Our warm--ups are, like, so hard.

If there's one thing that I don't want to hear...

It's that your warm-ups are harder than my workouts.  As a matter of fact, no one wants to hear that.  We also don't care about how you put bacon on everything else in the world, including your bacon.

I knew things had to change when Tuesday's warm-up was:

• 50 sit-ups
• 50 double unders
• 50 sit-ups
• 50 lunges
• 50 burpees 
• 50 sit-ups

It's clear that some people start CrossFit because they want that good, old-fashioned "boot camp" experience.  Nothing piques the interest of Americans more than the phrase "boot camp."  Images of verbal ridicule, physical strain, mental challenges, and the ultimate triumph over all obstacles dance through the heads of those otherwise uninitiated.

I knew things had to change when I was told that this was a "warm-up."

Now, let's be clear

Let's be clear about one thing: this is not a warm-up.  There's not a shot in hell that this would ever be used by the world's elite worker-outers as a warm-up.  12-16 minutes later, depending on how I remember things from the "white board" I was eyes-to-the-sky and out of breath.

"What the fuck was that?" a blubbered aloud to a fellow member.
"That was our warm-up!  Isn't CrossFit gnarly?!?!" he replied, enthusiastic as ever.
"Did you play sports in high school?"
"Ya, I played football in the fall and ran track in the spring" he responded.
"You did?  Really?  And before any of those practices or games or events, did you ever, in your infinite memory, warm-up like that?"
"Well, no.  Not really, we just jogged lightly and stretched out."

That's no moon.  It's a space station.

Star Wars reference???  Ya???  You like?!?!

"That's not a warm-up, dude.  That's a beat down.  At the very least, a workout.  No way.  We just got our asses handed to us for 15 minutes straight.  Look at the pile of sweat on the floor.  It's 92 degrees outside, and close to 100 degrees in here.  We walked in this place 10 minutes early and did some light stretching, said our hellos, chatted, and boom, here we are, at 6:19 p.m., completely floored, and we still have our WOD, or whatever the hell they call it."

The light was flickering, but I could tell I was getting nowhere with this guy, so I shut my mouth.  I knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was devastation, brutality, pain, sweat, and excessive amounts of laundry.

But what about me?  I want to learn skills.  I'm still struggling with hand-stands.  My snatch is hardly a thing of fluidity.  When are we going to do that skill work?  As I glanced at the schedule for the remainder of the week, it was plainly evident: this was a boot camp gym.

I'm a competitor, but I'm not a competitor, ya dig?

Lots of us are athletes.  Lots of us are not.  I don't think our backgrounds dictate where we go in this world, but they certainly do provide us with a lens.  This lens is what we look through on a daily basis. We take it with us wherever we go.  We look through it and use it to make determinations, judgements, and final opinions on the people and things around us.  Oh, you don't?

"Everyone says that movie was good.  I didn't think so."
"Handstands are soooo easy."
"My warm-up is harder than most people's workouts."

Yes.  You're guilty.

The soccer player, cyclist, and rower in me knew right away that this was a problem.  I'm a competitor. Most of us are, and will be for the rest of our lives.  My friends are the type of people that go into the Karaoke bar trying to have a good time, but secretly try to put on the best damn performance ever.  If we're playing darts, you better believe it's the World Championships.  The Tuesday Night Ride in Torrance, California might as well be the Tour de France, and every night at the local box, athletes compete against each other and themselves to lift heavier, run faster, jump higher, and achieve more.

However, I'm not a CrossFit Games competitor.  I'm not a professional cyclist.  I can't sing like John Legend and I still can't believe that there is such a thing as professional darts (sign me up).

This means that, believe it or not, I don't want to endure a severe beat-down every time I show up to the box.

What?

Yes.  Contrary to what some of those people say (the ones drinking the party-punch), that is absolutely not what I want.  I want to get slammed in the face a lot.  I want to get punked by a workout so hard that I rethink my membership.  I want to go so deep into the pain-cave that someone has to help me out.

But I don't want this all the time.  As a matter of fact, I like my rest days.  I also enjoy my easy days.  It's all part of the game, and to complain about them is a purely selfish, short-sighted view.

Similarly, bragging about something as trivial as a warm-up is a surefire way to overlook the importance of a warm-up, of humility, of patience, and of humanity.  What kind of world do we live in where this is an actual, "thing"?  It's really quite fascinating, the social-dynamic that this sport brings to the middle class, but that's a topic for a different day.

Let's make a deal: I'll stop bragging about my epic cycling tan lines if you stop bragging about your warm-ups.  Deal?  Deal.

That's no illusion.  It's a tan line.

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.

Ride Review: Pivot Mach 429 Continued

I was concerned with the fact that I hadn't gotten a pre-race tune up like I wanted.  The SoCal Endurance 6 hour race was tomorrow and my bike, a bit dirty and mildly out of tune, was in need of some PRO love from a serious spanner.  Freaking Eric from ITSA Bike Shop, to be more specific.

His shop is where I go to drink beer, watch Archer, and talk shit on people who don't know I'm doing that...but always in the most polite way possible.  If you didn't get a chance to read the first one...here it is....HERE

So how did it hold up?  GREAT!

The Cockpit

Pictured right after being built at ITSA Bike Shop 

I literally (quite literally) had ZERO problems with the stem, bars, seatpost, saddle and grips.  Everything that came stock on the XT build kit is easily suitable for all but the most demanding.  The thoughtful placement of aluminum FSA parts provides a nice bit of strength and feedback while being both light and sharp.  Throughout the 6 hour race I thought about things things a grand total of ZERO times which, for me, is perfect.  Grab the bars, get seat, climb like a beast (sorta).  That's all I need.

Brakes

Dig.

Post mounts.  Ice Tech brake pads. Center-lock.  125% increased braking power.  25% increased sexy-rear-wheel-slide-destructive-roost-of-hottness.  

Sometimes, when I feel like I want to slow down, I pull the super ergo XT levers.  When I do that, I stop.  Quickly.  Screaming, rocky downhills at Vail Lake in Temecula, CA were the perfect recipe for building speed in a quick and dangerous amount of time.  A non-technical trail was made super technical by the sheer fact that overshooting any corner resulted in a short free-fall-to-terrafirma.  I had confidence all day long, even after 5 hours of straight mountain biking.

Stomp.  The.  Pedals.

Crankset and Hotness

Oh man look at all that hotness.  And stiffness.  The closeup shot of the XT crankset shows that this bike is most definitely apt for power delivery.  Asymmetrical stays and a close view of the DW-link systems helps to show a fine attention to detail.  The 429s come set-up with sweet hardware.  Anodized red on this particular bike, and it looks good.    The direct mount is clean, allowing for multiple front set-ups.  2x10 is clutch, the only thing that would be sweeter would be the forthcoming 1x11, but I'll be waiting for Shimano's offering.  

Coat it with Kashima

The Shock

I don't know anything about suspension.  I know that when I used to try to change the fork seals on my yz450f, I'd drain fork oil all over the garage.  I'm a failure of a mechanic.  What I do know, is that this 2012 frame got hooked up with the 2013 fox shock.  Air pressure with a 3-position trail adjust.  It makes me want to go fast down steep hills.  And it makes me not really really mad when I have to pedal uphill.  Reach down, flick the toggle over to 'climb,' and pedal.  No longer does the suspension system mock you, robbing you of power with each pedalbob.  Sure enough, the firmness of the 429 while ascending can be attributed to the Dw-Link, but it's strength lies in the complete package.

Undressed

A close-up, with strategic frame-sticker placement.

Anti-Theft System: Engaged

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.