Panache

The last three weeks have been full of training, travel and amazing skiing up in Canaan. After that amazing Wednesday I spoke of so fondly in my last post, I was back at the push-pull effort of cranking up my training efforts on the bicycle again. I came back from Canaan with a sense of closure with the ski-season and felt like I was able to satiate that itch that tends to have me torn and resentful towards riding when the snow beckons elsewhere. I think I got it right this time and I feel like I'm on the half-full side of motivation to race my bicycle with my own proprietary blend of "NickcantWaite" panache.

The Kenda Pro Cycling camp down in Macon Georgia last week was a much needed reminder, for me, of the capacity for a group to mesh amidst a sport that can turn people off from it almost as quickly as it can turn them on to it. The group's collective theme is aggression and tenaciousness. If those two themes hold true throughout the second-year-pro team's season, it'll be be good and we may all be invited back.

The daily routine was stage race-esque with rides leaving at 9:30 every morning, on-bike lunch, massage, meetings and bike-fits in the evening along with plenty of time to toil the warmer hours of the day away in our rooms recovering from the day's exploits - a luxury the rock star mechanics did not have while they built 60 custom Masi's with exacting precision. Everyone on the team received the customary bags with our names embroidered on them and exploding with new and shiny gear with a subtle formaldehyde scent to remind you that the season has not yet begun. For team-cohesion we rode our bikes for 3-6 hours everyday - a given, but the real bonding occurred over unthinkably large beers at the Mexican joint across the street from the hotel. Those eight days are over and one 14hr travel day later I was meeting the Harrisonburg crew at Mr. J's Bagel shop for a 5 hour not so mellow ride in the mountains of VA. and WV.

A week well done, leaving only another 3 weeks or so to preen the feathers before my first race with the team.

Just a Wednesday.

I spent this past weekend in the Shenandoah Valley - a first since the velvety, powdered-sugar base of snow up in WV entered it's nirvana phase more than a month ago. This coming Thursday I'll catch a ride down to Macon Georgia with the media director of the Kenda Pro Road Cycling Team. I'm going to be flying the KPC colors this season on the road bike and GT for the MTB side of things. Macon will be the site of the KPC's eight day pre-season training camp. Gear/media/training and testing. I'm excited to have a first class introduction back into racing after a year of messengering in NYC. My last experience at an "oh so pro" cycling camp was with KBS in California a couple years ago.

Last Wednesday Andy Mckeegan and I made a special early-morning-push over the mountains and into WV to grab some first tracks in the pillowy stash of fresh snow usually reserved for White Grass staffers and locals who can pull the mid-week powder card. We pulled into an almost empty parking lot with the snow still coming down sideways. The main slope that's usually groomed and beaten down from skiers was occupied by an arsenal of snow-fences and the resulting drifts towering over them. Mid-week skiing at White Grass has the mystique of a beach that by day is flowing with people churning up the sand and building sandcastles only for the tide to erase it overnight night leaving it pristine and undisturbed by morning. Inside the lodge there was room to move, to sprawl out with our gear without the worry of taking up the space that's so coveted on a busy weekend. There were no Kid's spilling hot chocolate on us and it was warm from the wood stove that has likely not gone out since late November. The light was soft and the food smells mixed with the smells of ski wax, leather ski-boots drying and wood smoke creating a sweet earthy scent unique to White Grass.

On our way out through the breezeway we ran into Morgan (Chase). He ended up jumping on our train up the trackless main slope. We zigzagged our way up to mid station were a lonely retired ski-lift shack has sat quietly since the mid 1950's or so. Ducking into the woods and up Double Trouble, a classic steep and serpentine White Grass trail, we kicked our way over Round Top and into the Bald Knob glades. Morgan's bother Adam their friend Kevin were taking a break at the little rest hut tucked under the Spruce canopy. We left as a powder-giddy pack of five and wound our way out of the trees, over several larger than normal drifts and onto the wind-swept summit of Bald Knob. Our 4300' elevation soon turned into 3500' after thirty or so jump telemark turns down the steep face off the Knob through knee deep powder. That particular plummet into the upper steeps of Springer orchard was a first for me - a testament to the amount of snow Canaan (had) last week. I wasn't able to wipe the manic OMFG-grin off my face for the next few hours. So then we waited, shaking from the vertical drop, for Andy Mac who chose a slightly tamer route around the West side of "Baldy". When we saw the explosions of drifts above us we just yelled. As Andy emerged, dusted white, he had our same elated look on his face and said he thought he was on the wrong trail because of all the mammoth sized drifts. From there, together again, we aggressively charged our way into the next glade. It was too perfect to even begin to explain after the fact. The coffee won't last that long. Wispy powder bouncing and scratching across synthetic ski pants and how that sounds, describes it partially. I'll also say that if you filmed us and photoshopped the snow away, we would appear to be smoothly flowing three feet above downed trees, through gullies, over large piles of brush and many small hibernating creatures.

After that? Repeat-Cafe-Repeat, Hellbender's for beers, burrito's and the Olympics and Lindsey Vonn's gold medal run in the woman's downhill. It was only fitting that we did not have enough fuel to get home. Gotta pay for this surely on-loan snow somehow. Does Ullr have good interest rates? How long will it take for us to pay this back?

360

It's been two days since I've gone outside for anything but to get a bag of stove-pellets or make a trip to the post office. In the house, the smell of burnt indian spices from a dinner last week still permeates the air. Outside, a rectangle of white road salt remains where I parked my car after returning from a heavy weekend of snow in WV. From the porch, the snow reveals the pattern of an icy and beaten path leading to and from the garage. It reminds me of a set of marble church steps I saw in Switzerland several years ago, all worn from hundreds of years obedient routine.

Hot off the press!

Be there.

Next, please.

December !st. Yeah, it's still here. It seemed to be quite a distance away a few months ago. The city was melting the rubber off my old Cane Creek rims and food stayed hot even on the slowest most convoluted routes to it's final destination. And those tight, dimly-lit, Brooklyn street's and their black cats... Those curbs that jump out of the shadows.

The Six Packs are gone - raced and won by folks with hidden talent that reveals itself on the backsides of shady-green mountains after three p.m. on Fridays. A fixed-gear Champion of the Universe was crowned in a beer-drenched battle unbeknownst to the local Frolfers who wandered just beyond the treeline in Westover Park.

Then, two weeks after the Invitational-mud settled on Tear Jacket Knob, the Blue Ridge Cyclocross Cup gave way to frosty mornings. Rock Town took the trophy back from the Foof (Charlottesville). It's strength lays in the collective effort of four Country Club Malt Liquor pillars.

I rode for three hours today, traversing back and forth across the hilly Shenandoah Valley, until the sun fell. A mountain bike ride is in the works for tomorrow at 9 a.m. with JB. Gotta beat the rain before it beats us.

Rock Town Rally

Only days after the Tidewater Classic, the year's final local domestic MTB throw down, I rallied with a surprisingly motivated Rock Town Crew for Round #4 of the Blue Ridge Cyclocross Cup.
The last few days of sunshine and warmth have been nurturing for all sorts of outdoor play time. Today our sleepy little town, as well as the rest of the Shenandoah Valley was greeted with overcast skies and a chilly drizzle that made stoking the furnace and folding freshly cleaned race clothing from Sunday's mountain bike race seem more alluring than an hour drive in the rain to race with a damp, cold chamois in the heart of Foof Town. And when the hour hand struck three this afternoon I was already drifting towards the softness, encouraged by the fact my phone was still as silent as it so pleasantly had been all day after I dodged Jeremiah's interval-ride call in the morning. Then, a minute later, the proverbial "shit" hit the fan when Suzy Q Haywood from down the block rang the phone off my desk. The text read: 'Crossin' tonight? Carpool?". Any thoughts of abandoning were immediately erased as I frantically rang the go-to crowd to get the plan knitted before I got back to Sue. I called Chris Scott first who was just a few exits away from Rock Town on 81 coming back from a weekend in DC. Yo, the Suburban a go for the Blue Ride Cup tonight?, I said. "Nah, it's in the shop". With the rowdy group-mover out, we had to get creative with a few vehicles - some taking people and some taking bikes. Chris took care of Misty and Paul. Suzy and I jumped in the Element with Jeremiah while Andy and Celina swung around with their Toyota with the mad rack setup and grabbed the bikes. They were bombing out of town as the calls were being made so, thanks to the wonders of cellular technology (and Andy Smack actually answering his phone - for once) it all worked out.
So, one way or another, everyone who wanted to brave the journey over the parkway to Foof Town was able to. Save for a few missed souls in the form of Carpenter who was apparently hunting frantic animals and the SBC duo of Kyle and Colin who used their reasonable judgment. And of course our rec-center friend, Ryan Fawley, who had to work 'till nine.
The drive was dark and the rain pelted the hoods of the Rock Town Brigade. Jeremiah was bummed that he forgot his grippy front tubular tire and would be relegated to sketchiness on what was sure to be a slick course. It was good to have Sue along for the ride to balance out the intense history of racing, training, travel and competitiveness between Jeremiah and I. I'm happy to report we've both matured, somewhat, since those more eccentric bike racer days, so conversation was functional and pleasant.
We rolled into a mostly empty parking lot at Foof Town's Tonsler Park. There were a few cars with a handful of riders slowly spinning around the parking lot. I don't know about you, Suzy, but I'm staying in the car until the last second before the start, I said. Waiting until the last possible moment to prepare, I'm finding out, seems to be a motivational technique I've developed as my tolerance for the wet and cold has wained over the last few years. Meanwhile, Jeremiah was stumbling around trying to change his front tire to one that had a little more "bite". In the end, his attempt was futile as the other tire had a leak and he had to swap it, again, with the "bald" one. I think after all these years of constant self-motivation, Jeremiah, like me, has the need for a certain amount of chaos right before the start to get his engine going. He has a few years on me but still... By the time race-time came around, the scene had ballooned to 20 + racers and 10-15 spectators which was motivating for everyone.
The start was casual, unlike the mad-dash rampage at most sanctioned events. But, since the BRCC is underground and rad, the first lap is a "friendly lap" for people to warm-up a bit and check out the course before the madness begins on the second lap. The friendly lap also gives the pack a chance to sort itself out since there are no categories other than the Foof, Rock and Queen towns. Ultimately, It's one big happy effing family.
Andy Smack threw in some friendly fire on the friendly lap and really gave us a chance to experience the sketch that was the BRCC round 4 course. It took us around slick, off-camber, 180 degree turns, through a wood chipped jungle gym with moving barriers, up several sets of cement stairs and up a 3 foot wide paved-path with 5 super tight switch backs. There were two steep downhills one of which crossed another section of the course - we just yelled to avoid a full on t-bone collision with other racers. Disc Brakes were a choice commodity over the classic cantilever cross brakes. So I had the advantage with the mountain bike on a few spots along the slipping slide like course. This blog post is already too long so I'm not going to go on trying to defend my -race-winning- steed.
And so there we were, Andy Smack smacking down the field for a solid 20 minutes before relinquishing the lead to Jeremiah, Bruce, Chris Scottistan and myself. The racing was pretty tame for a while since the slick course could only be ridden so fast. Eventually, after everyone had a shaky lap or three, the racing got tighter and our passes by the lapped riders, respectively, became more frantic and less gentle. Jeremiah and I ended up in a final last lap battle during which he pointed out the fact that I was on a mountain bike several times then proceeded to put me into a prickly hedge when I tried to pass him for the "final" move. Ha! Only to be expected and welcomed in this sport, really. I used the last stair section to gap him off for good when I chose my usual line between two cement barriers and almost smashed into a disoriented spectator. I managed to still sprint across the line ahead of him by a few bike lengths. It was a knock-down drag-out last lap! Jeremiah told me afterwards that his gamble on the last section had to do with the fact that if I hit the lady he would have surely gotten a gap and won. Dirty, filthy sport this is. So good, though. And nice work, Jeremiah. See you in the A.M for coffee like a good neighbor.
Bruce of Fooftown hosted the after party with a warm house, two homemade pots of chili and a tray of cornbread. Rock Town brought the Camouflage High Life.
The roadside fog lights kept us all on the road back over the mountain. Now it's Night Time in The Little town. Still raining.

Interviews and Insights from Blue Ridge Cup #4. Charlottesville, VA

It's late. My brain is rattling and I've had a full evening. A sweet evening with nothing. Nothing but some goodness cooking fowl at the Stokesville Camp ground followed by four bands in a tiny basement. Good. I've got some ginger tea now. Was reaching for the sleepy time eXtra but it's been exhausted. Tommy M. has thoroughly stoked me about heading out West this winter for some big mountain shredding. All this while cooking chicken on an over sized grill fit for cooking a wide assortment of large animals (or the veggie equivelent). It was amazing that I made it out there at all. 30 min. of driving and all. Filled the tank with petrol on the way out, too. Almost stayed at the house working on the myrid of projects I have going after this morning's pre-iron cross ride with JB and Andy. That was nice. Reminds me of the days I spent oblivious to the world while bicycle racing as a junior.

And so it goes. Here and now. Still. Sweet Jesus, how much longer will this continue?

Rock and/or Roll

Kermit

Favorite new friend in the 'Burg.

Late night loitering

Nice visit from (most) of the JV squad last night. The lights are on
here at 240 Sunrise.

Pointing at stuff

Crossing great North Mtn into Folks Run yesterday morning.

Lots and lots

Well, I'm tired. The days have been full and I've been taking naps. The A.M routine is rolling alright and Jeremiah and Andy are sure to provide company on the rolling roads on the outskirts of town while the sun is high in the sky. Harrisonburg, Va is small, no doubt, but it's not lacking things to keep one from hitting that snooze button one too many times in the morning. I've been riding a bit, using my friends well established training routines to ride the coat tails of. And it works fine. Really. I can toggle between Jeremiah Bishops recovery weeks and Andy Mckeegan's pre-season 'cross rocket sessions in the hills. We did some steady riding up Reddish yesterday. 3x20 minute efforts to be exact - an hour of riding up for 20, descending back into the valley and then back up. We saw hikers and they were like "we thought you'd be heading up again", or so we thought that's what they said trying not to imagine it being a pedestrian harassment of some kind. Andy rides too close to the center of the rode when he descends. And that just scares me since I feel like I may see him smashed on any given turn.

The Six Pack Downhill races have been awesome. Although the first one a couple weeks ago left a pack of 20 or so of us waiting at the top of a mountain being swarmed by sweat/blood thirsty insects. And last Friday when Sue George, Whitney and I broke trail through several miles of stinging nettle bushes that left us itching and swollen for the remainder of the ride. Then I had a welcome back high speed crash that left me clinging to the very tree that took me out and limping my way down the remainder of the timed downhill like a injured, leukemia ridden, kitten. At the bottom I dabbed my freshly bloodied chin, tossed the bike, gave people high fives and enjoyed my endorphin high. One after another, riders rallied into the final steep to the finish. Sometimes we'd just hear a loud snap followed by a body and bike crashing down the side of the mountain, missing the finish all together. People cheered fantastic! Rightly so. Back to the parking lot, licking our wounds. Drink a beer. Hit the Six Pack Party at the winner's house. Surf a hoverboard around the yard and ride home in the dark. There's trail work to be done in the morning.

Pedaling hard for multiple one minute efforts in the morning with JB and Andy. Radio Paradise is choice late-night listening.

Finer points

Sharing my lack of frisbee-golf knowledge with Conrad Bishop earlier
this evening.

Metal on metal

240 Sunrise Ave

Harrisonburg, VA

I could hear the scraping before I even left Brooklyn. But man, upon inspection this morning with my friend Justin, there really wasn't anything providing much stopping friction on those brake pads - and hadn't been for miles. Should've changed them when Fly offered to help when we were both still in Brooklyn a week ago. The amount of stop and go from that guy alone should've been reason enough. I mean, the lack of braking power seemed almost like a good thing for me leaving NYC. I needed a reason not to stop and turn around - because I would have and almost did several times before I hit I-81. Sitting in traffic on Canal street headed towards the Holland Tunnel, I remembered all the time I spent hustling time-sensitive packages up and down those packed avenues. I sent a shout out to Kid, Squid and CycleHawk via twitter in memory of my former constant radio contact.

I made it to Aurora, WV by one A.M after a stop at sheetz in Oakland for a late night egg shmiscuit and donut(s). The next day I hung out in Davis and almost immediately fell into the cloud of inertia that hits me when I go there. I took it as part of the recovery process and had a beer and burrito with Mom that evening before heading back to Aurora. Later we hiked by the house that recently endured a triple homicide. I felt numb as I walked by thinking about the story and wondered if anyone could ever actually live in the house again.

In the morning I went for a ride that sort of resembled training. Sort of. It was on an old loop I did when I lived in Aurora. Although beautiful this time of year, it was a little depressing and felt like some sort of come-full-circle landing. Visited Roger at BWB and had lunch with the east-west crew before heading through the final handful of mountains into Harrisonburg. Now I'm here and JB wants to ride for an hour. Full circle? At least I have fresh brake pads.

Greenpoint

Brooklyn, NY

Sunset

Mason School Rd.

Visiting an old MD loop this morning.

Jumping ship

Temporarily, anyway.

Brooklyn, now

A storm moved in
this afternoon
as I napped
And brought with it
the most pleasant
breeze
I've felt in a while
Relief
And the evening
Became cool
And stayed cool
These summer nights

Leaves

Are changing color and falling on the ground. Already.

Dog days

The days are getting heavy. These dog days of summer, man. Early a.m. and late evening are really the only pleasant times to do anything - and the a.m. doesn't exist. Today I poached some space in a roommates air conditioned room. It's a completely different world. The brain swelling goes down slightly and functions better with the use of a few more synapses. Granted, synapses that are a little further apart than they should be but still useful if they're given room to amass.

Delivered more wine tonight than any other time this summer. Always multiple bottles and without the task of decision attached. Just tell me what's good and I'll agree.

Playing around this cement maze of one way streets between the handrails. I know all the cracks, the dips. I can read the height of curb on the most dimly lit streets. Streets where the black cats roam and cross your path.

Crickets exist here.

A Fox followed me all evening.

The only cure is midnight Seltzer.

Summer Rounds

I'm back in Brooklyn after a reconnaissance/road/camp trip to my old stomping grounds in Harrisonburg, VA and Davis, WV. Mimi had a date with Bluegrass week at the Augusta Festival at D&E college in Elkins, WV so the trip had a lot of different destinations before heading back up through Pittsburgh and back into the concrete jungle of New York City.

Miss Tess was in Brooklyn for a show and since she was also headed down to Augusta, she jumped in the Subie and tipped the boy, beast (Riot the dog), girl ratio to boy, beast, girl, girl. A good ratio to say the least. Aiming for an early departure, we managed to pry our eyes open to the fresh blue sky and potent sunlight that is only around during the crisp morning hours. Wearily, we soldiered on, secretly impressed with ourselves after pulling a late one at Tess's show the night before. We managed our way through the treacherous NYPD war zone of Manhattan. It's not the danger that makes me nervous driving through the city at any given hour because there is nothing really that dangerous about it, it's the intricately woven and strategically placed road rules that seem to only be tripped if you're actually focusing on not tripping them! We made it through fine with Mimi piloting and steering us toward a place outside the city walls with fewer stop lights and even fewer law enforcement. We went through the Lincoln tunnel and hit Jersey, grabbed a ticket and tried our best not to miss the exit on to 78. I was alert and anticipating the 78 exit since it's eluded me in the past falling victim to my own personal auto pilot mode and getting funneled onto 95.

The trip was long with the added leg to drop the beast off at Oak Forest Kennels (AKA Fred 'n Jinny's Dog World Center of the Universe). Come one, come all! Or, rather, bring one, bring all... your pets! Riot's week at the center of dog universe was kindly "on the house" courtesy of my grandparents. The beast came away with fond memories, I'm sure, even though it stung at first. And how could he not with so many other beasts to yap with, the view of galloping miniature horses and swarms of min-pins circling and heckling the penned guests.

We dropped Tess off in Harrisonburg at the Clementine Cafe, an awesome newish music venue, on South Main st. to spare her the out and back of the beast drop. When we made it to Harrisonburg for the second time that day, the trip-time meter was rolling into the ten hour mark. We rolled into the shared SBC/Clementine parking lot and found our friend exploring the alley with an herbal intent and the flash of an aluminum Altoids container. I managed to roll through town undiscovered twice that day. It was actually pretty frightening to me coming from Brooklyn where the bustle never ends to a pre-college being in session Sunday afternoon in Harrisonburg, VA. It was the anti-bustle and I had to remind myself that there are actually people and people I know there. So, we gathered Tess and neatly pack her into the Subie and cruised quickly over the small but sharp foothills before climbing over Shenandoah Mtn. into WV. With enough speed, our stomachs were in our throats over the top of the bumps. When I closed my eyes I pretended I was on the Cyclone back in Coney Island. Tess had some moonshine that Chip Chase had given her during her last visit to the Purple Fiddle and gave me a swig as we crawled over the mountain towards several more mountains that would eventually take us to the other sleepiest college town I've ever been to. My stomach was pretty empty so the shine took effect immediately. Over the mountain and passed Fat Boys Pork Palace, where my uncle Luke once got me a yellow FBPP shirt that stunk of stale Cigarette smoke, we made one last stop in Brandywine. The little service station we stopped at has a long history of epic bike ride pit-stops, complete with the hot food deli and heat lamps to keep the golden fried assortment glistening until late into the day. I remember stopping there once and noticing that a couple fried eggs were floating in a tub of water under a heat lamp. Outside there was a years old loitering contingent of old men that stared wonderingly as Mimi and Tess walked by.

We made it to Elkins around ten p.m. that night, dropped Tess off and went in search of the late Augusta check in. There were little jams going on as we walked into the were the daytime check in center past a building with little pyramid looking things anchoring it. We ended up getting pointed to the late check in by a woman that I later while reading the Augusta Program was the director of the entire thing. Mimi checked herself in at the same building I remember checking into when the Chase brothers and I all did a dance week. Afterwards we drove across town and set up camp for the evening at my friend Andy Fitzgibon's place.

The next morning I drove up to Davis early to visit everyone. The morning was the classic WV summery-cool and misty morning with the sun just behind burning it's way through and making way for a blue sky. I stopped by east-west first to say hi to mom and Ruthie then hit the bike shop. The routine is the same each time I go there with Roger doing his Roger thing that seems to work so well for that place. I could write an entire blog about the details of what goes on anytime I step in that place and how time speeds up and all. I gave both my bikes some much needed attention so I could ride while I was there and when I went back to the Burg. I've got plans for round four of my cycling story so I tried to share what I knew as much as possible.

I went for an evening ride into the valley on my mountain bike via the old trial road and an assortment of newer CVI singletrack out to the swinging bridge. My body is so funny about the fit of certain bikes. Sometimes after riding the road bike for months on end my mtb feels like a completely foreign and awkward extension. Other times it feels completely part of me and I feel snappy and ready to dive into steep singletrack with a flow that feels completely ingrained. That night it felt great. The 24 hours of Big Bear fitness! It was just laying dormant until I touched the mountain bike again. I crossed the swinging bridge and thought of the 2002 tour de Lilly. I felt every part of my peddle stroke conforming the soft treads of my tire into the trail and propelling me up the steep, root strewn face to the fire road. I started the climb to Canaan heights and found a comfortable rhythm. The late day sun was beginning to turn orange as I crested the top of the climb and into an obvious developmental carnage. I still got a good view of the Valley, though. On the way back towards 32 I decided to pile on another steep climb and ended up, by chance, running into Karl on one of his job sites. He was painting and his dog was in the truck. Boy, dog, truck. Paint brush. Dinner plans. He's on it. He reminded me to come to the Monday night potluck at the east-west kitchen. I bombed back into town and met Mackie Marcus for some beers on Gary Berti's deck above the bike shop. We soaked in the remainder of the evening sun then went to the shop for fresh fish, salad, shrimp, chanterelle mushrooms and blueberry cobbler with Karl and Tyler. Holy fucking shit is all I can really say. And that it was a really good time.

I ended going out for a two pronged ride the follow day. I was feeling solitary so I took off, again late in the day, into the Blackwater Falls the back way past the STP Pond and over the creek. I took another random turn and ended up riding strait up the pipeline to plantation trail. The ride was soggy and I thought of all the times I've raced down it over the years. The semi-service road was completely overgrown. It's basically a wetland and I can't remember it ever being dry. My tire would sink into the spongy moss and I'd lose my momentum, only then relying on the power of my well developed leg speed to keep the cadence high and my bike crawling forward. I remember once, like ten years ago, riding up the pipeline and running into a guy with what I thought was a giant knife. I sprinted back to the bike shop to warn Matt and Sue who getting ready to ride, "there's a guy out on the pipeline with a giant knife!". "What?!" said Matt. They saw the guy, too, and told me later that the object he was carrying was a camera for photographing birds.

When I neared the plantation trail I could hear voices and out of the woods came Cory Chase and Tony from Hypno Coffee. They were on a 16 mile run. I said hey and Karl called my cell phone wondering why I left him and that he wanted to do a ride. I dove into the single track and sprinted my way back out to Rt. 32 and into town. Karl was fixing his flat tire when I got there. We ended up riding the State championship course backward up to HooDoo Rocks. Karl absolutely rocked and further confirmed his single track prowess. On top of the rocks there is a panoramic view of Davis. We hung out and discussed all the current happening of each others life, the trivialities of every day. We didn't leave until found the exact Billy Bragg song to sum up our exact feelings at that moment up on those rocks. We let song after song blare over my iphone and we found that almost all of them hit the feeling on the head! I burned "Back to Basics" for Karl when we got back to town. I stole a shower from Gary Berti's house then ate a Burrito at Hellbender with Karl. He talked me into staying in town that night and we both crashed on the east-west deck over front street.

I was out early the next morning feeling completely refreshed after a morning coffee session in the kitchen with Karl and Tyler. Afterward, I drove down the mountain to get the ailing subaru tail pipe welded back on. Got a deal from one of Karl's friends.

With a quieter car, I drove to Elkins to catch a concert at Augusta with the Meems and we had El Grand Sabor. Andy Mckeegan was expecting me for some mid-season motivation so I B-lined it to the Burg and had a great impromptu gathering with everyone at the Blue Nile basement bar. Suzy Q was there as well as the other mainstays. Colin was behind the bar and a band played. Mckeegan drank too much and I'm getting bogged down here.... My mind is going numb with detail. Anyway, it was a classic evening and was actually the same way departure from the Burg 10 months ago was. Except that time it was with Jonny Sundt giving me a boost and supporting my decision to unplug from racing for awhile. He kept telling the bartender how fucking awesome it was that I was going to NYC to be a bike messenger. And it was. It is.

Sue and I met for a ride the next morning out in Singer's Glen for the "no more than an hour" special. I couldn't help but to prod her with questions about what she was up to and what her "plans" were for the future. Asking people those questions is like rubbing a cat's fur backwards. A sure way to feel better about your own indecision while sifting through someone else's. It was awesome to ride with her and she's looking fit and back to fighting strength on the bike. In the same ride I made a visit to the Bishop's and got to hold little Conrad, visit the folks at 222 Campbell st and check out the house I'm going live in starting in September.

Kyle and I hit up The Little Grill for Breakfast Night which is also open mic night. That place feeds my soul and destroys Jeff Schalk's. Go figure! I hope he reads this. My shout out to him will be one of my favorite direct quotes from a couple years ago. And yes, I wrote that shit down. "I like eating things I know I've dominated and destroyed" -Jeff Schalk
Kyle and I had this great beer with our breakfast that night. It was an Amber of sorts.

The following day Andy and I hit the mountains on our skinny tire bikes. 3.5 hours with an 8 mile dirt road climb that at one point had us off our bikes to scurry down into a ravine from an un-finished bridge. After that we knew the road was ours. I cried a few times and got mad that Andy kept wanting to extend the ride. I'm going to be so much fun to ride with this fall.

I hit Ciro's pizza on the way out of town and went back to Oak Forest to pick up the Beast. He walk outa that kennel with a swagger that seemed give all the dogs behind him a big " fuck ya'll, I'm out".

I'm out. And out and... out.

Oak Forest - Harrisonburg - Elkins - Davis - Aurora - Pittsburgh - Queens - Brooklyn.