“THERE,” I shouted, halting our white Dodge pickup. I had spotted a deer by a haystack across the field. As we crept out, Dad prepared, and soon, his shots rang out. Dad was an ace hunter, and I, the spotter, prided myself on my sharp eye.
Growing up in a hunting community, hunting wasn’t just sport; it was survival. Though I never hunted big game myself, my role was crucial. I carried parts of the catch and sometimes helped drag it back, but spotting was where I shone, earning my place even in elite hunting circles.
Decades later, during a race, I found myself shouting “THERE” again, but this time at a checkpoint. Dave praised my keen sight. That moment took me back, reminding me of the rare appreciation from my dad. Sharing this with Dave, I felt I was finally contributing meaningfully to our team.
Our race challenge was tough, navigating vast areas and tricky checkpoints, like the one hidden in a snow-covered thicket. I played a key role, ensuring we stayed on course. Yet, frustration hit at checkpoint “G,” where despite my efforts, we had to move on, a decision that irked me deeply. Time was tight, and even a bike flat threatened our chances, but abandoning “G” proved wise as we raced against the clock to complete our tasks.
As time dwindled, we needed to find another elusive checkpoint. My “deer spotter” skills were crucial, yet the pressure was immense. Another team’s discovery helped us advance, but I couldn’t help feeling I’d let my dad down. With the water challenge up next, my old fears loomed.
The two wheel track across the field just petered out. I silently panicked inside. To pull out the map right now at the start would just be a sign of weakness. I could just imagine the thoughts of all those headlamp wearing runners behind us, “look at him, he is lost already”. Damn, I am supposed to be the king of racing in the dark. I just kept going and pretended to know where I was going. I had a pretty good idea as I glanced over to a faint ridgeline coming down in the field. The sun was a hour out but twilight was setting the sky a deep blue and we could see the horizon.
“Lets jump the fence”, Dave suggested, and we did. Then we were on the right path. And then we were not on the right path. And then we found the “Ice Hole”, a culvert under route 200 that I came through last year and almost killed myself on. Beyond the tunnel we ran down what I believed was a trail to the Blackfoot River. Dave had not been on that section and it was up to me to navigate us through it.
“Um, lets cut across that field”, which gave away the fact that I was panicking and bailing out. My memory was failing me. Dave calmly suggested we keep going until we hit the river. I agreed and decided to take my place as the wimpy team mate that needed to be nurtured through this thing.
I had other problems. The lack of “bathroom duties” before the start had rendered my lower intestine a tornado of death. I was certainly glad I had a stash of Action Wipes in my pack. I was going to need them. I didn’t want to slow down the team so I kept it to myself and quietly suffered. And then we found the river.
It wasn’t long before we got to the bikes at River Camp Transition Area. As long as I have known Dave he has been pretty laid back and if it were not for his casual non-running hike the damn adventure style I would of never made it through the MESSS last year. So I expected maybe he would take his time getting on the bike and I could sneak in a quick run to the port-a-potties. Not so, he seemed determined to get out of the quagmire of panicking people as soon as possible and started out on his bike. Another panic set in.
In adventure racing you can not get separated from your team mates by more then like 300 feet or so. Running to the bathroom without Dave could get us disqualified. This would be the true test of a team … a team that shits together is a true team indeed. I was glad we were not co-ed.
But that was not my current panic. My current panic is that Dave was on his bike and pedaling away. I did everything I could to keep the legal distance. I was throwing on a backpack, putting on clothes, and running with my bike like a frantic baby duck keeping up with mommy duck. Finally I just jumped on and started pedaling. Exploding intestine, bare hands, and all. I started just following him. This was not going well.
Soon I was ready to just throw it all in. My hands were exposed and the below freezing temperatures combined with the wind speed of a speeding mountain bike just made life a living hell. I had one more idea before I let Dave in on my predicament. Here I am this expert adventure racing 24 solo big shot and I was falling apart at the seems. My last chance would be to get my hands out of the wind. I pulled my jersey (wasn’t even wearing a coat) sleeves out and tied them off. At least my hands were protected. The biggest drawback of this technique is that there is no way to shift or break.
I figured that if I crashed it would be spectacular. I would launch over the bars and my intestines would explode at the same time. It would be like the fourth of July fireworks show. I just kept his pace which was quite fast. Next thing I know we rounded a bend and he declared, “This is it”.
I hadn’t even been thinking of doing my part as a team mate. I wasn’t checking our navigation, heck I didn’t even know where we were. I think Dave sensed this. Maybe that later on I might just come in handy. That or he was wondering why he hooked up with a wilderness wussy. In any case a good team is like a good family or relationship. Not everyone can be on their game. But there is always someone that just leads the way until you get back on track.
It was time to get off the bikes and start our orienteering hike. I sensed a good idea coming on.
“Dave, check the maps and get a some coordinates … um … and … I’ll go behind this tree and …”, I was going to come up with something like hide the bikes.
“Yea, no problem take your time”, Dave said calmly as if this was just another hike in the woods.
Moments (no pun here) later I was re-set, my hands had gloves, and I was certainly glad to have brought Action Wipes.
Navigating modern society, you’re faced with the conventional path or the road less traveled. After high school, I chose the latter, engaging in adventures and endurance races, delaying a conventional career. This weekend, I pondered my choices.
I’ve competed in the Grizzly Man Adventure Race (GMAR) in 2008 and 2010, planning meticulously and securing victories. However, this weekend was different; decisions were made spontaneously, veering from my usual calculated approach.
The GMAR has evolved from a few hours of wilderness exploration to a grander vision of a 24-hour challenge. This year, we had 12 hours to find 59 checkpoints, hinting at an even larger event in 2012. I decided to treat this race as if it were a 24-hour ordeal.
The day began leisurely until my teammate Dave Chenault was en route, sparking a frenzied prep. We missed our pre-race ritual at The Bridge Pizza, rushing to Paws Up Resort to strategize with the gear we’d use for the “race portion.”
Armed with maps and awaiting coordinates, the scale of our challenge dawned on us—60 checkpoints over a vastly expanded area. Teaming with friends from the Missoula Thursday Night Mountain Bike Group, we plotted our course from a rented “box car,” a cozy cabin setup.
Struggling with focus, I leaned on Carbo Rocket to sharpen my concentration. Mapping out points was arduous, hindered by my wavering attention—a far cry from my previous precision.
As planning progressed, Dave proposed biking along the river, a plan I only half-registered due to exhaustion. Opting for rest over finalizing our strategy, I retreated, waking to a disorganized start. Missing gear and unprepared, the shotgun blast sent us off. Lost without my map, I relied on Dave’s direction. This new, unpredictable approach was thrilling despite the uncertainty.
“Take a right Bill,” Dave guided.
I obeyed, entering unfamiliar territory. The thrill of the unknown replaced my usual meticulous planning, showcasing that success can follow regardless of the path chosen.
In 2010 I won the Black Bear Challenge, the smaller version of the Grizzly Man Adventure Race. I won the inaugural GMAR back in 2008 but opted for the smaller race when kayaking was introduced. So there I was last year laying out on the grass. Sitting at Paws Up Resort soaking up the spring sun. I had finished in a little over 3 hours and was waiting for my friends to finish. My favorite part of these things is to watch my friends bask in their accomplishments. I love to see accomplishment.
My friend Dave Chenault crossed the line and he looked absolutely demolished. He said something about running way to hard at the start and collapsed on the lawn beside me. His legs were coated in burrs so bad it looked like he should just throw them away. I started to entertain the idea of doing the full grizzly man race and downed another hand full of peanuts and M&Ms.
At the awards ceremony we were presented with some great prizes. Dave made the observation that teams actually were being regarded in a higher plain then solo. To me solo was the way to go. I mean, it is harder. Right? The teams got paid trips to the nationals and better prizes. Plus, they were put in a raffle for a new bike. Not saying GMAR specifically but in all of adventure racing circles, teams are where it is at. Dave looked at me.
“Looks like doing it as a team is the way to go”.
“Next year, you and me”, I said in return.
“hummm, interesting idea … possibly”
Of course I was lying out of my teeth. I do SOLO. But the biggest reason … water. No way I was getting in the fu&%$@ river. No way!
256 days later we were crunching the numbers and realizing that if we did not get back to the start finish area we would be disqualified.
“Dave, we have like 25 minutes before the time cut off. What if we just take one more run up there”, I pointed up the hillside.
“And try to find C3?”
“Exactly … just one more look. You never know. If it doesn’t work out there is the tunnel and after that is the finish line.”, I pointed towards a culvert under route 200.
“Let’s do it”
Moments later we located “W” and ran back down to our bikes. Somehow we missed “C3” and found “W” but we at least got one more and it was 8 minutes to get to the finish line.
Later on at the awards ceremony I looked into my friends eyes and saw it, that glaze of accomplishment and joy. It is my favorite part of these things.
It’s snowing heavy outside right now and we are 5 hours away from dropping our gear off at the transition areas. I am sitting behind a tall cup of bean sauce and some sconage. Why not thumb out a little blog entry on the iPhone.
The “we” I am refering to is my friend Dave Chenault and I more commonly refered to as Team Dave and Bill or Team Bill and Dave. The team name is both simple and exact. We obtained the name by simply not choosing (or deciding) untill race organizers just decided for us. I like it.
The transition area being refered to is part of the Grizzly Man Adventure Race or GMAR. This race is a tasty little 12 hour scavenger hunt where you obtain as many checkpoints as possable while on foot, boat, and bike. With the current winter conditions we are expecting mostly foot. Finally I get a taste of what my friend Jill refers to as slogging. I am excited to get this chance to post hole through spring snow and demolish my legs and ankles.
Actuall I must get going now because the actual race may be 12 hours but in reality is more like 24. We will be on course pretty much from 3 pm today untill the end of the race at 5 pm tomorrow. At 7 tonight we get our maps and cordinates so that we can stay up all night planning and plotting our course. This is the part that is so appealing to me. It is up to us to plan our own attack and then be at the starting line at 5 am to execute it.
So thoughts on the upcomming race. Well, I have none. I’m to busy to have any. There are so many variables involved there is no time to sit down and contemplate anything. I am heading out right now to gather snow shoes, skis, survival gear, bikes, water craft, dry suits, Carbo Rocket, navigation equipment (did I say the only legal navigation will be map and compass), slog gear, and for some reason the required glow sticks.
I’ve returned to a familiar haunt, a cozy spot where quirky tunes fill the air and the aroma of garlic and olive oil drifts around. It’s like coming home—to smiles, shared stories, and the demolition of pizza pies and beers after long journeys.
Last Thursday was a hefty ride. It’s typical for me to rack up a thousand feet of climbing and sprint before joining the Missoula Thursday Night Ride crew. Riding home afterwards, like many of us do, is part of the routine. Spring rides are usually brief, but this week we embarked on the “Blue Berry” ride, leading to an extended tour of western Missoula—a real “long haul.” Now, I’m here, unwinding after the trek.
This place, filled with memories: Jill’s muddy-faced parmesan rituals, Ed’s jazz insights, Paul’s pizza lore, Norman prying out my weekend tales, and Dave plotting ski trips off Wishard Ridge. Thursday nights, we’ve made this spot ours, enjoying “happy hour” deals of Cold Smoke and pizza for six bucks.
Post-TNR, I texted a friend, “Wanna hit the Bridge? Short route?”
The reply came swift, “Remind me never to ride back with you. I’m wrecked. Done.”
Here I am at the Bridge Pizza, surrounded by memories, already planning the next visit.
The 2011 edition kicked off with me not exactly at my sharpest. Pre-race jitters? Check. Eating a whole pound of toffee-covered peanuts at midnight? Also check. Why? Well, because sometimes the brain doesn’t quite catch up with what the stomach can handle.
So there I was at 1 a.m., trying to cobble together what I thought were “correct” directions to the race for my buddy, while practically sleepwalking. We made a pit stop for coffee, and of course, I thought it was a brilliant idea to add a mountain of candy and trail mix to the mix. Come morning, my stomach was staging a full-blown revolt, complete with cramps and sharp pains. Our remedy? A quick dash to town for the greasiest bacon and strongest coffee we could find. Unbeknownst to me, this combo was about to become my secret weapon.
There I was at the start line, fifteen rows back, wondering if the cramps would hit me like a freight train if I pushed too hard. My starting position? Terrible. Stuck on the far side, a direct bee-line forward would have me plowing right into the scaffolding. So, I just shuffled forward, wondering what the day would bring.
The pros sauntered off the start line with elegance, while us mere mortals in the cat 1 group prepped for the chaos. Last minute, I shot a hopeful glance at the official, half-joking about needing a sudden upgrade. Remembering last year’s crash fest, I took a deep breath. Then the gun sounded. I surged forward, tackling the trail in bite-sized chunks—pass five, recover, and repeat.
By the time we hit the long climb to the course’s main feature, only three riders were ahead of me. I managed to pull alongside the race leader just before we dove into the main attraction: a downhill section, like a dirt luge, full of banked corners begging for a full-speed attack and a few well-timed “yee-haas!” My rival wobbled in the sand, and I filed that away as a prime spot to make my move next round.
Suddenly, I was leading the pack. “What age group are you?” came a shout from behind as I pedaled furiously away.
“45… I’m a grandpa,” I shouted back, grinning.
On the next lap, I mulled over just how fast I wanted to chase the pros. There’s always a temptation to steamroll over everyone in your path, isn’t there? But then, cruising behind a couple of pros, I relaxed into the pace, even letting one pull ahead as I drifted into memories of last season.
The fishermen were up with the dawn, meticulously fine-tuning the drag on their reels, while the sun gently kissed the very tops of the hills surrounding Riggins, Idaho. Zzzzzzz. Zzzzzzz. But wait a minute! Why would fisher folks be up at the crack of dawn, pulling line out of their reels with such gusto, creating that unmistakable zzzzzzz sound?
Ross sat bolt upright, and I felt the need to demystify the source of our morning symphony. “This lube is the real deal. Can you believe this chain is still slick after 50 miles in the desert?” I nudged the chain forward to tend to another section. Zzzzzzz. The freehub hummed a melody akin to a cyclist coasting down a hill, then fell silent.
“This morning, I stepped outside, and the first thing that caught my eye,” I said, flinging the window open to reveal a hillside cradled by a trail snaking up the ridge. “Just feast your eyes on that trail.”
Oh boy, what a whirlwind of a Friday! Punched out of work at the stroke of 2 but didn’t manage to flee town till about 4. Ross and I bid adieu to Lolo around 5, only to crash into our beds at the ungodly hour of 1:40 AM on Saturday. Not exactly what you’d call a masterclass in race prep, huh?
To add to my list of questionable life choices, I was harboring a gut bomb of some peanut-infused trail mix that I was positively certain would come back to haunt me at dawn.
And haunt me it did. The next morning’s “issues” led me on a pilgrimage to Melba for what I hoped would be a magical trio: bacon, sausage, and a triumvirate of coffee cups aimed at… let’s say, easing the situation. Little did I know, I was on the brink of discovering my next big pre-race secret weapon. Armed with nothing but grease and caffeine coursing through my veins, I left my competition in the dust. Honestly, it was my best showing since the infamous Rolling Thunder.
As we were driving away from the adrenaline-pumped scene at Barking Spider, Ross hit me with, “You must feel pretty good about today’s outcome,”
“Well, of course… but,” I trailed off, my mind racing back through the day’s escapades. Let’s tally it up: started in something like 70th place, made a beeline to the front, and then zoomed off to outpace the pro field by a cool 3 minutes. The whole affair was nothing short of astounding, and it hadn’t really fully sunk in yet.
“I’d trade it all in a heartbeat to get back what I’ve lost,” I murmured, my voice tapering into a mumble as I braced myself for the impending need to elaborate. Ross, bless him, stayed silent. Just like my pals back in Plattsburgh, NY, came to realize, I wasn’t racing solo today – brought my demons along for the ride.
The wind makes such an eerie sound when it passes through power lines at high speeds. It’s my favorite sound when I am climbing University Mountain. But to hear it while pedaling my bike was unsettling. Also unsettling was the fact I had just ran out of Carbo Rocket and my speed was dropping below 12 mph. I glanced up the road as another 40 mph gust of wind hit my face to see the lead group much smaller then before. When we turned into the wind they were “just right there”.
Struggling against the winds I thought to myself, “wow, I am going like … 40 miles and hour”. I was trying to candy coat the fact that I had been dropped and now was struggling off the back of the 2011 Speedwagon Classic break. Now all I could hope for was to stay way and not get caught by the peloton.
Earlier in the day when Chad picked me up it was raining and I had a shit eating grin on my face. Today was going to be epic. Driving rain on dirt roads … can you say slog … with a hellacious climb near the end. Anyone who would make it that far would be totally wrecked. I couldn’t wait to get it on. As we pulled into the race host parking lot it was still raining and the ground so saturated that tire tracks from other cars looked more like tiny little grand canyons.
Then racers started pulling in and yanking bikes off of racks. But it was apparent there was a big decision taking place between Matt the organizer and someone in a red pickup truck who obviously just drove the upper part of the new course. We learned that Matt pulled the plug on the new upper part of the course in the mountains because the trucks putting up the signs couldn’t even drive the roads. So the Speedwagon for 2011 was shortened to a multi lap which included some great muddy terrain with one little climb that put the hurt in the legs.
The race started with the usual frolics and road racing tactics. I think they were tactics but how would I know. There was the occasional “car up” meaning there was an oncoming vehicle. Hand gestures for road obstacles were furious due to the bad road conditions at times. One place there was running water over the road. Then I heard a “Shetland pony” from team mate Corey.
Half way around the first lap we ran into a long muddy road section. There were places that resembled quick sand where you would be riding about 30 mph and suddenly be slowed to 7. And then suddenly there was just 6 of us all alone way out front. By the time we hit pavement the entire field was no where to be seen. I just tried to hang on until eventually I would be dropped. Previously I just wanted to get in a hard 20 minutes then just sit in and relax and have fun. The group was fast and I had to dig deep just to keep with them.
I searched my mind for excuses to slow down and voluntarily get dropped. Then I saw an opportunity. My front wheel skewer was only half way clamped down. It stuck out and meant that my front wheel could fall off. Ah ha. I had a excuse to stop. I could blame it on my “safety stop”. I announced that my skewer was loose and waited for the best time to slow down to try a fix while moving slower. Then I would try to catch up but as everyone knows would be impossible to bridge up to a group of 5 working to break each other.
“Hey everyone”, Matt yelled up to the group. “Wanna stop and let Bill fix his front wheel?”
“Yea, no problem”
And they all just stopped. What an honor I thought to have the entire break group stop so I could fix my wheel. So we called the race off for a couple minutes. That was so cool. Then we were off again and onto the second climb to start our 3rd and final loop. The group attacked the hill and I laid back and just powered ever so softly back to them near the top. I was finding some great sustained power as long as I didn’t go to hard. Going hard was just a waist of energy. All extra energy would just make you sink in more and slow. I kept it powerful but light. Then Alex dropped off the back.
As we approached a well maintained highway I looked back hoping maybe Alex would show some signs of wanting to catch up. Didn’t look good for him and by the time I looked back the group got a 10 foot gap. I thought “no problem” and tried to carry more speed through the corner. But the little gap grew as we headed directly into the wind. I no longer wanted to get dropped but was torn between powering back to the group and risk going too hard and going harder but steadily catch back up. By the time I realized I needed to go hard or die it was too late. They were gone.
Now I was here on the straight section of road with a howling 40 mph wind in my face going 12 … 11 … 10 … 7 mph. I was struggling. I looked back frequently to see if the group would catch me or even Alex who is very strong and could have a second wind. I saw no one every time I looked back. One time I was just starring at the ground and struggling. I would look up and be totally on the left side of the road. I snapped back to the right. I must keep it together. Then I saw it. A arrow … the arrow. To turn right and finish on top of the hill.
I never been so happy to see a hill in my life. A hill is WAY better then the wind. I seemed to find some new power and could see the lead pack start attacking each other. I stood up to power ahead. Maybe I could catch a straggler. Then my chain fell off. I sat back down and fiddled with my shifter. “What the f&$^”. My bottom bracket was coming apart. So the rest of the way up the climb it seemed to me that every stroke was a blessing. A blessing because my chain was NOT broken YET and even though I was making sounds like a hundred marbles being crushed in a meat grinder I was still moving. I was imagining having to run the last 200 yards with a group of cyclists catching me just before I could reach the finish line.
Everything held up and I came across in 5th place. A good solid effort. I waited not to much longer and the rest of the decimated field came through. Chad came up the hill in 11th; then Erik, Julie, then Norman. And finally in dead freaking last Cory. In fact I waited at the finish line so long, one hour and ten minutes, I actually got the “good teammate” award. The caloric festival after is the main reason most of us were there … and of course, each others company. It was like a big ol family reunion. And like good family reunions was a fabulous time.
Thank you Chad for taking me and posting my entry. Also my friend Norman who saved my ass by letting me have some of his Carbo Rocket 333. Also by all the Action Wipe packets laying around on Sicz’s basement floor you know I was presentable and smelled great for the social affair upstairs.
I just received a email from race organizer Matt, “Despite the morning rain and revised course, the Speedwagon started with gusto under dry skies and lived up to expectations. Hearty racers were treated to a challenging combination of soft mud, deep ruts, humbling wind, and searing leg fatigue. It was true Montana bike racing and Julie Zickovich and Shaun Radley were crowned 2011 Speedwagon champions. Of course the event’s real jewel was the post race feast at the Sicz place.
“Thanks to all the racers and the generous volunteers who once again made this event special. I have attached the results and the link below will take you to some photos of the event.”
And just like that, the joy fizzles out. Every day, it’s like I’m counting down to my next culinary rendezvous—I swear, I live meal to meal. But recently, I’ve put a full stop to all that, only to realize how much my mood’s been hitching a ride on my food habits. Let’s be real: food shouldn’t double as your personal brand of happiness. Sure, it’s a blast to indulge and there’s nothing wrong with savoring a good meal, but living solely for the thrill of the next bite? That’s no way to roll. Time to ditch the feast-or-famine routine and scout out what genuinely makes me happy, sans the sugar coating.
I might be off-base here, but hey, we’re not just wandering through life without a clue. Our brains and bodies are basically our personal petri dishes. Sure, there’s a chance this whole thing could spiral into me swapping one vice for another—hello, blackjack and basement poker nights, or, heaven forbid, something heavier. But, fingers crossed, that’s not on my horizon. With all the running and racing that usually keeps me on my toes, I’ve got enough distractions. Especially now, with a bit of downtime between training cycles, the timing couldn’t be more spot-on.
So, last night at 8, I hit a milestone: a full 24-hour stretch without so much as a crumb making its way past my lips. But why stop there? Now, I’m clocking in at 39 hours and gunning for 60. I’ve danced with 24-hour fasts before, chasing that detox high and giving my body a chance to hit the reset button. And, let me tell you, the buzz around town—about how overeating’s the grim reaper in disguise—might just have a point. The minimalist eaters out there, they’re onto something, living life in the slow lane, longevity-wise. Plus, there’s something almost magical about how the body kicks into repair mode when you ease off the feeding frenzy. A weekend of pushing my limits, followed by strategic refueling, and bam—I’m back, better than ever.
But this new 60-hour gig? It’s more than just a test of will. It’s about digging deeper into the why behind my food fixations, more than the what. A part of me is just curious to see if I’ve got the grit. And through this, I’ve stumbled upon a goldmine of endurance tactics—mastering the art of pacing and keeping a cool head when everything else is a blur. When I emerge on the other side, I’ll ease back into the world of flavors, bit by bit, gearing up for my next training chapter. And who knows? Maybe I’ll finally shake off those late-night cravings for cardamom ice cream.
I have bloggers block but know from experience I must blurt out something. I guess I will go with the old format. What did I do, what am I doing, and what am I going to do. I am searching my mind for something to report but the lack of glucose in my brain prohibits me from synthesizing anything. I haven’t eaten all day. Yesterday I did. Oh it is coming back to me now. I had fish and chips with a beer at the Hamilton House. I was up all night wrestling with what it did to my super polished Carbo Rocket processor. Now I cant eat … makes me ill. Damn that social eating.
What does the photo to the right have to do with this story? Nothing … just did some photos from last month and liked this one. It is of when I rode my Turner around Big Sky for a day. Super beautiful up there.
So why was I in Victor? Well my buddy and I did a 6 hour fun ride in and around Corvallis to check out the only dry trails in all of Montana. Norm and I hit up Flat Rock, Willow Creek Road, and took a spin up to Calf Creek to see if that was open. It was not. So after that and the sun came out we headed over to the Hamilton house for some refreshments. It was good.
Well that covers what I did and what I am doing now. This morning on the commute to work I told my friend Lydia that my plan was to fly under the radar today and just try to escape to Tuesday. Well that didn’t happen. Got in trouble at work for letting a client’s domain name expire so I am pretty exposed to life right now. So I guess I will just go home and work out.
BTW: Congrats to my friends who raced this weekend. Zephanie got 12 in the Fontana cross country and 9th in the short track. Then Jill managed to bust out a hundred miles in the mountains of Alaska shaving 5 hours of last years time in the WM100. Damn good job girls …o/o
Good luck to Jill Homer in the White Mountain 100 snow bike race. Here is the beta. I am planning on some sporadic spot watching parties during the next 20 hours. Goooo Jill. Here is the beta. means Jill is biking …o/o
Beat is going to compete on foot, so his icon is a little runner.
And, if her pace slows to a speed not conducive to bike riding the icon changes to a little bike-pushing aol figure.
Lately, my job has been like a black hole, sucking up all my bloggy energy and spitting out a shell of a writer. But fear not, dear readers, I shall rise from the ashes of my to-do list like a phoenix, ready to regale you with tales once more. Managed to escape the clutches of work for a bit yesterday for a soul-rejuvenating sunset watch. Fingers crossed, toes crossed, even eyes a bit crossed, I might just make it to the Thursday Night Ride tonight. Until then, it’s back to the grindstone for me.
Tonight, I’ve stumbled upon a rare gem of an evening where I can actually plop down and watch a hockey game. Usually, my routine is as predictable as a sitcom rerun: clock out from work, dive into training, blend up a recovery smoothie that’s probably too green for its own good, and then crash harder than a clumsy figure skater. But lately, my job has been giving me a mental workout that’s tougher than any gym session, leaving me gasping for a breather like I’ve just sprinted through my entire day. Wrestling with a solid nine hours of focus feels like asking my aging brain to run a marathon without training. Luckily, my knack for juggling time like a circus performer means I’ve still managed to squeeze in those all-important workouts. Today, I was on fire, knocking out both sessions by 6 PM. Escaped for a lung-busting hill session on Sentinel at lunch and wrapped it up with some much-needed regeneration after battling the commute home.
As I’m sifting through photos, half-watching the Avalanche attempt a Hail Mary against the Blue Jackets, I can’t help but think Colorado needs a miracle lineup to dodge missing the playoffs.
Stumbled upon this snapshot of Moonlight Basin and, honestly, it’s hard to believe this gem is tucked away in Montana. Sure, the commercial glitz is hard to ignore, but you’ve gotta tip your hat to the sheer bliss of living it up there like you own the place. Took a spin there about a month back, cruising the snowy streets on my new bike. Felt like a breath of fresh Montana air, a sweet escape from the same-old Missoula that’s felt a bit more monochrome these frosty months. It was like stepping into another world.
So here I am tonight, a change of pace with my feet up, hockey on the TV, mentally mapping out my next great adventure on two wheels.
Bacon tastes so good. And if it is cooked just right, the fat becomes crispy and just a wonderful explosion of hickory smoky flavor. That is what I am experiencing now. Also, the smell of my freshly made espresso wafts through my apartment, and a fresh toasted raisin bagel (gluten-free, of course) eagerly awaits its turn to be eaten. I have already visited my local free Wi-Fi haunt to check on some of my favorite blogs and post a plea for someone to ride with today. The weather channel barks out the reason no one has answered my cries. Wicked winter storms are barreling their way up the Western coast and headed our way. But I don’t care about all these details right now. The biggest question is where to ride. I am using a topo map program to rummage around for a local place to explore. I use the TopoFusion program. I love TopoFusion.
Yesterday, I found plenty of people to ride with, and plenty of miles were recorded. I rode out to Clinton for the yearly Missoula cyclists’ right of passage. Well, if you are a road racer. I am not, but I like those dudes. Um, most of them anyway. Some jerk-weed started yelling at me that I had caused an accident. In reality, I was behind two junior riders who collided with each other and went down. I proceeded to ride over a back wheel and continue but had nothing to do with it. Once accused, I quickly defended myself and slowed the pace for a possible fist fight. After it was obvious this guy was just being a jerk, I returned to pursue the main field. But they got away, so I towed a small pack around the course twice, finished up, and rode 20 miles back home. I think I better stay away from that sport. I just don’t fit in and can’t seem to conform to the “laws” of road racing. I hope I didn’t piss too many people off. Well, maybe a few. Ha.
As my program loads map tiles, I get excited. I love planning a new adventure. Somewhere you haven’t been. Mysterious landscapes which topo maps only provide tiny details. What that land has in store for me, no one can tell. I just know where I want to go. Then I go out and see what the land has in store for me.
Time to head out. At least today, I know I will not piss anyone off or get into a scuffle. I will be alone. Just the terrain, a network of gravel roads, and some possible single-track.
I really don’t know what drives me to go harder when my entire biology says that I am about to die. But I do. I was climbing up Pattee Canyon in my large ring, two clicks down in the back. It was a 3 minute sprint and I felt like I just couldn’t muster the pace for three minutes. But I did. I was thinking about how Missoula has changed in the last week. And then I turned around to go back down the hill to do it again. I passed a single deer in a yard half way down.
“I’ll name you Dipper”, I said to myself.
I tend to name all animals I encounter frequently. I would go by Dipper 7 times today so I had better give it a name. It gave me a look and went back to eating. A cyclist on this stretch is not a uncommon occurrence.
I finished my 3 minute sprints, 3 of them, and coasted around for 5 minutes in recovery. Suddenly I mounted one of 3 two minute attacks on the hill. I was in my large ring and four down in the back. Holy cow. Just as I thought I would bust my leg off at the hip my interval was over.
“That damn Carbo Rocket 333 is kick ass”, I thought to myself. I mean what the heck is with all this power. I turned around to coast back down the hill. If only this interval session would free me up for a ride with a friend later after work. Just as I came down the hill again there were two deer.
“I’ll name the other Borah” “Hi Borah… Dipper”
Borah looked a little uneasy with it’s new name and Dipper just ignored me. We had a special kind of relationship, Dipper and I.
After my 3 two minute assaults on the hill I rested again. The last big attack would last one minute and I wondered if I could go all out biggest ring and 6 down in the back. I spun around for five minutes.
Bam! Just like that I attacked one last time and ripped out a perfect sprint up the hill. Absolutely great to go 26 mph up a hill climb. Too bad I couldn’t do that for 20 minutes. I would be freaking awesome. I coasted back towards town. I passed Dipper and Borah but there were 3 deer this time.
“Wow, that is weird. I’ll name the third … “
But couldn’t think of a name. And then the moment passed as my mind wondered what Missoula would be like this summer. Would I see Dipper and Borah again? Where did that third deer come from?
On this day in history, ‘Hey Zeph! Want an Action Wipe?‘ I asked, after cleaning the blood from my shin.
As I barreled down the track with my heart thumping at a rapid 170 bpm, it seemed too intense to be real. Yet, there I was, carving through a hairpin turn, leaning into it with all my might. My bike, my dream machine, hugged the curve with the tenacity of Velcro, and I couldn’t help but marvel at its precision. Inches from the apex, I was tearing it up, fully immersed in the moment—except, this was no figment of my imagination. I was genuinely racing against time to catch the starting line of the Devils Slide 2011.
Trip to 2011 Devils Slide in Lewiston Idaho
Barely making it, decked out in Team Muleterro colors, I arrived just in the nick of time for the brief, two-minute racers’ meeting. It went something like, “I won’t be timing, so we’re going by placements. Any questions?” No sooner had the front liners, the Cat 1s and pros, agreed to let one of Vertical Earth’s riders lead the pack, than we were off. Contrary to our gentle start agreement, our leader blasted ahead, setting a fierce pace until the first ascent, where he gracefully bowed out, letting the heavy hitters take the reins.
Amongst the lead pack, Kevin Bradford-Parish of EMDE Sports and Kris Holden were the titans to beat. As we tackled the climb, I resisted the urge to push too hard, opting instead to stay tucked in the draft. Looking back, I should’ve seized the moment to break away. Before I knew it, the race’s dynamics shifted, leaving just four of us to dominate the field by the climb’s end.
The Devils Slide was my proving ground, where my new bike’s mettle was truly tested. It soared down the descent, keeping pace effortlessly. In previous races, this segment had been my downfall, but not this time. My only hiccup came when Kevin outmaneuvered me on a “safer” route, demonstrating that my cautious approach had cost me precious speed. It was a lesson in the art of featherlight braking.
Suddenly, I found myself in third place, wary of Kevin possibly letting the leader, a fellow Vertical Earth rider, slip away. Amidst tactical silence and unspoken strategies, I saw my chance and surged forward, clawing my way to second place by the end of the first lap, with the EMDE rider breathing down my neck.
Determined to shake up the race, I ramped up the intensity. If it came down to a sprint, I doubted my chances of victory. So, I pressed on, widening the gap with each pedal stroke. But as fate would have it, my handlebars chose that moment to loosen, turning my ride into a cautious balancing act.
As the climb loomed again, my competitors mistook my sudden deceleration for exhaustion. Frantically, I worked to tighten the screws with my multitool, cursing my luck and the potential wrath of my dad for the damage to my carbon bars.
Yet, despite the setback, my bike responded like a dream, catapulting me past my rivals on the climb. The race’s dynamics shifted once more, with Kevin making a bold move up the climb. Not to be outdone, I gave it my all, my bike ascending like a spirited gazelle.
As we neared the Slide again, I sensed Kris’s strategy to shadow my moves. My bike, however, was unstoppable, even with the handlebars askew. By the second lap’s end, I was hot on Kevin’s heels, with the trio of us jostling for the lead.
In the final moments, tactics and endurance were put to the ultimate test. Despite my best efforts, Kevin’s adept maneuvering on the final climb sealed my fate. I crossed the finish line in his wake, gracious yet hungry for victory.
Reflecting on the race, under the sun’s perfect glow, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. It was a day of intense competition, camaraderie, and the sheer joy of riding.
Trip to 2011 Devils Slide in Lewiston Idaho
NOTE: Many thanks to Doug Goodenough for capturing the essence of the race with his photography. Visit his gallery to show some love and check out the race results. Here’s hoping he’s cool with the photo use!
On This Day In History
2010: Would you just look at that meadow? Prettier than a picture, I tell ya. Reminds me of that one time I was out hikin’ with my buddy Jimmy, and we darn near stumbled right into a moose’s backyard. Let’s just say we high-tailed it outta there faster than a jackrabbit on a hot tin roof!
2009: Ah, the joys of battlin’ the dreaded sniffles. It’s like a war zone up in here, with tissues flyin’ every which way and chaos reignin’ supreme. But hey, at least that AI-generated image of impending doom gave me a good chuckle. Gotta find the humor where you can, right?
2008: Speakin’ of good chuckles, how about that Marcy? Cutest darn thing this side of the Mississippi, I tell ya. Nothin’ beats a lazy day off from trainin’, just kickin’ back and hittin’ the trails with your favorite four-legged pal. ‘Course, that Lolo Pass Ride was looming on the horizon, so it was back to the grindstone soon enough.
2006: Now, here’s a doozy for ya! A good ol’ fashioned snowpocalypse, barrelin’ down on us like a freight train. But hey, at least we got to soak up some of that glorious sunshine while it lasted, right? And with friends comin’ to visit, well, that’s just the cherry on top of the sundae!
2006 (again): Ah, yes, the age-old conundrum of privacy versus accessibility. Gotta love those brain-scratchin’ ideas that really get the ol’ noggin churnin’. Course, knowin’ me, I probably got about three sentences in before my mind started wanderin’ off to more pressin’ matters… like what I was gonna have for lunch that day.
means 
Boneshakerbike 
