Here we go! I would say that this presentation applies to about 8 out of every 10 students at Cal State Dominguez Hills.
**Edit Having never actually BEEN an undergraduate student at CSUDH, this list is compiled on a couple years of observations in my GRADUATE LEVEL classes. Tisk-tisk, Toros, tisk-tisk.**
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the most accurate top 10 of all time:
10. You surf the 'net throughout class, then raise your hand asking for clarification on assignments right before class is dismissed.
9. You write with mostly incorrect grammar, spelling, and syntax.
8. You complain about professors because, you know, "they so stupid."
7. You listen to music in class. No. Really. You listen to music in class.
6. The professor in your class acknowledges that you're paying thousands of dollars to listen to music in class, makes eye contact with you, and realizes, "Why bother? They're gonna end up at Starbucks anyways," and continues on with the lecture while a handful of students sit idly by, shocked that you would play your music out loud for the world to hear as if you were at the mall.
5. You transferred over from CSU Long Beach because "all the classes at Beach were like, so impacted. Such an impacted program."
4. You don't know how to use Blackboard. Ever.
3. You treat professors as if they were beneath you, giving them no shred of respect for their profession, the hours that went into obtaining a Doctorate, or the countless hours that they've poured into research that will better their field. You firmly believe that your professors are, much like your high school teachers, nuisances and babysitters.
2. You talk over your professors because, like, your life is so important and, like, you're the one paying them, so whatever.
1. You were an absolute, unadulterated, disrespectful piece of shit in high school who just barely scored your diploma from a school that passed you out of mercy, and you ended up here.
Stay Classy, Toros.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Punk Rock and Responsibility
I can't say that I grew up completely punk rock. With both parents being employed by the San Diego Police Department, I didn't really have the wiggle room that a lot of teens are accustomed to having (then again, a lot of cop kids end up getting into serious trouble). What I did have was MTV and a certain late night show that highlighted unknown or emerging artists. It was the first time a heard a band called H2O.
H2O's song called "One Life, One Chance" was an anthem for me in high school. Hanging out with Thomas Mawson late at night, watching that video for the first time, was a revelation. I remember repeating the name of the band in my head over and over until I was able to get home and research more. Pre-internet, I have not a clue as to how I tracked down their third record, "F.T.T.W." (Faster Than The World), but I was able to get my hands on it. It was either at the old Music Trader near Broadway and Mollison, or a the Sam Goody in Parkway Plaza. Either way, I was hooked.
From there, it was a stream of bands that all had some sort of connection. I've always listened to music (and I'm not sure if this is normal or common) by the Record Label. If a band was on the same label, I wanted it: Fat Wreck Chords, Epitaph, Kung Fu, Nitro, and one of my favorite labels of all time: SideOneDummy.
These punk rock labels had a lot of bands that were, more or less, anti-establishment and anti-authority. With a song like "Fuck Authority," nobody was confusing Hermosa Beach's Pennywise with a band from, say, Drive Thru Records.
More recently, however, I noticed a different tone and message in these songs. While the air of independence and "fuck off" is alive and well, it's clear that a lot of the bands on these record labels held one common belief: personal responsibility.
Now, before we get things twisted, let's not forget that there are plenty of songs blaming others, or the situation, or the government, for their problems. But after sifting through older releases from Pennywise, H2O, and even 7 Seconds (legendary on SideOneDummy), one can see (feel?) a reverberating sense of personal responsibility. These bands believed, wrote, and sang about the fact that no one is control of your destiny but you.
My school preaches personal responsibility, but rarely do we see kids stepping up to the plate. This might be because they don't hear about personal responsibility in every facet of your life. I was very fortunate to have solid teacher, amazing parents, trustworthy friends, and positive music to fill the gaps. It's beating a dead horse, for sure, but the facts remain the same: many students are listening to positive music. The messages are not about taking control of life, but rather, avoiding that responsibility.
My thesis: Bring Positive Hardcore and Punk Rock to the inner-city, and let's see what happens.
Meh. Fuck it.
Meh. Fuck it.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
I get one in, every now and then.
It took a record setting two (2) Winterbrauns before everything cleared-up. And by "cleared-up," I mean the murky shit-storm that is finals week subsided for a few moments.
Moments of clarity.
Steve Cohen is a fucking legend.
Will the real Steve Cohen please stand up?
Catchy transition, right? Eminem. I met this guy (Steve, not Marshall Mathers) in the fall of 2011. Or was it the Spring of 2012? I'm not sure. He was there when the school was in its infancy. He was there when my life changed a bit and he didn't even know that I was sleeping on a couch. He was there to receive a can of crushed tomatoes as an award for being the funniest. He always receives the Steven Cohen Lifetime Achievement Award because, if you think about it, how could he not?
He was always there, and maybe, just maybe, he'll be there forever.
We can only hope.
31 Days of (mother fuckin') Movies
I've been following Mr. Cohen's blog very closely. The name is, to no one's surprise, Comedic Voice of a Generation. And while the jury's still out as to whether or not this man is aging in Benjamin Button time, we are certain that he is in fact a representative of some generation. He is a comedic mainstay with a propensity for comics. He's a writer, a communicator, and a thinker. He can dance and sing and dance the night away. All true.
His words jump off the web page in ways that touch me deep, deep down inside. Sort of like the way that Cohen's insults at work stab me deep down in my heart. In time, I've gained a respect for this man that is unparalleled in my respect for others in society. One time, Cohen and I shook hands. And it was good.
A man of many goals, Steve decided to watch, and review, 31 different movies in as many days. Surely, with Steve being a connoisseur of cinema, I expected to know nothing about any of these films. After 10 days, my prediction remains true: I don't know shit about movies.
But when one does not know shit about movies, one turns to an aficionado. And that aficionado is Steve Mufuggin' Cohen.
Before Midnight
Before Midnight is a movie that I don't plan on ever watching. It has this guy Ethan in it. Ethan Hawke, or some shit like that. That guy plays this guy named Jesse. But, as is the case, Ethan was acting, and so Ethan is actually Jesse, but not for reals. For fakes. I thought Ethan Hawke was the guy who played Obi-Juan Kenobi in the newer Star Wars movies. But then someone told me that it's actually Obi-Wan Kenobi, and that he's not Mexican at all, and that it was actually Ewan McGregor, and not Ethan Hawke. Although Ewan McGregor does not get enough credit for his documentary about riding motorcycles, Long Way Round, which would never appeal to anyone who does not like things involving two-wheels. Although it might.
Apparently this movie was part of some kind of trilogy, which further led me to believe that Obi-Juan was in play, but again, nothing. And apparently Ethan changed Jesse, which isn't cool in my book.
A lot of time has passed (nine years, to be exact), since Before Sunset ended. This is frustrating for me, because I have yet to see both Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. I don't think that I will see them.
(Editor's Note: it's 12:15 am. I've three sips of Winterbraun left. It's no longer before midnight. Although, if you think about it, it IS before midnight. That's really tripping me out, man)
What I would've seen in the development of these movies is that Jesse and his chick, Celine (not Dion) have developed within their relationship past the point where everything is cute and fun. They're past the honeymoon phase, I gather, and definitely past the awkward first-sex entanglements. So everything was running smooth during the nine-year hiatus, but now we pick up and they're just, you know, totally ok with everything, but not super pumped, and so that's going to draw us in. Or so I read from Steve:
He said 'genesis,' so I am inclined to agree.
And as I read through the review, imagining what it would be like to have seen the movie, I started to feel the urge to rent it. Steve's descriptions of Jesse (not Obi-Juan-Wan) and Celine made me think about the development of my relationship (which is fucking amazing, by the way) and about how maybe watching this trilogy might be fun for a date night. To watch Jesse and Celine wade through the waters of love and slowly, but surely, expose themselves to each other, something that we all (especially dudes) have a hard time in doing. The fact that this movie doesn't come across overproduced and over the top makes me feel like it's something that I could get into:
The Numbers Do Not Lie
Time for our review of Steve's review that is totally objective and honest and not fueled by beers packing an 8% punch in the ABV department. But seriously. Lost Coast was started by two women. Support your local female operated breweries please. That's rad.
Steve's Review of Before Midnight: An impossible 6 out of 5 star/asterisk things (command-8 on a Mac). Nice, dude.
Tom and Kelsey retelling the story of Mr. McLain trying to get the party started, and not realizing that I've heard that story four million times, but still telling it with insane vigor and commitment even though you guys didn't realize that we were fucking with you: 5/5
Before Midnight: 2/5 *'s for not having Ewan McGregor and for not receiving a phone call from that bush-league sunuvabitch Richard Linklater to watch his movies and review them. That sucks, bro. Honestly. And no light sabers or motorcycles. Weak.
Moments of clarity.
Steve Cohen is a fucking legend.
Will the real Steve Cohen please stand up?
Catchy transition, right? Eminem. I met this guy (Steve, not Marshall Mathers) in the fall of 2011. Or was it the Spring of 2012? I'm not sure. He was there when the school was in its infancy. He was there when my life changed a bit and he didn't even know that I was sleeping on a couch. He was there to receive a can of crushed tomatoes as an award for being the funniest. He always receives the Steven Cohen Lifetime Achievement Award because, if you think about it, how could he not?
He was always there, and maybe, just maybe, he'll be there forever.
We can only hope.
31 Days of (mother fuckin') Movies
I've been following Mr. Cohen's blog very closely. The name is, to no one's surprise, Comedic Voice of a Generation. And while the jury's still out as to whether or not this man is aging in Benjamin Button time, we are certain that he is in fact a representative of some generation. He is a comedic mainstay with a propensity for comics. He's a writer, a communicator, and a thinker. He can dance and sing and dance the night away. All true.
His words jump off the web page in ways that touch me deep, deep down inside. Sort of like the way that Cohen's insults at work stab me deep down in my heart. In time, I've gained a respect for this man that is unparalleled in my respect for others in society. One time, Cohen and I shook hands. And it was good.
A man of many goals, Steve decided to watch, and review, 31 different movies in as many days. Surely, with Steve being a connoisseur of cinema, I expected to know nothing about any of these films. After 10 days, my prediction remains true: I don't know shit about movies.
But when one does not know shit about movies, one turns to an aficionado. And that aficionado is Steve Mufuggin' Cohen.
Before Midnight
Before Midnight is a movie that I don't plan on ever watching. It has this guy Ethan in it. Ethan Hawke, or some shit like that. That guy plays this guy named Jesse. But, as is the case, Ethan was acting, and so Ethan is actually Jesse, but not for reals. For fakes. I thought Ethan Hawke was the guy who played Obi-Juan Kenobi in the newer Star Wars movies. But then someone told me that it's actually Obi-Wan Kenobi, and that he's not Mexican at all, and that it was actually Ewan McGregor, and not Ethan Hawke. Although Ewan McGregor does not get enough credit for his documentary about riding motorcycles, Long Way Round, which would never appeal to anyone who does not like things involving two-wheels. Although it might.
Apparently this movie was part of some kind of trilogy, which further led me to believe that Obi-Juan was in play, but again, nothing. And apparently Ethan changed Jesse, which isn't cool in my book.
"The first thing one notices upon the commencement of the film is how different Jesse is. I don’t just mean physically (though Ethan Hawke does seem to have finally come out on the other side of his gaunt phase). Ethan Hawke’s portrayal of the character has changed as well. Jesse’s voice is deeper here, more gruff. And some of the light in his eyes has gone away. At first I considered this an error on Hawke’s part, but as the film proceeded I started to think twice about this."(Cue high school English student):
"I really agree with this quote. I agree with this quote because it shows that he changed. I think that you should not have to change yerself in order to be someone that yer not. You dont have to be with no one if you dont want to. I think that this shows that Jesse doesnt really even respect him, because if he did we wudnt change"Jesse sound stupid.
A lot of time has passed (nine years, to be exact), since Before Sunset ended. This is frustrating for me, because I have yet to see both Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. I don't think that I will see them.
(Editor's Note: it's 12:15 am. I've three sips of Winterbraun left. It's no longer before midnight. Although, if you think about it, it IS before midnight. That's really tripping me out, man)
What I would've seen in the development of these movies is that Jesse and his chick, Celine (not Dion) have developed within their relationship past the point where everything is cute and fun. They're past the honeymoon phase, I gather, and definitely past the awkward first-sex entanglements. So everything was running smooth during the nine-year hiatus, but now we pick up and they're just, you know, totally ok with everything, but not super pumped, and so that's going to draw us in. Or so I read from Steve:
"By now, the blush is off the rose. Jesse and Celine are no longer acting like their ideal versions of themselves, the way one would at the genesis of a new romance. These two have been together for what might as well (in their minds) be an eternity. Jesse and Celine are at a point where they finally see the reality of who their partner is, but the really cool thing is that the viewer is as well. The three-ish hours that we spent with them prior to Midnight was all pretense. This is where the truth comes out."
He said 'genesis,' so I am inclined to agree.
And as I read through the review, imagining what it would be like to have seen the movie, I started to feel the urge to rent it. Steve's descriptions of Jesse (not Obi-Juan-Wan) and Celine made me think about the development of my relationship (which is fucking amazing, by the way) and about how maybe watching this trilogy might be fun for a date night. To watch Jesse and Celine wade through the waters of love and slowly, but surely, expose themselves to each other, something that we all (especially dudes) have a hard time in doing. The fact that this movie doesn't come across overproduced and over the top makes me feel like it's something that I could get into:
"The fact that the films seem so real and effortless is a testament to his work. Especially in this third installment. Midnight is the most ambitious of the three films, and I think it may be my favorite...If I had any real problem with the film it would be that the ending doesn’t feel perfect. And honestly, what am I expecting? The ending doesn’t feel perfect? Jesus. Standards much?"What we have here is both an honest interpretation of a seemingly honest movie, and a "much" joke. And I am fans of both. If he typed 'mumblecore' I would've lost my fucking brain all over the apartment. So close, sir. So close.
The Numbers Do Not Lie
Time for our review of Steve's review that is totally objective and honest and not fueled by beers packing an 8% punch in the ABV department. But seriously. Lost Coast was started by two women. Support your local female operated breweries please. That's rad.
Steve's Review of Before Midnight: An impossible 6 out of 5 star/asterisk things (command-8 on a Mac). Nice, dude.
Tom and Kelsey retelling the story of Mr. McLain trying to get the party started, and not realizing that I've heard that story four million times, but still telling it with insane vigor and commitment even though you guys didn't realize that we were fucking with you: 5/5
Before Midnight: 2/5 *'s for not having Ewan McGregor and for not receiving a phone call from that bush-league sunuvabitch Richard Linklater to watch his movies and review them. That sucks, bro. Honestly. And no light sabers or motorcycles. Weak.
Friday, September 13, 2013
Magic
It’s not always what it seems, specifically when 7th
period rolls around and kids are running in and out. Not necessarily not normal, but definitely not standard. What gives then?
Despite their best efforts, and mine, we’ve fine-tuned the
program into something that resembles school.
Despite their best efforts, they’re improving. Some drastically. Some not so much.
This one kid has brought about a veritable shit-storm of
epic proportions by doing one small, simple thing extremely, dare I say it,
miraculously well: He doesn’t talk to us.
He doesn’t talk to us.
Epic doesn’t begin to describe it. Sublime in his execution of a plan that is
either perfectly contrived or completely improvised, he hasn’t said a damn word
to any adult. Really. At the end of the fifth week of school, he
has uttered no more than 10 words to an adult.
Total.
Coming in with a questionable eligibility for services, the
debate is still in the air. Autism? Specific Learning Disability? Anger?
Most adults won’t admit to failure, but we’re stumped. Nearly beat.
Nearly beaten down. That was us.
That was until Ramo got to him.
Ramo might read this blog post one day. Maybe.
But I’ll say it now: what he did today was nothing short of mother
fucking legendary; the kind of shit that cannot be quantified by grades,
percentages, or points. I was so
proud. I still am. We were so proud. We still are Most importantly, he was proud. I hope that he continues to feel that joy.
The Really, Really Quiet Kid (RRQK) had not said a
meaningful word for five weeks. Sure, he
cussed out his paraprofessional a few times via an iPad writing app (‘Shut the
fuck up, you cunty fuck.’ Or maybe he
said ‘shut up fucker.’ Not sure). Other than the occasional written outburst,
he hasn’t said much.
Ramo don’t care. Ramo don’t give a fuck.
Two weeks ago, Ramo came up to me and said the
following. Keep in mind, his English
skills are still developing. Grammar
aside, there was a certain passion in his voice, even though he was laughing
and joking.
“Hey mister!”
“Ya?”
“Who’s that kid over there?
Why doesn’t he talk?”
“Oh. That’s
J. He’s just a bit shy.”
“Oh ya?! Okay. I wanna talk with him. I wanna make friends with him.”
“Well, you know what Ramo?
You should.”
“Okay. Lemme
think. I think I will. You know me.
I wanna be friends with everyone.”
A week passed by without Ramo making an attempt, but every
so often in sixth period Ramo would take a look over towards J, and
J would look back and crack a slight smile. It was fascinating and exciting. Fascinating because Ramo has the type of
personality that makes you want to be happy.
You can’t explain it, but it happens.
Exciting, because the breakthrough that I had talked about, that I knew
would come, despite other peoples’ doubts, was on the proverbial cliff, ready
to tumble over like a big rig. Little
did we know that our student who struggled with mixed-numbers and citing
evidence through direct quotes, was about to do something that a team of
college-educated, degree carrying adults were unable to do: crack the RRQK.
Fast forward to Thursday, September 12, 2013. I stayed up way too late the night before
struggling with my greens. It’s really
hard to get the sauté and steam times right.
Spinach wilts extremely fast.
Collard greens take a while longer.
Kale, on the other, (specifically Tuscan Kale) is a tough wilt.
The next morning was a blur all the way through sixth
period. Sixth period was the magic
period.
The boy was ready to go
Ramo came through full of curiosity. And can you blame him? There is a kid in class who doesn’t
talk. He doesn’t even talk to his
support provider, Steve, who is unquestionably the funniest person on the
planet. Comedic Gods are crafted in his image. Don't believe it? Ask him. He's also supporter of Insanity and will fillet you mercilessly if your jokes are not up to par. We love him.
Ramo came through full of curiosity. You can’t blame him. His strength lies in his personality. He’s unstoppable in his likability. His personality boils over every day. A complete handful, to be sure, but he
doesn’t let academic struggles get in the way of enjoying his life. The only kid in South Central absolutely
obsessed with the great schism between Dave Mustaine and Metallica. He’s a legend, as well.
Ramo finished some of his work early, and with 25 minutes
left in the period, asked me if he could talk to J.
He leaned over right into J’s face, no closer than 6
inches apart, and started talking.
“This kid’s going to freak out,” I thought. “A student, possibly on the spectrum, trying to handle 110% of Ramo? No way.”
I turned around to work with another student, and only
focused back into the interaction when I heard voices.
Voices.
Two voices. And the
louder one was not Ramo. It was the
RRQK. He was talking. He was smiling. He was doing all of the things that we wanted
him to do. And Ramo was the reason.
Magic
“You did it!”
The students filed out of the room, but Ramo turned around
in shock.
“What? What
happened?”
(What happened?
Otherwise known as the Standard Ramo):
“Please stop talking and pay attention to the
lecture.”
“What? What
happened?”
It was his standard remark.)
Smile More
“You did it Ramo!”
“What?? What
happened?!?! What’d I did?”
“You got him to talk!
You did it! He had a
conversation!!”
“It was because of me?”
“It was because of you dude!
You did it! You did. That was amazing!”
“Ya. I just wanted to
make friends, you know? I want to be
friends with everyone. I can tell he want to talk, you know? He wanted to be talking with us. I could tell.”
And we all smiled.
Kelsey smiled. Dante smiled. I smiled. Ramo smiled. And they weren’t ‘ha
ha’ smiles. It was success. It was success of the human spirit. It was the power of love and friendship and
sunshine and all the good things in the world. This little kid made it happen for us. He
made our day for us, or at least, for me.
His smile was two times bigger than normal as he left the room, because
he realized that he did something meaningful.
That he belonged. That he
succeeded. And he brought out the best in
someone else.
And it was good.
And I’ll never forget it.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Mammoth 8 Hour
The Danimal and I sat around after Boggs with Jason King and started asking each other a number of questions that, to the untrained ear, would be followed by some sort of retirement party or a simple, "I quit."
Mammoth
The cool thing about this race was the 12:00 p.m. start time! The not cool thing about this race was the 8:00 p.m. finish time! Because Dan, Sara and I did not have to be racing until noon, we did the only logical thing that bike racers of our caliber can (should) do: McDonald's breakfast. That's a lot more dedication than you can probably handle, I'm sure, but understand that we are top-level-sort-of-serious bike racers and in the presence of greatness (Sara). Sara stuck to the cold oats. I had the McMuffin. Then a second. The only thing better was the delicious brew of McCafe coffee. It's the McCafe.
The Race
My Race
She charged through the pit area each lap, and the story was no different leading into our last lap. I sat idly by sipping a cola and chatting with my girlfriend, Nicole, who so graciously decided to operate our pit area.
Man rules specifically state that you have to give it a go and definitely NOT lose to a woman. And so I did, catching and passing her on the downhills, leading into the main climb of the day. Finally, whether it was the altitude sickness, the lack of speed, lack of desire, or whatever, but I decided that enough was enough and eased up. Within moments, Liz passed me up and disappeared. Then I threw up. Altitude? Not sure. But it was clear that my brain had cracked as the rice-filled vomit shot from my mouth. I chased hard to keep up but the mini "race within the race" was lost to a stronger rider.
Sara hauled the mail, finishing in 3rd place in the women's open with 8 laps in 7 hours and 14 minutes of total riding time, just nipping on the heels of some very established female riders who spend lots of time training. A truly impressive ride.
Thanks to Eric for getting my bike dialed and supporting the three of us with jaw-dropping kits. Kits that scream, "cover your eyes." Awesome.
"Why did we just do that?"
"That was really dumb!"
"What were we thinking?!"
Fast forward a few hours, (and a few beers) and the conversation changed dramatically:
"I could do that again."
"At least we know how to pace."
"It wasn't that bad."
"It wasn't that bad."
 |
| Mammoth. Excellent |
Somewhere along the way we discovered another 8 hour race by Global Biorhythm Events. The production was super grassroots and low-key, which is to say, pretty fucking cool. Not to mention that we were racing in MAMMOTH, which is like, totally rad, brah. Bike racing 8,000 feet in the air? Bring it.
Because I take my racing very, very seriously, I decided to have two very, very delicious beers the night before the race. And four slices of pizza. And half a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips (Nicole ate the other half). And a giant Jamba Juice smoothie. And a pretzel. That's serious dedication. The type of dedication that makes your stomach hurt. You know, on account of the dedication.
 |
| Hi-Viz Pink. Because I can. |
 |
| The crew. Pre-race. |
The Race
I'll say right now that even though I enjoyed my race, and appreciated the timing, the organization, and the way the race was run, the course itself was....okay. Apparently a downhill section had to be removed, and was placed with a 35 mph downhill fire road. The good news what that it only took a gaze upward to remember that I was in fucking MAMMOTH, and that it was GORGEOUS! Then I told myself to stop bitching and pedal harder. The bummer of the deal, for me, was the lack of a really good downhill section. Because of the higher elevation, the course designers kept the climbing under 900 feet per lap. Instead, the course had a lot of cool flow sections where, if you pedaled correctly, speed could be maintained and style could be maximized.
My Race
My race sucked instantly. At the end of lap one I crossed the line with searing back pain that made me curse all the deadlifts I had decided to do the week before. Also, I vaguely recall my competitors talking a bit about this high elevation thing. (Maybe there was something to that?)
 |
| Enjoyment
My race continued to suck at an all-time high. After not really getting passed on the first lap and for most of the second lap, things began to unravel.
|
 |
| Dano, shredding. Focused |
My race continued to suck but I told myself, "Dude. Like, totally lighten up, bro. We're in Mammoth shredding some loose-on-hardpack. That's sick."
Then it rained. And the dirt got super tacky. Then the sun came out. And it got dusty. Then it rained. Then it hailed.
It totally hailed. And then it stopped and the thunder and lightning start cracking and flashing. Then it really hailed. And the hail stung. I let out little "yips" and "yeeps" whenever the hail hit in just the right spot. And the sun came out.
 |
| Dan lapped me but was nice enough to wait up for me so we could share lunch. |
My race started sucking again once the weather stopped. The suckage was confirmed when Dan lapped me sometime during the fifth hour. I don't remember much. I did curse him. I think I told him to fuck off under my breath before cheering him on out loud. Either way, I'm sorry dude. Good job. Your bright yellow shoes would've gone great with my bright pink socks. That's all.
 |
| Sara!!!! |
Fires in the Fresno Valley area threatened the race on Friday, but come Saturday morning, clear and clean skies prevailed. It wasn't until the 7th and 8th hours that the smoke began creeping back.
I crossed the finish line with 8 laps sometime around 6:45 p.m. This meant one thing: One more lap! And so it was shred time.
Did I mention that the leader of the Women's 8 hour race had been nipping at my heels all day long??
 |
| Sara is the funniest person ever. |
Gender War
To clarify, I have no intention of negating anyone's achievement. Furthermore, it should be noted that I'm a horrible bike racer. One of the worst, to be sure, and not really worthy of a super sexy Pivot 429.
Throughout the race, on any portion of the course that was going uphill, I noticed that there was a very strong and focused female from Team Helen's about 20 to 30 meters behind. I'd lose her on the downhills and flats but my climbing prowess is such that everyone was getting my on the uphills, including Liz Dunham.
She charged through the pit area each lap, and the story was no different leading into our last lap. I sat idly by sipping a cola and chatting with my girlfriend, Nicole, who so graciously decided to operate our pit area.
Man rules specifically state that you have to give it a go and definitely NOT lose to a woman. And so I did, catching and passing her on the downhills, leading into the main climb of the day. Finally, whether it was the altitude sickness, the lack of speed, lack of desire, or whatever, but I decided that enough was enough and eased up. Within moments, Liz passed me up and disappeared. Then I threw up. Altitude? Not sure. But it was clear that my brain had cracked as the rice-filled vomit shot from my mouth. I chased hard to keep up but the mini "race within the race" was lost to a stronger rider.
It might've been the chocolate chip that passed through my nose, but at some point I told myself to suck it up. I hammered home as fast as I could (not fast) and crossed the line in 5th place of 20 riders, the first rider with 9 laps, completed in 7 hours and 35 minutes, and one minute behind the women's leader.
 |
| Stud. Muffin. |
The Danimal finished in an impressive 2nd place with 11 laps in 7 hours and 45 minutes.
Sara hauled the mail, finishing in 3rd place in the women's open with 8 laps in 7 hours and 14 minutes of total riding time, just nipping on the heels of some very established female riders who spend lots of time training. A truly impressive ride.
Thanks to Eric for getting my bike dialed and supporting the three of us with jaw-dropping kits. Kits that scream, "cover your eyes." Awesome.
Monday, July 15, 2013
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:
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.
"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.
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
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. |
Monday, May 6, 2013
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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. |
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
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