First, Last, and Everything

This past weekend, Big Jim Slade, Derwood, Silk, and I made the journey to Thomaston for the Thunderbolt Classic. Even Little Bro' Phil made the trip down from the ATL.

This was a trip back in time. Thomaston had long been my favorite mountain bike race in the Southeast. She offers up heavy duty old school mountain biking. Raw, as Silk put it. The trails are a far cry from the IMBA handbook. There were fall line trails, both up and down, and trails that followed the topo lines, but were never bench cut, so you are constantly off camber. Add in plenty of rocks and you're good to go.

The promoters decided we needed a little extra this year, so they added in new trail, to connect two more hard climbs per lap. The website claims 2100 feet of altitude gain per lap. Now, I'm from FL, so I have a very minimal grasp of what it means to climb "X" number of feet. For us, we go uphill and we go downhill, but there is never enough of either to bother calling out numeric values. I know that at 8,000 feet, I get a headache on the 2nd day. I know that at 10,000 feet, if I stand up to fast, I'll sit back down even faster, whether I want to or not. But knowing I was going to climb 2100 feet per lap, it just didn't register what I was in for. I've raced Camp Thunder many times and the last couple were two lap races, so I went in confident. Nevermind that it has been 10+ years since they last raced there.

We arrive on Saturday and looking around, the rider count is sparce. The promoters broke tradition and ran the beginners and juniors on Saturday. i only saw about 15 or so people line up for the beginner starts. This is not a good sign. We register, grab our campsite, and head out for the preride. The course is marked for the beginners, so we get some sketchy directions from an official, and head out to see how the course looks. This trail follows the Flint River for about a half mile, and then turns to singletrack. Immediately she goes up. It's nothing but switchbacks for the next mile. This climb always takes me about 15 minutes. It's just me, the granny gear, and my inner demons. The fast guys check out, and Jim, Phil and I are at the top together. We try to find the sport/expert course based on verbal instructions, but somehow we blow it. We just finished the 2nd long climb, when Darien and Silk catch up to us and inform us that we missed a long sketchy downhill, with and equally long climb back out. This does not bode well. Oh, well, I'm not going back to see what I missed. I can't keep my heartrate down on these climbs anyway, and I don't want to blow myself apart on a preride. I'll deal with it race day. We finish the preride in about 1 1/2 hours. This race is promising to be much longer that typical XC races.

That night, at dinner, my legs feel toasted. I decide that the race will consist of survival for me. I'm way more concerned about finishing than I am about going fast. I have not felt that in a while. We stay up exchanging old stories around the campsite. The first race we ever took Phil to, as a 14 year old junior, was Thunderbolt. I remember his Mom giving me a mimeographed list of things to watch for, and what to do in case his diabetes gave him trouble. I almost had a heart attack worrying about him. At that race, I forgot my shoes, so I did the preride in Doc Martens on my clipless pedals(A friend brought my shoes up that night.). Even without my shoes, I was waiting for Phil at the tops of all the climbs. It's just not like that anymore. So racing at this venue, with Phil back on a mountain bike, brought back a lot of memories. Even though it was a little warmer than ideal, we had blast hanging out, and catching up.

Race day rolled around, and thankfully, a few more people showed up. It was still a small turnout. Probably around 20 experts and 20-25 sport riders showed up, total. The starts were rolled together, with all the experts starting at 9:30ish, and all of us sport folk starting at 10. I settled in towards the back, determined not to blow on the 1st climb. As soon as we hit the climb, I see Big Jim, two riders up from me, crash in the 1st switchback. Poor bastard. I start telling him to calm down, get on his bike, and take his time getting rolling. I want him in front of me, so I don't hold him up, and I'm trying top make him understand that there is a large gap behind me, so he has plenty of time. He gets going, and promptly drops me. Good enough. Only, two switchbacks later, he's off his bike, standing there as I climb by. I'm not sure what's going on with him, but I'm already hurting too much to worry about it right now. About 2/3's of the climb is done, but my HR is through the roof and climbing. I finally bail off my bike so that I can get it under control. Climbs this long don't forgive oversized efforts, and I can't afford to blow on the 1st climb, when there are three more just as hard on this lap, and a 2nd lap is still in the cards!

After I get going again, I start a game with myself. I decide I have to clean every climb on the course at least once. I guess it worked, because I suffered up all the remaining climbs that lap, but I made them. Regardless, my 1st lap took 1:31, so I was starting to worry about finishing. My arms were shot, Everytime we hit a big downhill, they were so rough that my triceps and calves quaked. I honestly wondered if I would have to DNF because of upper body failure. That would be a first. Here's the catch. I was the only clydesdale in the race. How can I drop out, when I'm the only guy there?! I could just here the questions when I got back home.

How was your race? Did you win?

No.

Who did?

Nobody, I was the only guy there and I quit.

I just couldn't go out like that. So I start my 2nd/last lap and want to clean that 1st climb, since I blew it on the 1st lap. I groove the 1st switchback, and my hamstring promptly starts to cramp. Dammit!!!! I jump off my bike and walk it off before it gets bad. Again, this is the first of many climbs, and I can't afford to come apart completely. Disappointed that I won't clean this one, I remount and ride the next 1/2 mile of switchbacks, I get happy with the idea that I'll make the remainder, and that lack of focus was all it took. I hit a rock, my front wheel wandered over into tree, and I was off and walking again.

The rest of the race was pure, unadulterated torture. My entire body was wasted. My back hurt, my legs hurt, my glutes hurt, my arms hurt, my neck hurt. All I wanted to do was get this beast done. I rode along a small creek, and pondered lying in it to feel the cool water wash away my insanity. Fortunately for me, she was a little too shallow, or I would have tried. I promised myself that as soon as I finished, I'd go lay in the river. Every time the hurt got too heavy, I'd imagine that cold water washing away all the grime and sweat.

I rode as much of everything as I could. My granny gear and I got intimate. I measure progress in inches and feet. I dreaded the downhills for fear my triceps or calves would cramp. I stressed my hamstrings cramping at the base of every climb. Eventually it all started to run together. Just hurt a little longer, and it will end. The river's waiting.

On one of the longer new climbs that were added for this race, Phil finally caught up to me. He was on his third lap, and was tired. I can't tell you how stoked I was to see him still out there, and I told him so. He said he thought long and hard about quitting, but knew that if I was still out there, he might get a beating back at the campsite. How true, how true! We talked for a few more moments, and he rode off after another tired expert just in front of us. I saw him riding the downhill with his buddy, as I finished the climb. If only I'd been a little stronger, so he'd caught me nearer the top, I could've ridden that piece of trail with them. That would've been good.

At the top of the last climb, a feeling crept over me. The end was near. I'd wanted to stay under 2:45 for the race, but that had already passed, but I finally knew it was all good, though. I flew the last downhill at mach 6, and headed straight through the start/finish, to the river. Cold redemption awaited.

I was so demoralized during that race, that I was going to sell all my bikes. Then I was keeping them, but only racing flat courses like Fernandina Beach or Jacksonville. Maybe I should just get panniers and flags, and start doing centuries, I thought. Whatever! Not a chance! I may suck at these big climbing races, but I felt like I accomplished something. This course had one climb similar to the main climb at Bump & Grind. Then it had three more that were harder...every lap. B&G has always been tough for me, because of the climb. This year, I'm not so much worried. I'd much rather do two laps of B&G over two laps at this beast, so my one lap race won't seem near as hard as years past. Thomaston tore me down, mentally and physically, but we come through the other side stronger than ever. At least mentally, I feel ready for Bump & Grind, this year. In fact, I can hardly wait. I just hope the body backs me up.

By the way, Silk managed another 2nd behind controversial Andy J.. Darien finished 2nd in singlespeed. How he did two laps on a rigid bike with no gears, I don't understand. Big Jim is working through some demons, but I'm sure that as soon as he hashes it all out, he'll see he's going to be fine. Phil suffered the same fate as me. Being the only guys in our classes, we were first, last, and everything.

Documentation

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so here's a 15,024 word post about this weekend in review. Top that Wrecking Ball!

Visitation

The myth that is Lil Ronnie, will be gracing us with his presence this weekend. First up, watch him get pissed at the Joe's ride. Next, watch him get pissed at us for watching him get pissed.

Friday we should be headed for a big group dinner, at which point he'll likely get pissed. I'll of course egg it on, and he'll get pissed some more.

Saturday he'll bitch about how we made him pissed, and that will make more pissed. Saturday night Allan will draw on Lil' Ronnie, and the ouchy needle will make him pissed.

Sunday, he'll be pissed because he has to go home to North Cuba.

I for one, am amped to see the giant grouch. With any real luck, you'll catch a giant grin on his face as he aggravates the ever livin' hell out of one of his good friends.

I'll keep the ride schedules posted, so join the fun if you can.

Cracked

I think I may be the butt of an evil joke, played by one super fast expert type who goes by the name of Silk. I'm not completely sure of this, because I'm too tired to think straight. Right now it kind of feels like the 2nd day back from the RAAM ordeal. It took me a week to feel normal after that sleep deprived journey, so this week is devoted to recovery. At least that's what Silk's evil plan calls for....or does it? Could this be another part of his insidious plot?

A few of us have decided to pursue the GA State Championship Series this year. The first race in East Macon Park was a real eye opener. The course had a lot more climbing than anyone really knew. I blew up hard! The last lap was about finishing, nothing more. After that, I quit skipping the interval workouts prescribed by Silk's plan. I decided to stay a little closer to The Plan, so as to maybe bring my game up a notch or two, before the next round. That's all well and good, but the next round came along during the hardest month of riding, according to The Plan. The Plan even said, "Do a C priority race, but don't expect to feel too sparky. You should be tired." Boy was that an understatement! I went all out at Columbus GA, for round 2. All out apparently meant I putted around the course on a Hoveround, like you see on those late night commercials. I looked at the trusty Garmin numbers later and discover that, yes, I was tired.

Stress will fool with your body as well as your your mind. I had a few things broiling in the stress oven the week prior, so hard riding, and hard thinking, with little rest equals, slow as all hell at the race. No problem, I'm not racing at round 3, the very next weekend. I am however, still going to Twilight. That race is so much fun to spectate. I already have my hotel booked and paid, it's nonrefundable, and my wife loves going to this event. Vacation week is in place. Relaxation, here I come!

It can't hurt to go ride the mountain bike course on Saturday, can it? I mean, I'm already up here, and Big Jim Slade and Marcus will be there. I'll just check out the course, and then we'll get on over to Athens to hang out for the evening. Ft. Yargo is a beautiful park, and the course is stellar. Lots of climbing, which doesn't really suit my style, but the super fast flowing singletrack that rewards those climbs, that more than suits my abilities.

By the time I finish the lap, it's after 2 or 3 pm, and I have not eaten real food since 9 that morning. Now, if I was racing, that would freak me out. Poor nutrition the day before a race is just dumb. But I'm just on vacation, so I'm not really freaked out. If you don't believe me, just ask my wife, who really loves it when I'm hungry.

We jet for Athens, check in to the hotel, get a shower, and head for downtown. The place is getting busy, and I'm super stoked to be at the races. I love watching these pro road crits. I've seen it so many times, and it still amazes me how hard they go. We head for a restaurant just off the course, and I try to control my twitching, as I'm afraid the race will start before I finish, or worse, even receive, my food. The timing all worked out in the end. I was out the door while Michelle covered our check, just in time to see the pro women's start.

I've got friends in this race, and I really want to see them do well. At the very least, I want to shout encouragement. It really does help to hear people screaming your name when you're in the hurt locker; like maybe your efforts were noticed and appreciated. When you're hurting so bad that it feels like you're breathing pure alcohol bred, blue fire. When every fiber of your body screams, "For the love of God, Please take that chainsaw out of my gut!". Having someone on the sideline yelling at you to ignore the very sound logic that your body is laying out in an effort to convince you otherwise, and just "GO, GO, GO!!!", somehow lets you know that the beating you hope to be bringing to your competitors, and most certainly are bringing to yourself, makes sense.

I was on my feet until the men's pro 1/2 race ended; around 11:30. Again, that would worry me if I was racing. Standing up all night, and not resting or sleeping, or drinking enough. That would be really foolish the night before a race. Luckily, I'm on vacation.

I crash back at the hotel and sleep the sleep of the dead. All the hard rides have really caught up with me. The back to back heavy duty workouts, the aggravations of life, and the long day on the road finally caught up to me. I'm wide awake at 7:30am. Maybe we should head over and check out the start of the mountain bike race. Marcus would appreciate the support. We load all the gear, hit Panera for breakfast, and return to Ft. Yargo.

It's a beautiful morning, the weather is great, and the park is overflowing with anxious mountain bikers. I watch Marcus settle into a modest start at the back. He still has a hard time realizing that he belongs in this class, and has every right to start closer to the front, rather than sitting in the back, only to wind up passing over half of the field. Once he was in the woods, I nonchalantly wandered over to the registration table and signed on the dotted line.

Now wasn't that stupid?! Oh well, The Plan calls for two hours at race pace today. What better way to get that workout than actually racing? I suit up, warm up, and line up. When the whistle blows, I settle in to one of those modest starts, too. I pass one guy, Junkman, before the singletrack. Once in the woods, the guy in front of me waves me around. The front three guys are lined up and leaving my time zone. No sweat, just settle in and ride my race. Junkman goes around, and actually starts giving me lessons in singletrack skill. I don't want to sound conceited, but I've been doing this a long time. I'm not used to guys just schooling me in the woods. I can go his pace if I'm on his wheel when the downhill starts, but otherwise, he gaps me. Luckily, he's slowing down on the climbs, and I'm actually bringing him back. Yes, clearly today is opposite day. As I reel Junkman in, I notice that one of the trio train up front has come unhitched, and we're catching him. We pass third place up, and send him out the back. Now I just have to hang on to Junkman, and try to unload him on the climbs during the 2nd lap. The thought of getting third has me pretty amped, and I'm riding hard to keep the dream alive. In reality, the thought of getting third was just an evil myth, more than likely propagated by The Man(Silk), designed to keep a brotha down!

I just kept telling myself that even though I was dying a thousand deaths, Junkman was dying a thousand and one. I just had to stay the course, and not let up. Never mind the fact that he was out of sight. He would be just around the next corner, begging for mercy. The only thing begging for mercy was my poor, depleted body. The adrenaline kept me up for a while, but in the end, it was all empty promises. I fell apart in epic proportions. The cramps found me around mile 15. I screamed to myself in the woods, as I tried to pedal through the twitching, malconforming, muscle mutiny. My common cramp is an inner thigh cramp, where the muscle tries to relocate my testicle down by my knee. Getting off the bike only makes it worse, so the only answer is to keep the cranks rolling over. It's truly ironic that the repetitive action that brought me to this painful state is also the only action that will pull apart the Celtic knot of muscle tissue.

I spent the remainder of the lap hoping that I wouldn't be caught by those behind me. I missed my downshift on a couple of the steep hills that sneak up on you after fast downhill sections. Twice I jumped out of the saddle to force the too big gear, only to have my legs fail me completely. Twice I wound up in a walk of shame up a short steep section. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

I sucked up what pride was left, and pushed as hard as I could through the last few fast sections to the finish line. No one else caught me, and I ended up with a fourth. Right after the finish line, I was getting a little dizzy, so I sat down and tried to catch my breath. Slowly, the sharper pains began to subside. I drank two more bottles of water and ate a granola bar while Big Jim Slade laughed at my predicament, all the while snapping away with his camera. I guess he wanted to remember that joke later. To add insult to injury, or injury to injury, when I stood up again, my inner thigh cramp returned with a vengeance. This time I was already off the bike, and couldn't find any way to make it release. I just winced and held myself up by bracing on a picnic table, until I'm pretty sure the muscle was just too tired to stay cramped any more.

I found a strange sense of pride in doing this race, when I could have just as easily headed for Dauset for a relaxing ride around one of my favorite trail systems, with my favorite Lady. I feel like I stayed the course, despite the all but guaranteed defeat due to bone weary fatigue. My wife said she was proud of me, which of course flatters the caveman in me.

Now I just want to rest. I may not ride at all this week. I'm gonna spend a little time pondering punch lines. If anyone sees Silk, tell him Bigworm's looking for him.

Lordy, Lordy, Not Quite 40

That's right! Your's Truly had a birthday today, and I'm about as close to the Four Oh as you can get, without actually being there.

Strange, but I've noticed that I pay attention to age a little more than I did in the past. I'm not real sure where that's coming from. I have always been a strong believer in age as a state of mind. Perhaps that is a thought for the youthful; when age truly isn't a concern, unless you're wishing you were old enough to buy a beer.

I was never in any hurry to grow up, and if you ask my wife, she'll tell you I'm still on that path.

Oh well, another year to be me.... as long as old age let's me.

Where Did All the Green Stuff Go?

After this past week's deluges, I'm getting a little stir crazy. I forced the issue and rode Tuesday night, and for the 2nd time in 48 hours, I trashed my new ride. We got caught in a nightmare thunderstorm in the last 1/2 hour of the ride. By we, I mean myself, Longshanks and Bikechain. Ice Berg and Little Ball were all cozy in their car while I raced Noah back to the ark! I actually had to slow down my life or death time trial because I was hitting so much stuff that I couldn't see, because it was under water, that I was worried I was gonna flat, and have to spend even more time in the monsoon. There were limbs the size of Micro and Wrecking Ball falling out of the pine trees along the trail, and I was just waiting for Mother Nature to get off that one lucky shot...

All's well that ends well. Longshanks was even waiting at my truck with a spare towel! Good friends are a good thing.

Looking at the map above, I think a few of us will run quickly into the woods this evening, for a lap or two of the Munson/Twilight area, before the sky starts falling again. Any takers?

Shoulda Been Here Yesterday!

The old surf adage about getting burned on a surf trip, and then some local always points out, "You shoulda been here yesterday!", seems to have been a theme for the cycling part of our weekend trip. In reality, "yesterday" wouldn't have been any better. Four or five days ago, maybe, but not yesterday.

The rain that tore through the Eastern US reeked its havoc in North Georgia. We knew that Saturday's ride plans were a bust, before we left. 100% chance of rain left little doubt. But we hoped for a ride on Sunday, albeit a muddy one. We awoke early Sunday morning, ate a hotel breakfast, and drove the 40 minutes south from Dahlonega to Gainesville, to ride Chicopee. It took us long enough to get there, driving winding mountain roads, that I was already doing the math to see how much time we had to ride, and still get back in time for the wedding. When we rounded the corner to the parking lot, that problem was no longer an issue. A big red Closed! sign hung from the gate. There was a small crew of people in the lot so we swung in to find a work party heading out to clean up after the weeks storms. Now, I'd like to say we jumped out and played the Ambassadors of Tallahassee mountain biking, offering to drag limbs and shovel dirt as needed. But that wouldn't be true. Instead, like good travelers seeking a ride, we asked if anything would be open in the area. Not very noble, I know, but truthful. Anyway, one of the guys suggested driving further south, to Ft. Yargo. Since that was the plan for tomorrow, and the extra driving time just wouldn't allow us to get back in time for the wedding today, we returned slightly defeated, to Dahlonega.

On the way back, I just wasn't too keen on sitting in the hotel room, waiting to play dress up for the wedding. So we decided to drive up to Camp Wahsega, where Fool's Gold 50/100 is held in August. It gave me a chance to show Mrs. Worm around the mountain where Silk threw down last year(while Mingo, Micro and myself grabbed another hour and a half of shuteye). We drove about half of the 10 mile climb that starts that race. It's hard to convey, in words, a hill that goes up that long, this far south. She finally understood what I had been yammering about. We had a blast driving the mountain roads, even though knobbys had not yet touched dirt.

On the way back to the hotel, we swung through the Celtic Festival going on in downtown Dahlonega, and grabbed meat pies, bridies, and sausage rolls for lunch. Some Scottish shortbread for dessert, and we were in business!


Monday rolled around, and I was more than amped to be riding. We did another hotel breakfast, and were gone by 8am. We drove the same mountain roads as the day before, back through Gainesville, on our way to Winder, where we would ride the Ft Yargo trails. A couple of years ago, I went and watched Marcus look like he was drowning at an Xterra event here. While that partially cured his tri-geek phase, he raved about the trails, so I was looking forward to seeing what he saw. Besides, we're racing there in April, and I can see if maybe my new ride is a better choice for this trail, over the Titus. We pull in the lot, ready to work out the weekend kinks and, Closed! I'm getting a little tired of being mocked by this six letter word.

By now my frustration was boiling to the surface, and my demeanor was less than pleasant. My poor wife, I'm sure, was questioning her sanity for committing a lifetime to me. I was tired of long detours in search of trail, only to get skunked time and time again. We made a beeline for the Interstate, and headed south. Somewhere on I-675 I calmed downed, and decided to make one last ditch effort to ride. We jumped off I-75 and headed for Dauset. Finally luck was with us, and the gate was open. We peered tentatively at the kiosk, expecting another buzz kill, but all was good. The trails were definitely more muddy that I would've liked, but nowhere near as bad as the last time I came up with the crew. So we managed to get in and hour and a half of woods time, that salvaged the mountain bike portion of our trip.

Afterwards we hit JL's for BBQ, and then stopped at Stripling's for a late afternoon snack. It seemed that all was finally well with the world again.

Oh yeah, we did do the whole wedding thing on Sunday. Yours truly managed to forget his nice shirt, so a last minute trip was made to some hiking store in downtown Dahlonega, to find that the only long sleeve shirts they had were Patagonia. Ouch! It's a nice shirt, but damn! I hope I wear it more often, maybe next winter. Or, maybe it will find its way on eBay, to recoup some of the expense. On the way to the cheesy castle used for the wedding site, we passed a Wally World. Now I hate shopping at the big W, but I probably would have gotten a more usable shirt, for about a third of the price. Oh well, I'll chalk it up to supporting the N. GA economy. I'll call it, "Bigworm's Economic Stimulus Due to Poor Planning Plan".

Being in the mountains was great, and Mrs. Worm commented on moving there more than once. But as usual, it's still good to be home.