crossfit Normalcy

After staring at different athletes' kettelbell swings for repetitions on end, they all started to look the same, and the slight fluctuations in verticality became harder to notice rep after rep.  Keep in mind, I've only been doing crossfit for 3 months.  It's hard enough to perform, much less judge.  If one repetition was obviously a fail, I could call it easily.  It was only after many repetitions that I noticed my guy was lulling me into normalcy; he was shorting pretty bad.

Your FACE is a no-rep!

My mouth began to open but DanWu (it's all one word now) came right in between Bessie (my rad tandem-judge) and myself to lay down the law.  It was unfortunate for the athlete, who was caught completely off-guard due to my missed call, but I was grateful for the swift, "deal with that shit, bro" action of our head official.  This particular athlete was also very respectful in dealing with the judgment, though obviously confused.  It became easier as the day went on to identify errors and act with confidence after that moment.

"That's not a rep, not even close!"

And when I looked over my shoulder to ask for DanWu's advice, he was already on the other side of the pit dishing out no-reps to all who dared short a standard.

I Will Seriously Not Care About Your Crossfit Problems
Hey asshole friend of that one person, your friend's ONE no rep is not my problem.  Not only is it not my problem, but it's also not your problem.  You are, for all intents and purposes, the top 10% in this nation who has enough disposable income to pay $120-$250 a month to experience crossfit.  You should be (though you, your coach, and the two other lonely people next to your coach are probably not) grateful to be partaking in such an activity...for fun, no less.  Positive interactions with other competitors and the volunteers is extremely productive and meaningful.  Me no-repping "your boy" once is absolutely meaningLESS.  Neither of you are professional, nor are you PRO (a cool cycling term I hope to bring to the CF world).  Tell your friends to stop yelling about the no-rep and move on.  Life is beautiful.

Getting No-Rep'd at the Beach Cities Battle: First-World Problem

Tandem-Judging
Given the informal nature of this event, though fierce and competitive, it seemed only natural to invite Bessie (or did she invite me?) to create an offshoot of judgment organization and structure henceforth known as "tandem-judging."

I feel like this could catch on really well at next year's Games, particularly if the heat was as oppressive as it was this past Saturday in Torrance. If one person is judging, it frees the other to acquire ice cold FRS in a can.  Mmmmmmm.  FRS in a can.

How Else Would You Want to Learn?
I suppose there really is no better way to learn a new sport than by judging it.  I had intended to volunteer for registration before getting out on the bike in Malibu.  When I was asked to help judge, I went for it.  Nerve-wracking as it was, it proved to be an interesting way to understand the point of having an athletic standard (standards: something I'm all too familiar with in the teaching world).  My experience as a teacher and a soccer referee made it easier for me to feel comfortable enforcing rules, and having Dan, Marc and Ryan there as backup eased the tension.

The whole bunch was great.  The athletes were impressive, but they always say that success come from the top, and the leadership and organization of an event like this shows what like-minded individuals can do with limited resources and positive attitudes.  All great stuff.

Cool event bro....no rep.

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.